Seventeen men, aged 23-73, attended the Jackson Area Annual Samson Retreat in Ocoee, Tennessee this weekend. From Thursday to Sunday there was fellowship, food, fun, farts, conflict (try getting 17 grown-ass-men to share two bathrooms and 1 kitchen without conflict) and conflict resolution. There were Paint-ball wars and White-Water Rafting. There was no cell reception (unless you wanted to hike up the hill, which I did not) but lots of connectivity. There was lots of snoring and not enough showers. There were laughter and tears.
But mostly we shared our stories.
Some guys are very familiar with their stories, and have done the hard work of recovery to excavate the layers of hurt and trauma that led to their addictions. Some guys were brand new to this. I heard stories I have heard before, but each time I hear a guy's story I hear something new. There were men I'd never met and stories I'd never heard. Our stories are like the Ocoee River, each time you step into it, it is new. The water on my feet is not the same as the last time, the rocks are in a different place. Our stories are the same. Each time I tell my story I discover something I had not seen before.
I heard stories of pain, heartache, betrayal, shame, guilt, sin, loss, and the lack of a father to initiate us into the masculine journey. There's nothing quite like blubbering like a baby in front of room full of grown-ass-men at 8:45 on a Friday morning, but that was me. And I wasn't even the one telling my story. And I didn't care. There is nothing quite like being present with other men as they seek to navigate life, their pain, their addiction, their redemption. It was an honor, and I was in tears.
The first time I told my story was to a similar group of men two and a half years ago. It had been three weeks since my wife had told me she was filing for divorce. I was raw, in denial about the gravity of my own situation, and what had brought me to this place. I desperately needed acceptance and validation. Most of the men in the circle were men I didn't know. I told my story, and was not met with the kind of response I had hoped. I came away feeling like my story (or at least the way I told it) was not worth repeating. I felt my sins weren't grand enough to be relatable. But my story is my story. I don't need to tell it better or worse than it truly is.
This weekend when I had opportunity to share, healing took place. James 5:16 says, "Confess your sins one to another, so that you may be healed." I always thought confessing my sin was a private thing between me and God, and there is some truth to that. I John 1:9 says "if we confess our sins to God, He is faithful and just to forgive us and cleanse us from unrighteousness." I had done that before, I had received forgiveness from God, but it wasn't until I started telling my story--confessing my sins one to another--that I received the kind of healing I needed to live in freedom and victory.
The main difference between my story this year and my story from 2019 was the audience. The story was primarily the same, but the guys I told it to are guys who have been walking closely with me all this time, and even from before (Max, not Max 2.0). They have listened to me struggle openly for several years now. They have walked this recovery journey with me. The affirmation and validation I received was not only comforting, it was liberating.
This was my first time to go on the Jackson Area Annual Samson Retreat, but I'm positive it won't be my last. If you didn't have the opportunity to go, then make sure you go next year! If you have no idea what I'm going on about then I highly recommend Pirate Monk Podcast Episode 325 "The Importance of Story With Chris Inman". Give it a listen.
Thanks for letting me share. I'm glad you're here.
Max Morton
May 2, 2022
Thank you for being honest Max
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