Surreal

I've referenced my summer in Europe back in '94 within previous posts.  The low point of that trip is as follows:

Whilst traveling overnight by train from Monaco to Florence, Italy, me and a number of other young people (American college students) were robbed.  The thief made off with all my Traveler's Checks as well as a wad of cash, and he did so sans wielding any sort of weapon (as far as we know).  Instead, he simply quietly opened the door to our cab, and by cigarette lighter flame, delicately took what he was looking for ($$$).  

Thankfully, within an adjacent cab, friends of mine were startled awake by his presence, and in turn, he fled.  Unfortunately though, my things were gone, having verified this once I was jostled awake by my concerned friends who came to check on us.

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The remaining train ride into Florence was surreal, but what made it moreso was only the night before, I'd shared the gospel with a new friend, Stan (a fellow traveler within our group from MSU), who just happened to be riding with me.  From that point forward, I vividly remember just sitting there in a daze and feeling extremely vulnerable.

Eventually, we arrived at the train station in Florence just after sunrise.  From there, I filed a police report, and we made our way to the American Express office (having reached out to AMEX by phone earlier on).  Therefore, within a few hours, I had my Traveler's Checks back in hand.  This was reassuring, but didn't stave off the shock nor the surrealness.  That took several days to diminish.

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As I stated within my last post, my sweet wife is currently hospitalized here in Jackson due to her recent stroke.  Having not been allowed to visit with her (due to the pandemic), I can't help but feel as if this entire experience isn't reality.  I cannot underestimate how bizarre I'm feeling as of late, but whilst looking back, I can definitely qualify these feelings in tandem with my memories from the summer of '94.

Very weird indeed.  

When The "What If?" Comes Home To Roost

Angie, my sweet 49-year old wife of almost 25 years was admitted into the hospital this morning.  I rushed her there under the premise that she was having issues with her sciatic nerve (she had numbness in her left leg which is the same side of her bod that she smacked down on back in January when she got tripped up on our driveway).

Unfortunately, it turned out to be much more serious than a pinched sciatic nerve.  Instead, we were soon informed, it looked to be a stroke.

Weirdly, I've had little to no admittance into the hospital(s) due to the pandemic restrictions, therefore other than this horribly frightening news / event, it's been a fairly normal day.

Tonight, I will have an opportunity to spend some time with her.  Her neurologist has been kind enough to bend the rules for us.  Angie is a expert crier, therefore I know whilst there, she'll do some of that for both of us.

We've never walked this particular road before.  Pray for me to stay optimistic, but primarily, pray for Angie.  Her spirits have been and continue to be low indeed.  And this particular setback has effectively knocked her on her back.  And this is the last place she cares to be as my wife and the mother of our three girls.

On occasion, I'll have dreams where I'm back working within the field of architecture, yet I've no recent experience (which I really don't), therefore I'm anxious to boot about how I'm supposed to make this work.  And then I wake up, and thank God, I realize it was only a dream.

This has been one of those days that I wish I could wake up from.

Be Wary Of Your Reactions / Impulses In Light Of Your Influence As A Christian Man

Every man has his pet peeves.  For Rob, I offer a handful here:

• Men who compulsively stroke their facial hair - mustaches / beards - as if they might lose their precious hair growth spontaneously thereby needing to constantly remind themselves that it's still on their faces.
• Disgustingly nasty car windows that have been repeatedly licked and nuzzled by pets who ride shotgun next to their human masters.
• People chewing on their fingernails.
• Incessant belching 

You too have pet peeves.  Things that bother you to no end (perhaps they're similar to some of my own), but that you no doubt tolerate out of respect for others.  At times, it can be exhausting to keep up the front, but you do it anyway knowing that you too have quirks that drive other people similarly crazy.

We all want to be free to behave as we so choose, and too in line with that thinking, encounter zero obstacles along the way.  That's the American way, right?

But, as Christians, what of those inevitable obstacles?  How should we respond?  And does it really matter?

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Our church home is Lakeside Presbyterian Church.  When we initially joined, the Senior Pastor was very close to resigning his position there, therefore during that initial year or so, the pulpit was filled each Sunday with either one of two tenured on-staff Associate Pastors, and both of these men I had the good fortune of getting to know well and subsequently warm up to.

Then came the new Senior Pastor.  Eventually though, 3 to 4 years later (if not longer), he was voted out of the pulpit by the congregation and begrudgingly asked to leave.  But when this occurred, he pooled his Lakeside Pres parishioner resources and from there, simply started a new church across town.  When this occurred, 20+ families left Lakeside Pres to join him there along with Lakeside Pres' tenured (& extremely well respected) Music Minister.  Within 12 to 18 months, that new church imploded in on itself and eventually the pastor fled Mississippi altogether to return to his former South Carolina.

My second architectural job was at an established firm here in Jackson.  There were four shareholders and +/-20 employees.  Seemingly, one of the most integral of these employees was a super friendly guy who was close to the same age as the shareholders (who were mostly in their 40s to 50s).  Though he never talked about his faith, he was no doubt committed to a local church.  I admired and looked up to him an awful lot as a young man.

Eventually, his church hired the architectural firm we were both employed at to master plan a new campus, but to his chagrin, he was not appointed to serve on the church's building committee despite his existing role as deacon.  In reaction to this, he immediately left the church and began attending another across town.  In doing so, he walked away from his service role there, friendships, influences.  As a result, my admiration for him went up in smoke overnight.

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Men who are Christ-followers are first and foremost always peering into the future at their promised reward in heaven, and this outlook permeates them holistically.  Because of this, they simply do not allow themselves to be deterred or defined by life circumstances - most of which they have little to no control over.  

They understand that this heavenly reward is undeserved, therefore too, that profoundly impacts their outlook on their own life.  The gospel of Jesus Christ and the example Jesus set before Christians is what they rest in.  He is there Priestly High-King.

Once you've studied the life of Christ within Scripture in order to emulate, it literally screams exemplified responsibility towards the masses but especially so towards the church, Christ's bride.

Therefore...

Shenanigans like what I described above you should never encounter amongst Christian men.  It's simply not within their redeemed DNA to behave in this way.  

But, as we all know, we're susceptible to react in ways that may feel warranted thanks to our flesh, but after the dust settles...

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In closing, I've been working with a close friend on a book he's writing.  It's been such a privilege.  In reviewing his first draft a few weekends ago, I took note of some of his biases (pet peeves) through his prose.  Therefore, when we came together to discuss, we laughed a lot about this.  

Writing a published work finds its rigor in speaking to the (hopefully numerous) prescribed reader without offending him / her.  To do this as an author, you must keep your cards close to your vest at all times, and this forces you to rely on tried and true resources that are far beyond opinion.

