Saturday, October 30, 2021
Thursday, October 28, 2021
Monday, October 25, 2021
"WHY???" Feat. Long Long Journey
I am currently in the midst of one of the greatest challenges that I have ever experienced during my 41-year-old life. This challenge has presented itself in the form of raising my seven, soon to be an eight-year-old son. My son’s brain constantly moves at warp speed. He is brilliant. No, I don’t say that simply because he is my son and I am a proud father (even though it is true, I am a proud dad). I say that in a matter-of-fact way because there are simply no other words to describe him. And since my son was adopted, there is no way on God’s green earth that he got it from me.
This little
eight-year-old blessing is something that my wife and I deal with every day, as
we try to constructively guide him through life while also encouraging him
to be a fiercely independent problem solver. My kid is so analytical; this is
evidenced in that he loves to argue about anything. I have always joked that he
is going to make an excellent defense attorney one day because he can argue his
way out of anything (and does so quite convincingly). Another challenge that
comes along with raising my son is answering the million “why” questions that
he fields my way every single day. “Why does this happen, daddy” or “why does
this work this way, daddy” or “what makes X equal Y” and on and on and on. Now,
although it may seem like I am griping a tad bit here, that is not the case. From
the moment he first started talking, I have always encouraged my son to ask me
all the questions he wishes to ask. I tell my son the same thing that I always told
my students when I was teaching: “there are no dumb questions.” So, I am happy
that my son is asking questions even though it does sometimes get old trying to
come up with the answers to some of his questions!
“WHY???” I would dare say that no other three-letter word
in the English language contains the power packed into this small, unassuming word.
“Why” is a word that invites questioning, and self-examination within oneself.
Indeed, it demands introspection and invites conversation in general. “Why” is
a word that can be both simultaneously maddening and enlightening.
When
we ask “why” and the person of whom we are asking the question delivers a
satisfactory answer, the word grants us immediate gratification and resolution.
We get an answer to the question “why.” However, the same word can also be
maddening at times. When something befalls us or we are forced to go through
something that we feel like we should not have gone through, our human nature is
to question God “why?” Of course, during those instances, the use of the word
looks more akin to this: “WHY???!!!”
I learned many years ago,
as a youth, to never put anyone on a pedestal. As I discovered in my youth, if
you put someone on a pedestal, they will eventually fall off the pedestal and
then the weight of them crashing down will seriously wound you. When I was in
high school, I had a youth pastor that I was very close to and really loved. I
think that he was the first person that I ever put on a pedestal in a church
situation. As a youth, I was not as strong in my faith, and I was a lot more
vulnerable. One day, I watched my youth pastor fall off the pedestal during a
church camp one summer. I was absolutely crushed. I was devastated. I never
looked at him the same again. From that moment on, I made a deal with God: I
would never put any fallible human on a pedestal ever again. No, that did not
mean that I would not love people or even try to trust them, it just meant that
I would not hold them to such a high standard that it would eventually set them
up for failure.
I am
not big on social media at all. I just don’t really see the purpose of it
(other than occasionally keeping up with old friends that live many states
away). Real-life happens right in front of you – it happens in the muddy trenches
when you are barely surviving, and it happens on top of the mountains; regardless,
it happens with the people that you love who are actively a part of your life,
in real life. Real-life means that you can reach out and actively touch a
person such as giving them a hug in church, or having a cup of coffee with
them. You can’t do that via social media. But there was a time in my life about
six or seven years ago when I was pretty involved with Twitter. I never posted
much of anything on Twitter, but I followed a number of motivational accounts from
which I drew great encouragement. I found encouragement through the devotionals
and motivational thoughts shared by pastors and other motivational speakers.
There
was a young man named Jarrid that I started following on Twitter. Jarrid was an
up-and-coming young pastor who was on staff at a large church in California.
For some reason, the words that Jarrid shared on Twitter and on his personal
blog resonated deeply with me and spoke to me. I was going through a bad bout
of depression in my life during that time, and even though Jarrid seemed to
have it all together (he was a pastor) and had a beautiful family
who loved him, Jarrid also suffered greatly from depression. Everything that Jarrid
spoke about related to depression and suicide prevention came from the trenches
of his own experience and it really resonated with me; I knew at the time that
it was God giving me messages of hope through this young man. I never did put Jarrid
on a pedestal (I learned my lesson, remember), but I did hold his words in high
esteem, and I sincerely looked forward to every new thought that he shared on Twitter
and every new devotional that he published on his blog. Even though I never met
him in person, I felt such a strong connection with him and it was almost like
we were kindred spirits fighting our way through the darkness of depression and
trying to find the light of life once again.
