That First Foray Into The Notion Of The Supernatural

This post is going to address the specific entertainment culture of the '70s by allowing my memories (& amateur commentary) regarding television to narrate therein.   

If you were to turn back the clock to 1980, I would be 7 - 8 years old.  At that time, there were three broadcast TV networks.  CATV was just beginning to gain traction, but it wouldn't be 'till 4-6 years later that it became the de facto means to receive TV programming within the home (& thereby immediately expanding the number of / clarity therein of available channels).  Hence, over-the-air ABC, NBC & CBS (along with PBS) served up the American people with the only TV programming available, all of which was clearly time-slotted via age-propriety (& interestingly enough, there was typically no programming broadcast at all from midnight to 5 AM).  

Revenue garnered to these three networks was dependent on viewership.  How?  The higher the viewership, the more the networks could charge for advertising time (TV commercials).  Blue chip companies, in particular, relied on TV advertising's powerful influence on the American consumer to drive revenue. 

Keep in mind that EVERYONE watched TV during this era.  Especially primetime TV broadcasting.  Why?  The broadcast content was very entertaining (mostly via novelty), and it was "free".  Whether it was comedy, drama (soaps), sports or news, broadcast TV was the GO-TO solution.

As such, networks knew a lot of $$$ could be made not only from (qualified) high viewership numbers, but too, the demographic the TV programming was aimed towards (preferably white people with disposable incomes).  Combined, these two guaranteed advertising "real estate" that was priced at a premium.    

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The 1970s ushered in the era of supernatural horror, and this coalescence with pop culture paralleled our taste for music (heavy metal) as well as the slow embrace of / interest in all things pagan. 

As such, the '70s landed such film spectacles as The Exorcist and The Amityville Horror.  Even The Omen experienced deep seated cultural traction (that's still intact) as Americans tepidly (but reverently) filled the cinema seats en masse (from one end of the country to the other).  Young Americans, in particular, dominated ticket sales.  For these films (regarding their subject matter) were considered spectacle events and therefore were MUST SEE.  

The producers / directors / screenwriters of these supernatural horror classics were very rare finds.  To be adept at capturing the tone needed to terrify audiences took precise skill.  Otherwise, missing the mark by simply one degree may very well relegate a huge studio investment as derivative camp.  Therefore, despite the seismic cultural / monetary impact, sequels / franchise continuity were almost always massive failures.  Studios therefore eventually turned to new, more novel material.  And none other than a young, myopic fiction author, Stephen King (he was around 33-years old at the time), caught the attention of many a network executive.  

At this time, King's fanbase was blossoming despite the fact that his books were very lengthy.  This meant his stories played out slowly, allowing suspense, creepiness & dread to build chapter by chapter.  Plus, in order to enjoy his stories, you ACTUALLY HAD TO READ THEM.  Therefore, a certain level of intelligence / education was required of his audience.

Also, his horror stories were centered more on mood / tone and therefore tension versus standard tropes such as brutal murder / Satan's playground - ramped up exponentially for maximum shock value.

Besides, once the three aforementioned films were released, they instantly became milestones within our then cultural zeitgeist, and as you know, milestones are often touted - out of respect - but rarely truly lovingly revisited (thanks to their spent ambitions).

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Enter 'Salem's Lot.  This was King's second novel.  And it was perfectly written in light of TV's reach and ritual respect - at the time - within the American household.

'Salem's Lot did have one direct connection to the three aforementioned '70s horror milestones, and that was its focus on victimizing children.  Whether they were teens or elementary age, child characters were integral to the story.  Hence, whilst screening the 2-part TV movie version therein, viewers of all ages (late November of 1980) were horror-mesmerized by the shattered innocence integrated throughout the gratuitous content.  

In summary, the story of 'Salem's Lot is one of covert exploitation via an unassumingly viral-like exchange, leaving its assaulted victims enslaved to the MO of the initial host / infector (a small-town interloper).  That antagonist isn't revealed but for a very short stint (90-seconds total within the tail end of the TV movie), but alas, this / these brief scenes gave the audience sufficient shock to involuntarily empty their bladders with.

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Now let me remind you, once again, that I was around 7-years old in late November 1980 when 'Salem's Lot was broadcast (Saturday at 8 PM CST).  Because it was two parts, the network used two subsequent weekend time slots to cash in.  

I wasn't reared by parents who were all that more mature than your average teenager.  And this was due to their youth (they were in their late teens when they had Rob).  Plus, they'd both been reared in rural MS (my mother grew up impoverished).  Finally, neither had any real understanding of Scripture (my mother could barely read at this point).  And as a result, neither did I.

As such, watching network TV was THE ABSOLUTE Turner afternoon / evening centerpiece - no matter what day / night of the week it was.  I can remember vividly the "TV Guide" magazine always being prominently displayed on top of the stained walnut coffee table in our den.  But I digress...

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I've always been a highly visual male.  It's one of the primary motivators for me pursuing the career of architecture.  As such, certain TV / film programming, especially during my childhood, had a profound impact on my developing brain.

'Salem's Lot's narrative firmly planted the idea of being cursed and therefore recognizing one's inability to escape a certain dark fate, and in turn, sympathizing with the horror of watching those you care / love haplessly perish.  If you've ever read Poe's The Masque of the Red Death, you see the exact same theme except there it plays out within distinct waves.  

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When I look back on my life, I credit the gospel firstly with upending my cursed outlook, and from there, it was my wife.

Now, let me expound on the former.

When I reference the gospel, I'm referring mostly to the gospel lived out.  Demonstrated.  And mostly, of course, in and through adults that were either paid to or genuinely (or some combination of the two) cared for Rob.  If I were forced to list those, it would take pages and pages.  This is my good fortune.  I saw Christ in these supporting characters, and this powerfully drew me in.