As I told him that day, opinion is only suitable for blogs!

So, what's the point of this discombobulated post?

The point is this.  Samson Society can assist you in meeting the ideal that I described above if that's what you're now pursuing or feeling so lead to pursue.  

An old friend of mine cites Mr. Nate Larkin's book, Samson Society & The Pirate Monks, by touting Nate's observation therein of how effectively God speaks in and through community to each and every Samson man.  So, the next question might be, what exactly does God say?

Whatever he has or will say to us involved in Samson Society will never be without merit.  No matter where you're at today or have been yesterday, Samson Society can help you understand better whom God - Father, Son, Holy Spirit - truly is as well as where you yourself reside in relation to him past, present, and future.  Please join us.

Spiritual / Emotional Support For Silas

At times, as a Silas, what you're being asked to carry is too heavy a spiritual load for your singular self.  Speaking from experience, it can be agony doing the good and necessary work required of a Silas.  Therefore, the reality of the situation may be this:  You've volunteered yourself to step into a friendship that's overwhelmingly difficult to manage alone.  Oftentimes, when you as a Silas are faced with these circumstances, the man you're walking with is one you deeply care for (from the getgo), therefore the outcome of his current quagmire(s) will no doubt be impactful to not only himself (as well as his sphere of influence) but you as well due to the perceived ramifications therein.

When one agrees to become a Silas to another Samson man, there's not much, if any, knowing for sure if you can manage the spiritual / emotional load on your own.  But, I would argue within the first few months (if not weeks), you'll identity whether you're ill-equipped to do this job well sans any outside support.

So, if support is needed, where to look?  Remember, there's that whole strictest confidence bit that needs to be adhered to.

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The Bible is clear about the role of church elders.  It describes these men qualitatively as well, holding them in high regard.  They are the crème de la crème of Christian men according to Scripture.

I have one elder, in particular, at our church whom I've set up specific times to meet with to simply pray with me over my Silas burdens.  This man is privy to Samson Society, enough at least in concept, to be sympathetic to my needs without asking too many questions.  And man, was it an awesome relief to have his listening ear as well as his praying heart (for me and my Samson friend - who was always kept anonymous).

We're all human beings and even with the Holy Spirit living within us as Christians, at times we need other, wiser men to come alongside us for some intensive care / support.  Be willing to admit to that, and always remember to tap into this resource if need be.  Elders are willing to fight with you so long as they're given the opportunity to assist.

Early To Mid-30s Platonic Angst (It's Probably The Setting?)

Though I'm not on recreational social media sites like Facebook and Instagram, I did create a LinkedIn profile back when I began working with my parents in '13.  And though I've never attempted to formally connect to anyone, clients, colleagues, etc. do ask to connect with me, therefore I oblige.

This afternoon, I logged into LinkedIn via the smartphone app and found a connection request from someone I knew not of, and then as I scrolled down, I saw someone I did know from many years ago whom LinkedIn believed would also be a good fit for Rob.

Most of my clients are engineers, therefore LinkedIn's algorithm summizes that I'd like to connect locally with more local PEs, and that's how this particular individual's profile surfaced within my "Suggested Connections".  It presented to me a great opportunity to walk down memory lane.

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Back in 2006, I began my work as a state of Mississippi employee.  I was around the age of 34 at the time.  Having believed I was headed for a middle school teaching job (which is what I'd academically prepared myself for the summer prior through the Alternate Route program at Mississippi College), I'd secured a part-time gig at First Baptist Church Jackson within the preschool ministry as a sort of plain clothes security guard (to help offset my soon-to-be income shortfall).  Therefore, when my teaching aspirations failed to pan out (zero job offers), I was very fortunate to find that a window had opened for me to work within the Department of Finance & Administration as a staff architect.  Having already made the commitment to FBCJ, I continued forward there as well.  All of this vocational change felt remarkably fresh, therefore inevitably, I began to look around at other aspects of my life that obviously would similarly benefit from some needed improvement.

A sizable part of this exercise unearthed my need to find more authentic friendships.  Unfortunately, the job change from private to public sector offered nothing on that front, therefore church seemed the next logical choice.

Besides also working part-time at FBCJ, we were members there too, and this provided me with the good fortune of rubbing shoulders with the aforementioned (now also on LinkedIn) engineer, "Jacob" and his family.

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Jacob and I were of similar age, though his children were younger.  He and his brother both attended First Baptist with their wives / children.  Neither of them had grown up in that church like Angie and I had, therefore I couldn't help but sympathize with his being a newbie.

I remember distinctly wanting to get to know this guy, and the primary draw for me was his personality.  He was very reserved despite his imposing frame, almost to the point of shyness.  His wife, on the other hand, was a much smaller individual though similarly all around beside herself.  Jacob and his brother both were athletically built and tall.  This too was a draw since overall, that just wasn't me -  either in the past or at the present time.

First Baptist Jackson's facilities are over the top for Mississippi.  During its peak back when Angie and I were teenagers, there were thousands upon thousands of Mississippi Southern Baptists who called that church home, many of which were quite wealthy (by Mississippi standards).  Hence, the facilities and location speak to this.  Therefore, the contrast is jarring whilst compared to most every other Protestant church house within a 35 mile radius (if not the entire state).

And just so you know, N. W. Overstreet was the architect for the gothic-style sanctuary / chapel constructed during the mid-20th century at FBC Jackson.  Overstreet is hands down the most renown 20th century Mississippi architect.  Most of his work is noteworthy for its timelessness and intricate detail work.

So here was Jacob and his family attempting to find their place within the commiserate Mississippi mega-church, and me besides who very much wanted to befriend this guy.

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Have you every witnessed awkward amongst guys?  I mean, really awkward.

Let me elaborate by offering up an example.

One of my most favorite volunteer positions within the church house (especially so today) is Vacation Bible School.  I dipped my toe into this particular pool during my mid-30s whilst attending FBCJ.  Obviously, being here in Mississippi, the notion of adult men participating as volunteers within VBS is very unusual.  But, I liked the idea of adding some Y chromosomes to the mix of adult leadership within, therefore I made the commitment (& since then haven't looked back).  Typically, other than teenage helpers, I'm one of the only men working throughout the week to hoard the masses.

I remember distinctly stopping Jacob one Wednesday night.  I was manning my plain-clothed security desk within the preschool area and henceforth stumbled through the following proposal.

"I was wondering if you might consider volunteering with me to help out with Vacation Bible School this summer."

He looked down at me with a blank stare, and his wife (from what I recall) did the same from a short stint down the corridor.  And then they both turned and walked away as if I'd never said anything.

So, that was the beginning and the end of my attempts to break the ice with this guy.  It was quick and very painful.