I’ll
never forget one of the last things that Jarrid posted. It was around National
Suicide Prevention Day back in 2019. Jarrid spoke of how life was so precious,
and he encouraged anyone fighting the darkness to reach out to him or to anyone
else who could hold out a hand to grab onto. And then his words stopped. There
were no more tweets, no more blog posts, no more anything. And then I found out.
This young pastor, this man of God, this kindred spirit who had touched my
life, was dead by his own hand. A mere few hours after his son’s ballgame, he
ended his own life. He killed himself right after he wrote what he did for
National Suicide Prevention Day. Even though I had never met Jarrid in person,
my heart was truly broken and I asked God:
“Why, Jarrid???”
-------------------------------
One
of my dad’s good friends from his years of living in Meridian was a man named
Marvin. Marvin was a good guy, and he was a very strong believer as well. He and
my parents went to church together in Meridian. Marvin and my dad would go
hunting together, and they always enjoyed getting together to shoot the breeze.
When my dad left Meridian, Marvin was one of the few people that he kept in
contact with. After my dad moved from Meridian, Marvin’s health started failing
him in several ways. My dad went back to Meridian a couple of times to visit
Marvin, to check up on him, and just to spend time with him because Marvin was
lonely. But life goes on, and time and distance have a way of interfering with
relationships.
I remember one of the last phone conversations that my
dad had with Marvin. Marvin told my dad that he was going through a rough patch and
really needed to see him. My dad talked with Marvin for a while and assured him
that he would make the trip to Meridian the next week to see him, but that he
had a lot going on during the current week. My dad thought he could wait a week
to go see Marvin.
A few days later, Marvin’s neighbor texted my dad. My
dad said that it was probably the worst text he has ever received. The
neighbor’s text was to inform my dad that Marvin had gone into the woods behind
his cabin where he proceeded to shoot himself in the head. I don’t think that I
have ever seen my dad quite as emotional except during his mother’s (my late
grandmother’s) funeral. That was an incredibly tough blow for my dad, and he
questioned God for months afterward. “Why did you let Marvin take his own
life.” “Why did I not take the time to go to Meridian on the day that Marvin
called me and needed me?” I don’t believe I have ever seen my dad quite so
mentally anguished before. He felt so incredibly guilty for a long time after
that, but he eventually came to terms with the fact he most likely could not have
saved Marvin no matter what.
“Why, Marvin???”
-------------------------------
In my
late 20s and in my early 30s, I was involved with an international prison
ministry that had a local chapter in one of our state prisons. It was something
that I never desired to get involved with nor did I want anything to do with.
But God had other plans. Out of that initial prison ministry, I later branched
into other areas such as mentoring juvenile offenders and mentoring older guys
who were within a year of being released. Back in 2012 and 2013, I was a part
of the collaborative reentry program that was started by Stuart Kellogg of Jackson
Mississippi, and I had the opportunity to mentor three men through that
program. The last young man that I ever mentored as part of that program was a
young fella named Ethan. Ethan had a sad story, and he had found himself locked
in prison at the ripe young age of 20 due to a tragedy that he had been
involved in. Another guy named Mickey and I were assigned to Ethan to become
his mentor. Twice a month for the next year, we went into prison and mentored
Ethan one on one through sharing personal testimonies and a Bible study. Those
were some of the sweetest times that I have ever been privileged to be a part
of.
Ethan possessed such a
gentle soul; he was kind, he was humble, he was eager to learn, and he loved
the Lord. Ethan was a gifted writer and a great wordsmith; his grandmother
owned a small weekly newspaper in Alabama, and Ethan had the unique opportunity
to write weekly articles of encouragement for the newspaper. His column was
titled “Penned behind Bars.” Ethan was a very unique writer; I can unabashedly say
that having read hundreds of great (and not so great) essays written by
students over the years. A talent like Ethan possessed can only be a gift from
God. As an English teacher and fellow writer, it was my pleasure to both mentor
and encourage Ethan as he grew in his writing ability.
