When I was in middle school, I attended a winter youth (weekend) retreat at a local state park. It had been organized by our church's youth ministry, and taking Mississippi's unpredictable weather into consideration, it wasn't necessarily too cold to spend some of that time out of doors. I remember basking in the winter sunshine that Saturday afternoon with my friends. As the clouds parted, you could see clearly through the bare tree branches all the way to the sky. A group of 6 to 8 of us boys made our way through the woods 'till we found ourselves just far enough away from the camp buildings to do our own thing.
One of the boys within our group wasn't at all a regular attendee of youth activities. I didn't exactly know why but in looking back, I recall that his parents were missionaries overseas, therefore he was likely only with us during this weekend due to their recent furlough. Missionary Boy was considerably taller than the rest of us middle schoolers. Plus, he just seemed anxious to prove himself.
From what I recall, I either helped start or solely initiated a dirtclod war by lobbing a dirtclod towards our now somewhat bisected group. It wasn't like I had any experience with dirtclods, but nonetheless, it seemed like the thing to do at the time.
By this point, our two teams were a considerable distance apart, spread out amongst the trees / dirt mounds. I have no idea why there were mounds of earth where we were, but as you can imagine, that was our source for clods - some of which were as big as softballs - and similarly as hard.
Looking back on this game, I'm none too surprised at my / our stupidity here, but you need to know that I'm an only child, therefore I'd had little opportunity to do stupid with other boys - at least in such a capacity to have learned from it.
Within the first five minutes of our game, out of the blue, I felt the impact of what felt like a sledgehammer up against my skull. Immediately, I put my hand to my forehead and felt the massive goose egg rise from the surface in response. All around me, dirtclods were continuing to fly, but all I could think about was
1. Having to endure the remainder of the retreat with this huge knot visible on my forehead.
2. Whether or not I would suffer permanent brain damage.
3. Whom might be the culprit of this potentially "life-threatening" injury.
At that moment, I identified the culprit. It was Missionary Boy. He was whooping and hollering in delight over his success in striking me like Goliath. From there, I looked down at the ground and recognized the dirtclod that had struck me. Immediately I regretted initiating this stupid game.
In response to my head injury, I stormed away from the group, making my way back to the camp buildings. Both concerns 1 and 2 now took priority over 3. Needless to say, I felt on the surface quite the victim here, especially considering the fact that my assailant was a newcomer, but deep down, I knew I had been at no less risk by taking part.
Eventually, in disgust, I finagled a means to make a discreet exit that afternoon back to our church in Jackson, wanting only to hide my face in shame from anyone within the youth group.
That goose egg remained for a number of days, and my disdain for Missionary Boy carried through for years afterwards.
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Bringing a group of men together can elicit the risk of someone getting hurt by cross talk. At times, it can become almost challenging in itself as posturing inevitably occurs and words fly. And, with the right aim, words can make such an impact that men choose then inwardly to back out from the collective completely.
Samson Society meetings bring all sorts of men together. Oftentimes, they only interact once a week in person, therefore it's vital that crosstalk not be allowed. This rule does makes the meeting feel clinical, but without it, there's too much risk. Too, forcing men collectively to apportion an allotted amount of time for each to speak provides order and order brings an air of respectfulness. And respect is our end goal.
Men who come to take part in Samson Society meetings are doing so for their own good. The format is such that there's minimal risk that someone gets hit in the head by a dirtclod. That being said, it does still occur at times, but usually moreso during the after meeting if anywhere at all. To some degree, it's always best to keep one's head down a little, at least 'till you've identified the inevitable Missionary Boy.
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