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From there, I inevitably saw the two of them twice a week at that same juncture as they made their way into the preschool area to retrieve their children.  Of course, I pretended to not even know either of them at this point due to my former humiliation.  And, of course, over time I just felt more and more isolated and idiotic for even attempting to befriend this guy in such a bizarre manner.  On top of that, the platonic attraction towards him didn't wane.  Actually, the opposite seemed to occur, knowing that all bets were off relative to ever knowing him as I wished to.  

Friendship is a gift of unspoken commitment that you give to another human being.  Growing up sans any siblings, I understood this early on, and therefore mostly took a proactive approach to finding friends.  But, that hadn't changed the fact that I was still sensitive to rejection / scorn, especially considering this new place where I'd found myself vocationally.  A lot of good had gone down within my life at this point, therefore I asked myself the following - why not expect more so long as I'm willing to take the risks?  

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More time passed, and eventually, I began to pick up on Jacob and his wife now being platonically "courted" by a much more established (economically) and somewhat older couple within our church.  This couple's children were elementary school age (we knew of their family), yet they'd often accompany Jacob and his wife to the preschool area to retrieve their children after the service, laughing and smiling all the way.  We'll call the husband of this older couple, Richie Rich, for reference.

I began to loathe having to endure my inevitable encounters with these couples versus choosing to embrace some semblance of being glad for their newfound friendship.  Until one day, I found an opportunity to indirectly retaliate as an outgrowth of my loathing.  Which, in looking back, I never should have done.

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If you know me at all, I can be very, very direct at times, and mostly, this is a result of me feeling powerless over a situation.  A lot of times though, it's construed as cruelty, and that's unfortunate.  With friends, I tend to have a long "feeling powerless" fuse, but nonetheless, it is a fuse.  Inevitably, there's an end to either me continuing to choose to be the southern gentlemen or the listening observer.  

One Sunday night, Jacob and his fam, accompanied by the Riches, explicitly broke one of the preschool rules.  Not a significant one, but nonetheless, a mandated rule that whilst abided by, made my job as well as the other hourly employees' jobs much easier.

The Preschool Minister who'd hired me back in '06 was a rule maker, and she expected all of us who worked for her to not only follow them but also to enforce, though to what degree regarding the latter was consistently a subject for debate.

So, I gleefully complied on this particular evening by directing my displeasure directly towards Richie Rich.  And as you might imagine, he didn't appreciate this in the least.  From there, he demonstrated this by storming out of the preschool area with what was surely to be a completely concretized vendetta.

After it was all over, I packed up my things and left feeling not only cast aside but a little frightened as well.  For I knew Mr. Rich well enough to know that due to his pedigree, I might very well just lose my side gig.  This reality made me no doubt regret what I'd done.

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Eventually, we made a discreet exit from First Baptist Jackson a few years later (around 2008), feeling that our two girls were old enough that we could begin to look elsewhere for what we felt we needed within a church home.  And that lead us to Lakeside Presbyterian Church which sits adjacent to our neighborhood at the Reservoir.  At the time, Lakeside stood in stark contrast to First Baptist for us.  Because of that, it was difficult at first, but still...

I was no less waning for authentic friendships at this point, therefore I emailed one of the associate pastors (who was a few years older than I) asking him to join me for lunch.  Soon after meeting up for the first time, I spilled my guts in order to gauge his reaction right there in Primos Cafe on Lakeland Drive.

And the rest is history (& a very positive one at that).

Lakeside Pres proved to be fertile ground for me to authentically connect with other men as I'd never connected prior.  Even to the point that eventually the elders allowed me to start a Samson Society group there (almost 3 years ago).  It's uncanny.

I can't say that I was expecting any semblance of rejection there, but the opportunities for me to find what I'd longed for were almost too easy compared to what I felt I was up against at First Baptist Jackson (which we'll always consider our traditional church home).

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What's the point of this tale?

Don't ever minimize your needs.  Test them, of course, with Scripture, and from there, pray and work diligently to have them met.  Remember too that setting and timing are critically important, but that only the former is really within your control - to any degree.

Today, I hope the best for Jacob and his beautiful family.  LinkedIn's algorithm sure left a lot to be desired whilst making that "Suggested Connection".  Nevertheless, I am glad to be reminded of how far I've been blessed to come relative to authentic friendships.  Looking in from the perceived perimeter gets old quick.  It's within the ring where real life resides.

Samson Society - Pirate Monk podcast - Episode #247 - Highly Recommended

https://samsonsociety.podbean.com/e/episode-274-curt-thompson/

Lakeside Presbyterian Church - Samson Society - Back In Business

Tomorrow morning, Saturday, (5/23) at 7 AM represents a milestone of sorts.

The Lakeside Presbyterian Church Samson Society will once again meet in room B110 there at the church!

This is very exciting news.

Lagniappe

There Are Four Females: 49, 16, 15, & 9 / Keep Your Eyes Open Rob

Yesterday, I sat outside a local Madison restaurant for a few hours at one of their outdoor dining tables biding the time.  My car was being serviced down the road, therefore in lieu of sitting in the garage's waiting room, I set off on foot to find a more comfortable venue.  Fortunately, the day was perfect for being out of doors, therefore I really enjoyed myself whilst also getting a lot of work done.

Over the weekend, I was home alone as the girls enjoyed a short jaunt sans me to rural Yazoo county.  It was wonderful having the abode to myself to speak to for days on end.  This always helps me reset my head.  And this is needed on occasion because when they're with me, I usually do what I can to keep to myself - at least from the standpoint of dialogue.  My thinking is - why compete with so many voices?

As opening time approached at the deli I was stationed out in front of, I took note of a handful of cars that pulled up to the front door in order to drop off a young black female employee(s) who was soon to start her / their shift work.  In each case, the cars were packed with young, black females, a few of which had babies in their arms.  Growing up here in Mississippi, what I was seeing wasn't new to me.  This represented the norm.  Blacks here in our state mostly live impoverished, marginalized lives, therefore in order to survive, they pool their resources generationally & platonically.  Or at least the black females do.  

Taking all that I was observing into consideration, in light of my present situation as a father / husband, this devastatingly sad racial / gender reality hit me particularly hard yesterday.

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Angie and I married almost 24 years ago at First Baptist Church Jackson.  Immediately following, we made a commitment to be involved within a young newlywed Sunday School class - no matter where we chose to worship.  And this brought us in contact with lots and lots of other middle to upper-middle class white couples who were similarly within the throes of newlyweddedness as we were.