After he got out of
prison, Ethan briefly attended USM in Hattiesburg before moving to Alabama to
take over as the assistant editor of his grandmother’s weekly newspaper. I kept
up with Ethan via text message and through social media, but I eventually got
busy raising my own son. I never forgot Ethan, and never forgot those special
moments that we three shared behind the walls of a prison. Ethan had his ups and
downs, and I knew that he went through a couple of rough patches over the past
few years. But he seemed to have leveled out over the last year or so, and was
very successful in his endeavors. He was an award-winning writer and
journalist. I did not really talk to Ethan much lately, but I had kept up with
him.
“Why, Ethan???”
-------------------------------
In each of these
instances, I have raised the question “why?” Why did these three individuals
(all strong believers of God) commit the ultimate act of selfishness? But you
know something? As I asked myself “why” during each of these three times, a
little voice in the back of my head whispered, “you know why, Stephen….” And, I, unfortunately, do know why.
I know why because I
have been in the place that Jarrid, Marvin, and Ethan have been in. The only
difference between my situation and theirs is that when they reached the door
at the end of that long, dark, tunnel, they stepped through it and closed the
door behind them. I have been to that place. I have been to the end of that
tunnel, and I have opened, then peeked through that door. I have seen the
freedom from pain, and the new and glorious morning that lies on the other side
of that door. But each time, I heard God say “no, not yet.”
That long, dark, tunnel
is a very scary place to be. You can’t see anything. There’s nothing above you,
nothing below you, and nothing on either side of you. There is just blackness. At
the far end of the tunnel, you can see the light shining under the door, a
small sliver of hope that mysteriously beckons you toward it.
But to open that door and
to step through would cause those left behind on earth to endure immeasurable
pain. It pains me to say this, but there was a time several years ago when I
came so very close. I had a plan, and it was a great plan. But I heard God
saying “no, not yet.” And so, I fought, with everything that I had inside of
me. I clawed my way back to the other side of that tunnel, and I eventually
found the light of this world again.
That is my story. I
cannot speak for Jarrid, Marvin, or Ethan. I cannot tell you what went through
their minds during their final moments or what caused them to commit the ultimate
act of selfishness. But I can speak for myself. And I would almost be willing
to bet that their thoughts in their final moments were very similar to mine. I am a natural loner. I
love to isolate. And that is a very dangerous thing for me. 2020 was a dangerous year for me. There have been
other times of darkness since that moment I experienced in the tunnel a few years ago, but
they have not been nearly as bad. I have caught myself passing by the tunnel on occasion, and for a brief
moment and I found myself just wanting to jump into the darkness again and head towards that light peeking under the door. But I knew that I could
not do that. And so, with God’s help, I have been able to drag myself away from
the tunnel each time.
I will always miss Jarrid even though I never met him. And I will most definitely always miss Ethan. I loved Ethan, and I was so proud of who he had become. My dad still to this day misses Marvin. There are some pastors out there who made the argument that if a believer commits suicide, it is an automatic ticket to hell. I have heard that said before. I was talking to my own pastor earlier this year because he had a good friend on staff at his previous church who committed suicide a few years back. It was something that really tore him up for a long time. He and I had a long and fruitful discussion, and I told him about my journey through the tunnel. He assured me that even though he believes that it is the ultimate act of selfishness, he also firmly believes that believers who have chosen to end their lives early are in the arms of Jesus. I have no doubt that Jarrid, Marvin, and Ethan are resting in the arms of Jesus and that their pain is finally healed. And you know, there are some days that I am jealous. I am jealous that they got to see Jesus and I’m not able to yet. They got the ultimate remedy. But each time I feel that jealously coming on, I hear God whisper “I am not done with you.” And so, I wait.
I love answering the
questions that my son throws at me each day. I often tell him that I don’t know
the answer to every question, but that I can certainly try to find out the answer to why. I
don’t want my wife to ever have to ask the question “Why, Stephen???” or my son to have to
ask the question “Why, daddy???” So I continue to hold on. And even in those moments when I
feel like I can’t hold on anymore, I know that God will never let go of me and
he will continue to hold on to me. "Why he let go of me" is a question that I’ll
never have to ask!
Sunday, October 24, 2021
Friday, October 22, 2021
Thursday, October 21, 2021
Tuesday, October 19, 2021
A Special Letter from Nate: Hurry Before It's Too Late!
