Sometimes, stress and frustration build up like water behind a poorly constructed dam. No matter how calm, cool, and collected we pretend to be, every single one of us has a tipping point. What we need—what our sanity demands—is a release valve.
Let me explain. Years ago, I represented a company that manufactured portable air tanks. The concept was simple: you fill the tank with compressed air, toss it in your trunk, and haul it off to rescue a flat tire. The execution, however, had a slight design flaw. If you overfilled the tank, it didn’t just hiss a warning; it exploded. It completely lacked a release valve—a simple, mechanical way to bleed off pressure before the metal gave way.
As it turns out, human beings are built a lot like those defective air tanks.
When I was a boy, my primary release valve was a solid rubber ball and the side of our house. I would stand out there for hours, firing fastballs into the brick, letting the raw frustration of youth bounce right back into my glove. It was an incredibly therapeutic ritual. It also drove my mother absolutely up the wall, likely creating a secondary pressure cooker situation that she had to manage on her own. I still wonder where that rubber ball is today; it probably deserves a medal for meritorious service.
If the wall wasn’t available, I’d pedal my bicycle down the street as fast as my legs could pump, trying to outrun whatever had vexed me, or go shoot baskets until the sun went down. As a young adult, the physics changed but the need didn’t. I traded the bicycle for a jog, or I’d head to the driving range to violently whack a tiny white ball into the horizon.
Marriage, of course, introduces a second air tank into the equation, meaning you have to learn to manage the pressure gauges of two people simultaneously. In our younger years, whenever I was acting like a certified jerk, Suzy wouldn’t explode. Instead, she’d calmly utilize her own release valves—stepping out for a long, quiet walk or taking a drive to let the cabin pressure drop. Every successful marriage survives on this unspoken choreography. You learn to spot the rising steam and step aside before either of you says or does something that can’t be unsaid or undone.
The irony of getting older is that while the world gets no less frustrating, our physical release valves start to rust. The knees protest a sudden jog. A bicycle ride at breakneck speed sounds less like a stress-reliever and more like an invitation to an orthopedic surgeon. Hitting golf balls is great, until your lower back decides to register its own formal complaint.
So, we have to find new ways to “unload.” We have to look for quieter, internal valves.
I tend to think God understood this design requirement from the very beginning. He knows how easily our internal pressure builds up, and I suspect He fully expects us to dump that heavy cargo right at His feet. He doesn’t mind the noise. In fact, I like to think He welcomes the venting—even if you have to slip into the back pew of a quiet church on a Tuesday afternoon just to let the steam hiss out. Assuming, of course, the doors aren’t locked.
We all need to keep looking for our modern equivalents of that rubber ball. Because a life without a release valve isn’t just stressful—it leads to disaster.
Citation Mfg Co – Siloam Springs – I represented the carrier
Bob, for want of a relief valve. I’m trying to remember the name of their golf cart that follwed you around. Was it Maynard?
So true. Good, practical reminder. Thank you, Sir.
Thanks. W.