One Saturday during this season, many decades prior, we attended a weekend dinner party hosted by a fellow couple which had been organized for the entire class.  I recall vividly using their upstairs restroom during the event and whilst sifting through their reading material down by the loo, finding a copy of a paperback titled How To Make Your First Million Dollars.

I must have read and re-read that title twenty-five times as I sat there relieving myself.  

Just holding the book made me feel shallow (& I might add superior).  From there, I felt pity regarding the state of humanity.  But especially regarding the state of man-kind.

Soon thereafter, we made a discreet exit from the party, and I struggled to see this couple with clear eyes from that point onward.

Stupid book and stupid superficial me.

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The role of father to daughters solidifies as daughters grow, and I would argue the role of husband does too.  No doubt, my Sunday School colleague felt drawn to the pursuit of material wealth as a means of obtaining a positive identity as his wife's new husband (at the time few couples within our class had children).  And this makes sense, but man, it seemed so very pagan to me at the time.  Whilst looking back though, I didn't really know anymore than he did relative to whom exactly I needed to position myself to be as husband (much less a future father).

But having a lot of grey hair above my ears and three daughters to rear has changed all of that.  Not to mention living smack dab in the middle of the racially polarized, economically depressed Magnolia State.

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The world we live in is and will always be a man's world.  Therefore, for women to thrive, they need fathers / husbands who're wise to this truth and therefore looking out for the best interests of the women / girls they're called to serve.

Let me repeat that because it's of upmost importance.

The world we live in is and will always be a man's world.  Therefore, for women to thrive, they need fathers / husbands who're wise to this truth and therefore looking out for the best interests of the women / girls they're called to serve.

I want to circle back to the beginning of this post and mention again my recent weekend alone.  

A fair amount of that time was spent with friends who're also men, doing things that we as men enjoyed together.  Obviously, being a short-term bachelor helped to facilitate those encounters.

But, I can tell you, that time alone - even as sweetened as it was with friendship - didn't satisfy me as my now opportunistic yet very routine time being husband / father does.

Why was / is that?

It all goes back to those black females I saw yesterday morning filing out of those Japanese sedans with their delicatessen uniforms on (as they handed off their babies one to the other).  What a sobering reminder that certainly was (for me) of the pivotal role I'm privileged to play as husband / father and therein the impact it does / will no doubt make down the road.

Bring it on.

Understanding Yourself In & Through Your Archetype

In looking back on my first foray into Internet porn, I was fortunate to immediately come across my archetype - literally the very first day.  It was as if the images were on standby waiting for me to logon that evening.

Considering that, it was all downhill from there relative to what exactly I was interested in searching for anti-climatically.  Hence, over time. it became much less of a search and more of the same thing on repeat 'till eventually, I realized my frenzied pursuit was drawing to a close (having circled back to where I'd started a number of times).

I believe many men have an archetype that embodies their ideal sexual standard, and taking this truth into account, so much of our western entertainment / infamy culture is fueled therein.  So much so, in fact, that I believe celebrities are oftentimes that much more in demand for film / TV programming based on their success in striking / embodying those individual ideals.  That is - via characterization -it's a painting with as broad a consumer-friendly / capturing brush as possible.

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So what is an archetype?

It is not a fetish.  A fetish is much too arbitrary an itch compared to an archetype.  Instead, an archetype represents the ideal.  It's a laser-focused embodiment of being perfectly suited, so to speak.

Why is identifying one's archetype important (if you have one)?

I believe it serves you well from the standpoint of knowing fully how your own head (on your shoulders) operates.

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This past Friday evening, I had my second meeting with a newish (to me but not to him) SS friend.  This "part two" was his time to wrap up sharing with me a narrative of sorts that he'd compiled (handwritten) over the past few months.  The notebook that he'd chronicled within was a sadness / joy compilation featuring countless individuals that had been within his sphere of influence throughout his +/-30 year lifespan.  The point of this exercise was for him to categorically and systematically look hard at every single personal influence that he'd encountered throughout his life from the standpoint of being both helpful (joy) and hurtful (trauma).  And my goodness, did he ever do a stellar job!  I learned so much about him and his life (as well as my own).  It truly was a once in a lifetime experience for me.

A sizable portion of our discussion last Friday evening centered around archetypes and the pull / influence they have over us.  Subsequently, what grew out of that conversation was discovering that for my friend, his archetype actually was made known to him in real life by way of a former girlfriend.  This was uncanny to me, having only met my own via Internet porn alone.

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Back to my former question, but phrased a little differently.  What brandishes value in studying / paying homage to one's archetype?

Let me introduce you to St. Martin in the Fields Church.

This church is in London and was constructed in the early 1700s.  The architect was Mr. James Gibbs.  To put this church into historical perspective, the original colonies were still far from declaring their independence when this was designed / built, and the church itself was sited "out in the country" at the time relative to the city proper.

What makes it significant is its service as the archetype for countless protestant church buildings around the world over the past 300 years.  For us Americans, we've seen the basics of this design an awful lot, and the reason for that is as follows:  To the western world the design of St. Martin in the Fields  absolutely, positively, and so effectively says CHURCH.  Plus, it's easily site adapted and relatively inexpensive to construct.

What set this ecclesiastical design trend in motion all those years ago?  Whom decided to dub St. Martin's in the Fields as such?  

Now, whilst attempting to answer that question, keep in mind that until this building was designed by Mr. Gibbs and subsequently constructed, none other existed that was quite exactly like this one.  And regarding Mr. Gibbs, do you think he set out to design a church building that would become an archetype which may just actually carry forward 'till Jesus' second coming?

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A young friend of mine shared with me a time in his vocational life when he found himself "in the zone" (his words).  He described this experience as unique to his role at his work, but finding himself there, given the opportunity, he excelled tremendously.  (Just to give you a little more specific minutiae, he found himself hitting a homerun within a very reputable comrade-based speaking event).  

Now, the question comes down to this.  Could my young friend have entered into his "zone" had he made that same speech to an empty auditorium?  In other words, do or can archetypes or archetypical experiences exist / come to fruition within a vacuum?

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Now, let's circle back to my new friend whom I visited with over the past few Friday evenings.  You'll recall I mentioned earlier that he'd essentially dated his archetype at one point in time.

Here's me seguing into my commentary (hold onto something):

I'm convinced that archetypes exist / come to fruition only in light of their ability to expertly meet real-time needs, therefore there's a dynamic exchange that plays out inevitably between us and them.  That exchange promotes understanding or aliveness that's situated squarely within the relationship between the need(s) and the solution, and it's that aliveness within us that in turn promotes them to top dog status (within our mind).

Another one of those humanity traits (I mentioned adaptability prior) is our criticality.  We rank constantly - our looks, other's looks, our pay, other's pay, our abodes, other's abodes, our spouses, other's spouses.  And from there, we rank our day, our mood, and on and on.  It's a mainstay of being human, and it speaks to our fallen nature, but primarily the fallen nature of the world around us.