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Tuesday, October 12, 2021
Monday, October 11, 2021
Scars
Scars
From a young age, I was told that I possessed a knack
for penning words onto paper. I must admit that I have always enjoyed writing
and expressing my emotions through the written word. Perhaps that is why I went
on to obtain both B.A. and M.A. degrees in English Literature and did a stint
of teaching on the collegiate level. But like anything else in life, our gifts
and skills will quickly become rusty with lack of use. Over the past two years,
I have had so many thoughts; thoughts that I both wanted and needed to share, and
I have had so many opportunities to pen those thoughts down on paper. Sometimes
I did, but most of the time I didn’t. For reasons that I can’t explain, I have failed
to write on a regular basis. As a result of this, both my personal blog and my
contributions to the Samson blog have been gravely neglected.
Last year, during the height of Covid, I decided that
I wanted to start riding a bicycle again so that I could join my young son in
riding around our neighborhood. Of course, as was the case with so many other
things, there was a nationwide bicycle shortage during the middle of the
pandemic in 2020. Although we did eventually find a bicycle for my wife to
ride, I could not locate a single men’s bicycle in the style or the size that I
wanted. There were simply no bicycles to be found anywhere. About that time, I
recalled that I had a derelict old Huffy hybrid bicycle left over from my
college days; it had been resting dormant in the corner of my shop for many
years. Through the years, my wife had often suggested that I should just get
rid of the bike; indeed, she could not understand why I was holding on to a dusty
vestige from my college days. But you know, the bike had (and still has) great
sentimental value to me as I had taken it with me during my two years in Arizona
and had ridden it all through the Grand Canyon National Park. So, I hauled the
bike out of the shop and took it to Bicycle Revolution in Gluckstadt where I
promptly proceeded to fork over nearly as much to overhaul the old wreck as I
would have paid for a brand-new low-end bicycle. Getting back on that bike was
like reuniting with a familiar friend; our reunion was a little rusty at first,
a little wobbly, and we were both a little uncertain of what to do with each
other for the first few moments. However, I quickly got up to speed and soon it
was like we had never been apart.
Or perhaps, rediscovering my love for writing will be more along the lines of opening a door or a window that has not been opened for many years. You know, when you first open that door or maybe the window, it will most likely refuse to open all the way might even make a terrible racket while trying to be persuaded. But the more you open it and close it (and maybe apply a little oil to it), it becomes smoother and easier to operate. This blog post is a “quasi-attempt” of sorts to re-launch my writing. A re-oiling of a squeaky and rusty mind if you will.
Fall has always been my most favorite time of the
year. I can most likely attribute this love of autumn to the fact that I started
my very first revolution around the sun on September 1, (I was born a Labor Day
baby many moons ago) and I was destined to be welcomed into the open arms of
fall. In any case, the arrival of my birth month always fills me with eager longing
for what I consider to be the most magical time of the year. As the blazing
summer sun slowly loses its brutal radiance and begins to give way to the
cooler autumnal wind, my soul instinctively begins to enter into a more
reflective season of life.
I have had, for many years now, the great privilege of
working for a small, private university. From an aesthetical standpoint, I
would argue that the campus possesses a timeless beauty carefully honed by the
generations of people who have lovingly cared for it; in any case, it just
feels like home after being here for so many years. I often enjoy slipping away
on my afternoon break or during the latter part of my lunchtime, and simply taking
a leisurely stroll around the campus. I am a natural-born people watcher, and I
love to observe people. Although I am not a shopper and I have not been to an
indoor mall in ages, I used to love to go with my family and just sit on the
bench in the middle of the mall and watch people pass by while my family shopped.
I love to watch the interactions between people and imagine who they are and
what they are in life. Similarly, I will sometimes simply sit down on the bench
in the middle of campus and observe the students rushing to class, oblivious to
anything or anyone around them. Sometimes
when the students aren’t so rushed, I enjoy watching their interactions with
one another as they pass by. Occasionally, I will take note of the lone
individual lost in their own ruminations while taking a lonely, singular stroll.
As the air begins to get crisper and the trees begin
to shed their leaves, I observe the piles of red and gold leaves that scatter
the landscape. In my head, the late, great Eva Cassidy’s voice begins to sing
as I think of my favorite song sung by her – Autumn Leaves. “The autumn
leaves drift by my window, the falling leaves of red and gold...”
Absentmindedly, I stop to pick up one of the leaves
and I slowly rub it between my fingers, noting the beautiful texture somewhat mottled
by spots of brown. I stop to pick up another one. Curiously, I hold them
side-by-side and observe that they are both unique and quite different from
each other. No two leaves are ever alike. Just like humans, the leaves have
tiny veins that give them life, and these veins create a web pattern that is intricately
designed and belongs only to that leaf.