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Archetypes, if and when they're acknowledged, offer us an opportunity.  That being to understand our own needs, desires, internal makeup by reverse engineering.

And that understanding, I believe, can even begin to equate to the aliveness that we experienced firstly via that initial encounter with said archetype.

There is so much longstanding richness and value if we're willing to do that good but rigorous work.  

God Doesn't Love You. All He's Out To Do Is Punish & Shame.

It's difficult at times to see our Heavenly Father with any Biblical accuracy.  And this is especially true when we're not able to look back onto ourselves and hold a steady, non-judgmental (fleshly) stare.  We'll never be God, therefore seeing ourselves as he sees us is only possible when we hear directly from him via his Word, or taking the Holy Spirit into consideration, through those who communicate on his behalf about us.  But too, there's the need to quantify / qualify what God made in us as his image-bearers.  This is an important step.  For I would argue we always start within our own understanding of ourselves whilst acknowledging God.  Therefore, if our Enemy can short-circuit that, he's one step ahead of distorting our view of our Creator.

During this time of quarantine, many of us are choosing to face - more and more - who we are, and this is due to the fact that circumstantially the world as we know it has changed overnight.  And if we're finding that our personal "review" is skewed towards the worthlessness end of the qualitative spectrum, then I'm convinced many of us also - in tandem with that view - choose to see God more towards the punisher end of the spectrum.  

Why is this?

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Years ago, I worked at the state of MS with a man who was about my age despite the fact that his physical build was much older than my own.  And this was no doubt due to his lifelong disregard for any form of exercise / eating healthily.  Overall, his passion was work and being hyper-critical of everyone around him (which he was an expert at).  To sum him up, he was brilliant but secretly eat up with worthlessness, and despite the fact that he was just a few years older than I, his physical self was much older.

During one holiday season, we had a Christmas party for our bureaucracy one evening off site.  There were about 20 of us that attended with our families.  It was apparent this guy loathed being there, having zero means of pretending otherwise.  The following week, someone projected a photo slide show within our conference space.  The images were candid photos taken at said Christmas party.  Most of our bureau wandered in and out of presentation in order to reminiscence in an effort to take it (back) in.

What stood out to me was what happened when a photo would be projected containing the aforementioned worthlessness man.  

He would wince.  Literally.

As if he were being hit with internal pangs of disgust at the images of himself.

It was depressing to witness.

I mean, I know even today I'm not all that keen regarding seeing photos of Rob, but this man's reaction was more akin to how I used to react to photos of myself back in middle school.  And because that period of my life was so detrimental to my understanding of God (through my understanding of myself), I'm in tune to this wretched state of mind even today.

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This iconic photo was referenced by a Samson Society friend of mine a few years back.  It was his GoTo graphical analogy for our Heavenly Father at the time.  Again, to reiterate what I said earlier.  The Punisher.  Is there any more suitable 20th century icon who's more well suited to this title than Mohammed Ali?

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To summarize, I'm convinced Satan is tactical in his methods of distorting who we see and understand God to be, and that his primary line of attack relative to this distortion is what we believe / how much we see accurately of our own created selves.  The Bible uses the analogy that we as human beings are like dumb sheep.  That gives me little faith in myself as a clear-headed holistically comprehended man.  Do you get my drift? 

What's the logical, spiritually healthy step here if we're stuck not being able to see ourselves accurately?  How might our understanding of God eventually be impacted if we don't take those steps?  

And finally, is it possible to hate God in line with our own personal disdain for who we understand ourselves to be?  

As Sarah Palin would say, "You betcha" (to that 3rd question).

-------------------------

This dear reader is the cover of a beefcake magazine.  "Exercise For Men Only" was published back in the late '80s when I was a boy.  When I peered at the photos of these men whilst perusing through the pages of these mags at my local K & B drugstore in northeast Jackson, something heady stirred inside of me that said, "I want what they have, and realistically, the easiest way to obtain it is to firstly discount / invalidate my own worth."  Therefore, I put those muscular, masculine physiques at the upper echelon of importance relative to what Rob qualified as value tied to manhood, and conversely, I discounted anything and everything contained within my own created self (as I comprehended it at the time).  

Please understand who I was as a Madison county middle schooler.  

First and foremost, I was highly, highly visual.  Therefore, beautiful beefcake photos like this one were the bane of Rob.  And this was because I'd never seen imagery like this prior.  Never had I stepped foot in a gym or locker room much less onto a southern California beach where young men like this might peruse around semi-nude.    

I grew up adoring comic books and cartoons.  Science fiction film and television programming were absolutely glorious finds / escapes for me as a young boy.  Hence, my imagination was an efficient, well-oiled machine.

My father was emotionally unavailable, and my mother, I felt, couldn't be trusted with my feelings (mainly due to her being female).  I had no siblings, and no adult male role models (who were close in proximity).  At the time, my life consisted of me, myself, and I, living up in my teenage head day after day after day.

So, I began creating my own role models by using beefcake magazines to sexually fantasize, and from there God too became none other than the Punisher.  I was all too familiar with Scripture and how it condemned both lust and homosexual activity in reaction to what I was doing upstairs whilst pulling on my thingy.

But, I couldn't stop.  The fantasies were fulfilling and oh so pleasurable.  The illusion of being valued within these dreams actually sufficed.  They had to.  There was no other means for me to survive my internal disdain and subsequent God confusion.

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I spent some time with my Silas last night, and I was explaining to him that the firmest identifier of humanity is our penchant for adaptability.  

If you purchase a beautiful, healthy plant at the nursery, you'd best plant and nurture it as recommended.  Otherwise, it likely won't stay alive for very long.  

Humans are the opposite of that.  And so often that adaptability grows out of our flesh (sin nature).  This is what fuels many human rights (legal) conversations that are rooted in equality.  

So really, it's not that we're just dumb sheep, but we're also no doubt blind and dumb sheep.  And this is so much worse.

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Yesterday, I spent some time with a friend over breakfast who's dealing with the wretched ramifications of vocational envy.  My heart absolutely breaks for this man.  I've known him for many years, and there's no doubt that he's both humble and devout.  Though he was uncomfortable hearing it, I attempted to reflect truthfully into him who God has made him to be as we sat there (+/-6'-0" apart).  And this today has reminded me of subtle experiences I had growing up where older men were kind enough to do this for me.  Not necessarily with the same intensity / intentionality, but definitely with the (hopefully) similar worthwhile effectiveness.

These men (used no doubt by the Holy Spirit) were my employers, college professors, and so forth.  People that I had the good fortune to rub shoulders with day in and day out during the mundaneness of life's circumstances.  They were men whom I chose to not ignore or discount because I was in someway circumstantially obligated to pay heed to their input (respect).

Over time, enough of this goodness amassed within me that it allowed me to eventually choose to stop my beefcake fantasy life.  And when that ceased, I slowly began to see myself more clearly, and this in turn positively impacted by accurate view of my Heavenly Father.  Therefore, my commitment to Bible study and prayer turned the corner as well as all manner of church work itself.   

Of course, much of that growth did hit a seriously tumultuous patch when the Internet came on the scene (Internet porn), but had those initial seeds not been planted, I'm convinced the bondage that I was once in would no doubt be just as enveloping (& isolating) as ever here in 2020.

Thanks be to God for his steadfast hand within the life of this particular sheep.  He is no doubt so much more than I every initially saw him to be.

Lagniappe

Suicide

When I was in high school, a boy (who also attended my high school) one year older than I, lost his father to suicide.  This man was divorced from my peer's (his son's) mother and attended church with us, therefore my dad knew him.  

I clearly remember my father taking me to the funeral.  It was in the chapel of First Baptist Church one weekday afternoon.  This boy I knew little about despite the fact that he'd been a part of my cub scout troop years prior.  As a teen, he was very quiet despite his dashing good looks.

As a sidenote, it's important that you know that my dad had a stellar experience as a cub / boy scout as a Mississippi Delta youth, therefore despite my lackluster interest in scouting as his son, he held sway to the natural comradery and subsequent respect for any kid who'd given it a chance.

Regarding suicide, I learned quickly that it begs the question of cause of death, and that oftentimes firearms are involved in those answers.

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Yesterday, YouTube's algorithm recommended a Darrin Patrick video to me, and I clicked.  The video was of Pastor Darrin preaching on the topic of "Did Jesus Have A Best Friend?".  It was a wonderful sermon to take in.  

From there, I did a search on Pastor Darrin and that's when I saw it.

The headline stating that Darrin had killed himself last Thursday.  He was 49.  Just one year older than Rob.

I was flabbergasted.  From there, I stood up from my desk and grabbed the sides of my head as the room began to spin.  I moaned as I held my skull in my hands and peered down at the floor for all of five minutes.

All I could think about was Darrin's family, but especially his 13-year old son.  Then immediately following, I thought about Darrin's recent pastoral recovery / reconciliation that's been so well documented.  And finally this morning, I began to think about what may have been going on under the surface within Darrin's life that obviously was too much for him to bear.

When I lost my job back in 2013, the trauma that ensued relative to how that termination was handled, amounted to me being emotionally raped and subsequently impregnated with a massive sense of worthlessness.  From there, I developed PTSD 3 to 4 months after, and it was then that I began to hear voices inside my head.  Really nasty voices.

They would ask, "Why don't you kill yourself?".  It sure as hell seemed to be a worthwhile suggestion at the time.  I cannot underestimate to you, dear reader, how overwhelmingly intense the emotional pain was.  And there seemed to be no end in sight.  It was as if my heart had been removed from my chest and immersed in acid.

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By God's grace, one morning I awoke and realized the suicidal harbinger had left me.  I again could see life with clarity, therefore it obviously had moved on.  And ever since then, by God's grace, it's never returned.

What I realized, thanks to that experience, was despite this horrific state of mind I was having to manage day to day, my life / my responsibilities didn't cease.  There were expectations to be met even though I wasn't at all emotionally up to the task.  In the end, it's a head game that's terribly, terribly isolating in and of itself.

The very best thing I did do through all of this was tell my wife what was going in inside my head.  From there, she encouraged me to talk to my father.  And, as has always been the case, my father sought out professional help for his son.  That help came in the form of Mr. Don Waller, and from there, I was ushered into the Samson Society group he facilitated at First Baptist Church.

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Having dealt with my sexual identity issues throughout my life with a certain degree of aplomb, I never imagined me being vulnerable to this.  But the truth is, given the right circumstances, everyone is.  Our emotional core is perfectly suited to traumatic impacts given the right circumstances / timing.  And overall, this life we live as men - particularly if we're also husbands / fathers is very, very challenging indeed. 

Though I'd never met you, Pastor Darrin Patrick, I will miss you.  Today, my heart aches over this horrible loss.  It has definitely pushed me backwards into that place where my scars are well visible.

Lagniappe

I heard Jesus Singing in an Old Ford Truck ~ "The Story of Old Henry"

Hey everyone.  Stephen here. Rob asked me a few months back to begin contributing to the Samson blog. When he asked me to do so, I was very honored and grateful to be able to contribute. I have always enjoyed writing, and at one time, dove into it with much gusto. However, like every other male on this planet, I have seasons of life. For the past year and a half, my life has been just a little hectic, as I've had to go back to school to pursue a second master's degree for my job. Even while getting used to negotiating life as a graduate student (again), I've had to simultaneously maintain a full-time job as well as meet the challenges of being an emotionally available husband and father. I won't lie to you though. Sometimes I fail miserably at the domestic side of things. I fail miserably at everything; I fail miserably at doing life in general.

Life during this pandemic has been nothing short of eye-opening. One would think that I would have the luxury of even more time working from home, but instead, these past few days have made me feel as if I'm in some sort of "stay at home purgatory." I'm sure there are others out there sharing that purgatory with me. Don't get me wrong...I love my family...dearly...but I'm a guy that likes to have his life compartmentalized. Much like some people can't stand their food running together on a plate, I'm a guy that absolutely has to separate my church life from home life and separate home life from work life which is separated from school life which is separated from Samson, etc. and the list goes on! These past two months have seen everything meshed together; intertwined with no semblance of separation at all. And sometimes, that has made me want to isolate and withdraw, but where to??? Under the same roof as everything else? Appears so! But the worst thing is that in the midst of all the chaos, I've not taken the time I should have to just sit and LISTEN for God's voice, for his instruction. So for the past few weeks, I have tried to be more intentional about reconnecting with old friends and intentionally naming my blessings one by one as I talk to God on the way to the grocery store or to the post office. I have tried to stop and just breathe deeply and go for a walk. To LISTEN to God, to feel his presence. That doesn't happen on its own. It requires being intentional. I have a new blog post I am working on (I promise, Rob!) but in the meantime, I thought of something that I wrote some years back in 2016. This was originally published on my own blog, and as I re-read it the other day, I was reminded that God speaks to me when I least expect it. So as I have spent time with him lately, I have asked him to speak; I am listening. When I get frustrated with situations or restless as I've often been lately, I must remember to be still and listen. I have to just shut up and listen. To Come (back) to Jesus, and live!