As I hold the leaves in the palm of my hand, my
attention turns to my skin, which having completed its 40th orbit
around the sun some time ago, is starting to look less youthful than it once
did. Subconsciously, I stroke the scar on the palm of my left hand. It is a tiny
and nearly invisible mark born of a brief run-in with a box blade knife while on
the job during my years in Arizona. I remember that day, having to get stitches
in that hand because the gash was quite deep and painful. I remember that even
worse than having to get stitches was the humiliation of being required to take
a drug test because the accident happened while at work. Of course, it goes
without saying, that I was able to pass the drug test (as I always have) with
flying colors. No, the scar was a result of my own stupidity and carelessness
and not the result of some drug-induced stupor.
As my gaze moves up from my palm to my left forearm, I
note the faint, yet still, visible scar marring my skin. Fondly, I think back to
a childhood puppy, who in a moment of overexuberant puppy playfulness, got a tad
bit rough with the nips from her sharp puppy teeth and broke the young, tender
skin on my seven or eight-year-old body. As I look around on my arms and my
hands, I realized that there are other, smallish scars that are barely visible,
but nonetheless still there. I can’t even recall how I got most of them. Some
of them, like that scar on the palm of my hand, bear testimony to more
significant events in my life. Other smaller scars, however, don’t have any
significant event associated with them. Yet they still tell the story of a well-lived life.
As I continue my walk, I think about other scars on my
body. These scars are hidden for the most part and are less outwardly prominent.
They are hidden. That doesn’t mean the events associated with them were any less
painful. Hidden or not, they still tell a part of my story. Reflexively, my
hand begins to gently stroke my abdomen as I think about the 7-inch scar that
runs from the lower part of my chest to below my navel. I recall the day that
it happened. I think about how even though God saved my life at that point, the
extremely painful months that followed made me wish he hadn’t. In fact, I still
suffer from issues to this day related to the emergency surgery that caused
that scar. I am not ashamed of that scar; I will unabashedly take my shirt off
when I go swimming with my son in the summertime. If anyone ever notices, they
certainly don’t ask me about it, but I would never hesitate to talk about it if
they were to ask.
For some reason, a certain percentage of the male
population seems to think that scars are really cool. I am not included in that
percentage. I remember that upon my arrival back at work two weeks after my
emergency surgery, one particularly outspoken and bold male student worker (who
was a good guy nonetheless) asked me “so, Mr. Coleman, do you have a scar?” I
responded with “Yes, Tyler, I have a very large scar.” Tyler then proceeded to let
me know that my having a scar was “so cool” and that “chicks [apparently]
really dig scars!” Even though Mr. Coleman did not think it was “cool” at the
time, I politely smiled and told him “I’m glad you think so, Tyler! For the
record, I am married, and my wife doesn’t really dig it!” Fortunately, Tyler
did not ask me to show him the scar in question, as that would not have been
appropriate in a professional work environment!
Other scars are metaphorical in nature; these are
scars that live deep within our psyche or deep within the confines of our
hearts. I never really stopped to think about how each of us has emotional
scars, but it’s so true. Even if one has lived the most incredibly perfect
life, I would daresay that each person has at least one thing that is scaring
them below the surface. I never really gave much thought about that in my own
life, but those scars are there, nonetheless. They were just so glossed over
that I had almost forgotten that they existed. The last six or seven years in
Samson have taught me to be more introspective and to carefully examine myself
deep down into corners that I would much rather forget about. All this
introspection has re-exposed wounds that the scars had covered up for so many
years. And that is not cool at all. Or so I thought. And unlike my abdominal
scar that I have no problem displaying during the summer months, no one is ever
allowed to see those hidden scars.
Sometimes, I feel that it would have been much easier
to have gone through life making myself believe that everything was okay; in
fact, I know that it would have been easier. But then I wonder: where would I
be today? Would God be able to use me in the same way that he has in the past
few years? Only a couple of people, maybe a handful, within Samson know me and
know the scars that I bear. Of that handful, maybe one or maybe two know the
extent of and the depth of pain that still haunts me to this day. No one at my
church does. And that is a painful cross that I bear each week. It is a sore
subject and just might be the topic of a future Samson blog.
Scars cover wounds. They block pain. Within the first
few weeks after my surgery in 2015, I got a terrible wound infection. My body
could not begin the healing process until that wound was addressed and treated.
The scar couldn’t form. The staples couldn’t be pulled. How many people have
wounds inside that have never been addressed and treated? My scars inside are
new, born of very old wounds that have finally started to heal over the last
decade.