On a side note, "Henry" (whom you'll meet in the story below) is alive and well in 2020. In fact, he's resting in my garage right now waiting for the day when we can go on adventures together again. As the song in the story reminds us, sometimes we just have to "Come to Jesus" in order to live!

I heard Jesus Singing in an Old Ford Truck ~ "The Story of Old Henry"

Stephen & Henry in 2016 - At the family homestead in the country

November 2011

          The November night was clear, yet unusually dark and cold.  The harsh orange glow of the overhead street lamps lit my path as I slowly made my way to the beige and brown Ford truck parked on the street.  The sound of the buzzing being emitted from the street lamps was drowned out only by the occasional rumble of a car passing down the ancient brick street.  With my heart heavy and my mind a million miles away, I unlocked the door and pulled myself up onto the bench seat of “Henry,” my old Ford F150.  As I sat in the cold darkness of the truck’s cab, I began to pray.  I prayed the same prayer that I’d prayed over and over during the last few months of my life; a prayer asking God where he was and why he was letting me go through the struggles that I’d been through.  After a few silent moments, I lifted my head and began to search my ring of keys for the one that would bring old Henry to life.  When I finally found Henry’s ignition key, I inserted it and woke him up from his slumber.  For a few moments, the only sound to be heard was the soft and familiar rumble of his V-8 engine – a sound that I’d come to find oddly comforting.  Suddenly without warning, the radio came to life; a radio that had not previously been working properly or even turned on.  As the chords of a familiar song began to strum through the old speakers, Chris Rice started to sing, and his words came and began to fill the emptiness of my heart.

Weak and wounded sinner
Lost and left to die
O, raise your head for love is passing by

Come to Jesus
Come to Jesus
Come to Jesus and live

As I sat there listening to the song in shocked silence, while simultaneously shivering from the cold, I felt the tears began to fall.

            I never really wanted an ugly old Ford truck.  During my high school years, I grew up driving big old trucks – old Fords and Chevys that had all seen better days.  Some guys are die hard loyalists to one brand of truck only, but I am not that way.  I have a particular fondness for all old trucks.  I’m not partial to any particular brand.  While I’d toyed for some time with the idea of purchasing a small truck to take to the lake or to take the dogs riding around in, what I’d had in mind had been a much smaller, late model pickup in relatively good shape.  Certainly, I’d never planned on buying a big old rusty 1988 Ford F-150 that was as ugly as sin.  Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment, or maybe there was something inherently special about Henry that drew me to him.  In any case, I ended up with a big old temperamental money pit of a Ford.  While he only had 93,000 actual miles on his odometer, Henry had definitely seen better days.  With his numerous battle scars and his homemade leopard print seat cover, it was apparent that this truck had lived a very useful life somewhere in the boondocks of Mississippi.  He had also been well loved until his original owner passed away, and he was parked for quite some time before I found him.

 For some reason unknown to me, someone had done a real hack job on Henry’s fuse box.  When I took possession of him, I noticed that a lot of things didn’t work; or if they did, they worked sporadically and erratically.  There were a number of missing fuses.  There were fuses of the wrong amperage in the wrong slots.  There were blown fuses.  Some of his lights didn’t work, and his original vintage 1988 AM/FM radio wasn’t working either.  Eventually I ended up taking out all the fuses and replacing every one of them as well as replacing some of the wiring.  Even then, the radio still worked only intermittently.  I had plans to replace it at some point anyway.  At least that had been my plan until that cold November evening.  2011 was a very difficult year for my family.  We’d suffered losses including the loss of my grandmother who had passed away the month before from pancreatic cancer.  We had just buried her in October when I heard someone in my church sing Chris Rice’s “Untitled Hymn” the very next Sunday after her funeral.  I remember thinking to myself what an amazing song of hope it was.  Now there I was on that Wednesday evening when God used old Henry’s radio to play that same message of hope for me.  I know for a fact that the radio had not been turned on when I had parked the truck; it had not even been working earlier that night.  I also know for a fact that it was not tuned to K-Love, a local Christian music station.  I’d previously left it tuned to a country music station the last time it was working.  The sensible side of me knows that it must have been an electrical gremlin related to the fuse box mess.  The spiritual side of me knows that Jesus was sitting next to me on the bench seat in the cold as God gave me that song of comfort at just the right time in my life.

             I’ve never been a very religious person.  I know that will come across as a bit surprising to those who know me, but it’s true.  Instead, I consider myself to be more of a spiritual person and I’d much rather focus on building relationships rather than going through rituals out of habit.  I do believe that God in his utmost sovereignty acts in such amazing ways to teach us valuable life lessons.  He places people and things in our lives and uses them in the most unlikely of circumstances to reach us and to teach us.  In this particular situation, he used a Ford to give me a message of hope.

Now your burden's lifted,
And carried far away,
And precious blood has washed away the stain... so

Sing to Jesus ,
Sing to Jesus ,
Sing to Jesus and live

November 2011 - May 2014

            In the months and years following that spiritual experience, Old Henry and I enjoyed some good times together.  For the most part, his radio continued to work as it was designed to, and I finally decided against replacing it with a newer and fancier model.  I guess a part of my subconscious has always wondered if God would someday speak to me through that old radio again.  While I have always loved driving Henry, I never made him my daily driver because he did (and still does) have a penchant for gulping fuel like it was going out of style.  He also doesn’t have the most stellar track record for reliability.  With his dual fuel tanks, keeping gas in Henry was often an expensive proposition.  Still, I managed to have good times with him.  My wife and I would load up the dogs and go have a picnic at the reservoir, or I’d take my late grandfather riding around in Henry.  I think I inherited my love of old trucks from him and he loved Henry as much as I do.  I have some really good memories in that truck.  Still, I managed to only put 5,000 miles on Henry in 5 years time.  Maintaining an older vehicle takes a lot of time, effort and money;  but more money than anything else.  Eventually, Henry started requiring more and more work to keep him running, and I started driving him less frequently.  In May of 2014, I had Henry’s cooling system re-done and discovered that he needed a lot more work than I wanted to undertake at the time.  I think the last time I ever drove Henry was around June or July of that year.  Not wanting to have him take up driveway space at my house, I parked him 20 miles away at my great-aunt’s house in the country and promptly forgot about him.  I would occasionally drive out to the country and crank Henry’s engine when I remembered to, but I eventually forgot to do that as well.  As the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, Henry sat and slowly continued to deteriorate; however, he was always in the back of my mind.

And like a newborn baby,
Don't be afraid to crawl,
And remember when you walk sometimes we fall... so

Fall on Jesus,
Fall on Jesus, 
Fall on Jesus and live

April 2015

            2015 quickly proved to be the most challenging year of my life.  For reasons that I won’t get into at this time, the events that took place in the first three months of 2015 caused me to lose, to suffer, to grieve and to eventually to shut down.  I began to lose hope in people and even started to question my faith.  I know now that my suffering was minor compared to what many believers have gone through.  In my mid 30’s, I’m just now realizing and understanding that loss is an integral part of life here on earth and none of us are immune to it or exempt from it.  The trials that we go through solidify us as humans, and it is our hope which gives us perseverance.  When we lose hope, we have truly lost everything.  In early April 2015, I began to once more think about poor old Henry sadly sitting and being neglected out in the country.  His battery was already pretty old when he was parked, so months of sitting and being unused had discharged it to the point where I found it necessary to remove it and put it on the battery charger for several hours.  I went and got his battery out then brought it home to Clinton and tried to get it charged again.  On April 5, 2015, Easter Sunday, we went to visit my great aunt that evening after church.  I took Henry’s battery with me and had planned to re-install it and get him running again.  It was a dreary, chilly, rainy afternoon.  With my wife holding the umbrella and a flashlight, I opened Henry’s creaky hood and proceeded to hook the battery up.  There was just one problem.  At some point in Henry’s lifetime, someone had changed the battery cables out so that both positive and negative cables were now black.  I didn’t remember which way the battery posts were facing when I’d taken the battery out and didn’t even think about tracing the cables to see which one was going where.  Suddenly, as I hooked the cables up, a giant flash of sparks that rivaled some of the best Independence Day fireworks displays I’ve ever seen materialized before our eyes.  A giant fireball shot out of the engine compartment accompanied by an equally loud bang.  The words of the song I’d heard years ago came rushing back to me: Come to Jesus…Come to Jesus… I just knew at that moment that Denise and I were about to meet Jesus!

            I know that many who read this probably aren’t mechanically inclined and aren’t acutely aware of the repercussions that arise from accidentally reversing the battery cables when installing an automotive battery.  If you don’t know the outcome of such a horrible mistake, I first and foremost encourage you to never try this at home with your own vehicle!  Needless to say, just about every electrical component all the way back to Henry’s firewall was fried.  Suddenly, Henry needed a lot more than just a new battery.  Fortunately, his fusible links blew as designed, and this saved the surge from destroying any electrical components from the firewall on back.  But everything under the hood was a mess.  In disgust, I slammed the hood shut and proceeded to forget about him for about 5 more months.  I was angry with myself for being so stupid, angry with the world, and angry at a certain old Ford for being such a costly nuisance and aggravation. 

Sometimes the way is lonely,
And steep and filled with pain,
So if your sky is dark and pours the rain... then

Cry to Jesus,
Cry to Jesus,
Cry to Jesus and live

September 2015

Spring and summer of 2015 came and went and old Henry continued to sit and rot.  His tires began to go flat as his paint baked and oxidized under the brutal Mississippi sun.  I quit going out to the country because I couldn’t stand the sight of the truck just sitting there.  Occasionally the question of what to do with old Henry would come up in the course of our conversation, and my wife and I never could seem to arrive at mutual solution.  I toyed with the idea of selling him as he was while my wife toyed with the idea of calling the junkyard to come pick him up.  Deep down inside, I somehow knew that neither was the right thing to do.  Fortunately, I decided to postpone the decision until I finally decided in the fall of 2015 to have him fully repaired and put back on the road.  Time had not been kind to Henry, and his problems had continued to multiply as he sat in the weather.  When the tow truck came to pick him up, yellow jackets had built their nest underneath him and literally gave us a run for our money.  In the end, I finally ended up fixing everything that was wrong with Henry and made a promise to him that he’d be driven at least a couple of times each week and would never again be parked and forgotten.

O, and when the love spills over,
And music fills the night,
And when you can't contain your joy inside... then

Dance for Jesus,
Dance for Jesus,
Dance for Jesus and live

March 2016        

            Since bringing Henry back to life, we have traveled nearly 2,000 miles together.  I guess you could say that we’ve made up for lost time.  Today, he runs better than he ever has and I keep his radio constantly tuned to K-Love.  Whenever I drive old Henry, I’m always reminded of God’s never ending love for me.  You see, everything has a story, no matter how small or insignificant it may be.  This just happens to be Old Henry’s story.  I’ve thought for a long time how I could share it in a way that would also share the message of hope that we have through God’s unfailing love for his children.  I know that Old Henry is just a truck.  He is nothing more than nearly a ton of Detroit steel that has been rusted and battered by years of use and neglect.  He’s nothing more than an inanimate object – a tool if you will – designed for hauling people and cargo.  I’m not a materialistic person in the least, and material possessions have little significance to me.  But I will say this -  Henry is a special truck.  Of the many vehicles I’ve driven and owned through the years, he’s the only one I’ve ever had a bond with.  I don’t know what the future holds for old Henry or even for myself, but I do know that for as long as I have him I will continue to maintain him, care for him, and constantly be listening to his radio for any new message God has for me.  He will never be parked out in the country again, alone and forgotten.

            Several people have asked me if I have future plans to restore old Henry.  While some might argue that he is still fairly presentable considering his age, 28 years of time are definitely showing.  My answer is no.  I like Henry just the way he is with his many scrapes, bumps, dents and rust.  You see, these flaws are a part of who he is.  Every dent, every scratch, and every crease tells a part of his story.  Even if I wanted to spend the exorbitant sum of money that it would take to remove these flaws and restore old Henry, he would never be the same as he is now.  He would lose his character.  He’s not a show truck by any means, and he never will be.  Instead, he’s a truck that is accepted for what he is.  In spite of all his flaws, I think he’s a great truck.  We as humans are like old Henry.  We are not perfectly kept show vehicles either.  We all have many flaws, imperfections, and battle scars that mar us.  We can attempt to hide behind a beautiful and restorative veneer of our own making, but in doing so we risk losing sight of who we really are and the river that we’ve traveled down in life.  But in spite of these imperfections, God still loves us and accepts us just as we are.  Sometimes we feel the pain of being alone – forgotten and abandoned like an old Ford truck.  But I know that there is one who will never forget me or abandon me.  Just as I ultimately ended up not giving up on old Henry, our heavenly father never gives up on us and loves us unconditionally for who we are.  I know that now.  I still face struggles in my faith and in life, but I know that God will not give up on me.  Sometimes God shows up and calls out to us in the most unlikely of places and when we least expect it; but it is always when we need it the most.  I really did hear Jesus singing in an old Ford truck.  All we have to do is Come to Jesus and Live!

Stephen & Henry in 2014 - Again, at the family homestead in the country where he was "abandoned"