I don’t think scars ever go away. In fact, I know that
most of them don’t. My 33-year-old scar still exists to remind me of a long-gone but playful puppy. It is a memory. A moment in time. A month and a half
after my surgery in 2015, I visited with the surgeon’s nurse where she
proceeded to pull the 48 Staples out of my incision with a pair of surgical
pliers. Surprisingly, it didn’t even hurt all that much. Perhaps it was because
the scar tissue blocked the nerves from sending the pain signal to my body.
I remember meeting with my surgeon a few months after
my surgery for a follow-up, postop visit. As I met with the surgeon that day, I
thanked him for saving my life and told him what a blessing he had been. I then
asked him if my scar would ever go away. He said no, son, I don’t think so.
With you being such a fair-skinned white boy, I think that your scar will
always be quite visible. And it is. Even though that happened back in 2015, I
see it every day when I wake up and get dressed. I see it when I take a shower.
I see it when I go swimming in the lake with my son in the summertime. Even
though I sometimes want to be resentful of that ugly mark, God tells me that I
am to be thankful. Thankful for my scars. And so, I am. For me, that scar is a
beautiful sign of God’s grace and mercy in my life. It is a sign that he was
not finished with me at that time. It is a mark on the roadmap of my life. I am
sometimes tempted to be resentful of my eternal scars as well. But I am
learning to instead be grateful.
I will have to admit, that I have not always looked at
my inward scars as something beautiful. Most days I still struggle to accept
them. As Natalie Grant sings:
“I
see shattered
You
see whole
I
see broken
But
You see beautiful
And
You're helping me to believe
You're restoring me piece by piece”
Even if I still find those internal scars painful, God
still honors them and uses them, and he is helping me to believe that he is
restoring me piece by piece. One day, the scars will be gone. Both the outwardly visible, and the internally invisible scars will be gone. I will sit down, wrapped
in the arms of my savior, on a bench bathed in golden sunlight somewhere in a
new creation. I will look at my hands and look at my arms and they will be
completely unblemished. The scars will be no more.
I still have pain every day. These days, the physical
pain is not as bad as it used to be, but the emotional pain will never go away.
I have learned to accept that I just have to keep on pressing forward and rising
to face each new day. The scars will always be there. But they don’t define me
as much as they used to.
I slowly rise from the cool metal bench where I have
been sitting alone, having taken a brief pause from my walk. I daresay I can
detect a hint of the winter wind somewhere far off in the air. As I continue
with my walk and begin to make my way back towards my office, I drop the two
leaves that I have been holding in my hands. As I watch them drift slowly to
the ground; they flutter about in a fantastical dance orchestrated by mother
nature. They fall, destined to join the hundreds of other leaves littering the
landscape. Suddenly, a wind blows, a breath blowing life into the leaves, and
they begin to rise from the ground and swirl all around me. Oranges, reds, and
golds all mix brilliantly into a fall kaleidoscope. As the wind begins to pick
up steam, the leaves swirl faster and faster all around me. Big leaves and
little leaves are all inter-mixed, yet each is unique and different in its own way. Little
veins, little marks, little scars of sorts; each leaf is unique and created
individually by the creator’s hand. The older I get, the faster life seems to
move, much like the leaves swirling around me. Big people, little people, old
people, young people all quickly moving around me and all carrying their own
scars. Each has a story; perhaps, it is a story that we can learn from if we
only take the time.
“What
was dead now lives again
My
heart's beating, beating inside my chest
Oh
I'm coming alive with joy and destiny
'Cause
You're restoring me piece by piece”
Sunday, October 10, 2021
The Degree By Which Demographics Impact Relationships (Within Samson Society Or Otherwise)
Just how differently (if at all) do you think about / view the world / people around you if you have / do not have (either/or) a college degree? What if your Silas has zero higher education / a college degree but you do have a college degree (or multiple college degrees) / don't have any higher education? How might those opposing demographic descriptors impact your friendship? Knowing what we do of Christian men who find themselves in crisis, Samson Society may very well fit the bill, yet every man is unique. As such, there is no categorical recipe for men to both find themselves within crisis and in turn, step into our community. It is welcome to all. But over time, their demographic will no doubt become a part of their Samson Society narrative. And this is a good thing because that's in line with the spirit of transparency that our community is built upon, but over time, that (specifically demographic) narrative will predictably pigeonhole this man into his specific group.