My wife though is a whole different story.  For she willingly loved / loves me.  And this truly detonated a path forward for me that dismantled completely any musty misgivings of cursed(ness).  I could never disavow / discount owning her gaze and allegiance and perpetual trust.  This served as a powerful reminder of God's love for me.

For I'm telling you, I knew even as a small child that Satan was real and that he was intent on taking me down.  How did I know this?  Mostly through dreams but also via what always felt like the makeshiftedness of my 3-person family.  A family that put so much of its faith (like so many others of this era) in the ongoing cultural novelty of the status quo.  For I knew that video entertainment wasn't anything more than such, but it was its influence (on my young brain) that was lost on me as to how best to manage.  

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So here we are.  Fall of 2024.  A lot of time has passed since 1980.  

'Salem's Lot will very soon be released as a feature film.  On TV, no doubt.  I've watched the trailer dozens of times and even gone back to YouTube to watch fanatical pieces pertaining to the original 1980 TV production.  

As a result, my 7-year-old self has been stirring deep within the recesses of my grey matter.

And it's been so very emotive and opportunistic in terms of truly sitting with my boyhood self.  

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A few weeks back, I screened a horror film with my middle school daughter (who also is a highly visual person).  And just so you know, the film is a courtroom drama firstly (this child has a noteworthy interest in the practice of law).  Hence, my justification.  

But it is a very disturbing film (as all great horror films are).

So disturbing in fact that she slept with me afterwards (& we only screened the first 50 minutes).  

But, as you know, there's a big difference in age 7 and 14.  Nonetheless, we spent (& have continued to spend) mucho time discussing said film (at least the portion we've watched) in anticipation of finishing it off.  

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Evil exists.  Humanity truly is cursed.  Our comprehension of secure shelter for ourselves is misguided.  This world of woe is overseen by Lucifer.  Those are genuinely frightening truths.  Especially to helpless children.

But...

There's an assemblage of humanity that's been predestined to survive this wretched curse.  But not by our wits or sacrifice or resistance.  By favor.

For though evil is manifest, God is ineffable, and his propinquity is not unlike the very air we breathe.  

In closing, as young King David boasted about in 1 Samuel, our God is living.  

Vampires, in so many ways, depict Satan almost too well.  As the undead who feast on the hapless living for survival, their very existence is cursed.  

There's one misgiving though regarding this analogy.  Children get a pass 'till they're mature enough to be considered accountable to an understanding of the gospel.  Picture a lei of garlic cloves hanging 'round their necks as a sign of their judgement day immaturity.  Perhaps that's why these tales are all that more harrowing.       

My Wife's Limp

Rarely does my sweet wife use her left hand to move her lovely salt & pepper hair out of her face.  Instead, she uses her right hand.  Why?

She can't naturally reach her hair with her left hand due to her left arm's post stroke condition.  Too, she can't feel her hair with her left hand (even if she could reach it easily).  

If you observe her using her left hand to touch her hair (as I did over the weekend), it's awkward.  For her forearm won't bend naturally at her elbow as it should.  Instead, it's stilted or hung up at the joint.  As if her elbow were locked tight at a certain angle.

When she walks, her gait is biased towards her right side.  Therefore, her stride is more of a left leg drag than a true symmetrical rhythm like we're used to seeing.  

Because Angie doesn't have lengthy legs, her limp isn't nearly as noticeable.  Were she built more like my oldest daughter, it would be undeniable.  

Another deficit is her inability to jump or run at any pace.  If you were to ask her to do either, she'd laugh at the request.

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When I befriended Angie in high school, she was the most delicate female soul I'd ever encountered.  In line with that was her class and her intelligence, but her core attribute was this virgin saintliness that was so very inspiring / attractive.  Never had I met anyone so fragile yet so compelling.

Angie loves Jesus firstly.  A close second to Jesus is her love for the church.  

Our church, Lakeside Pres, has never had Sunday evening church services.  Angie bemoans this missed opportunity.  For though she's been to church on Sunday morning, she loves the idea of returning for more six hours later.  

This is just how she is and always has been.

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I am and have never been ashamed to have a wife who's physically disabled.  She and I are closer than we've ever been throughout these 28-years of marriage, and much of that is a result of her willingness to allow me to serve her well post stroke.  

How?

Physical stuff for one, such as housework, yard work.  But then too, we've only had intercourse thrice since May 29, 2020.  And I'm not embarrassed to type that.  Most middle-aged couples (with a disabled spouse or not) have very little / much less interest in sexual activity compared to their childbearing / rearing years.

Being physical / doing physical is a reminder of her deficits, therefore we forgo that to make room for other things that are just as / if not moreso (for us) unifying.

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What's so very sobering is really taking the time to acknowledge Angie's limp.  And I did that this past Saturday, (9/7) whilst at our daughters' college campus.  We spent the majority of the day there, traversing (on foot) from one section to another (& back again) in light of their football team's first home game. 

For when I take the time to observe, I see her, once again, as a teenager.  Fragile.  Vulnerable.  And this makes me very, very emotional. 

If you know me at all, you know that I feel at 150% when I allow myself to.  But even when that's intentionally throttled back, compared to most, I'm hypersensitive to emotional states.  And I've grown to love this about myself.

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In closing, Samson Society meetings have been unique Petri dishes for me to hone these sensitivity gifts.  I've done so simply by listening / observing - just as everyone else does - but with my heart completely open.

For I know the shares will be raw and not relegated to critique as we observe each other in kind.  Step by limp by step.          

Recommended Reading / Rob's Cycle of Porn

The Cycle of Pornography | Evidence Unseen

My first encounter with porn (late elementary school) occurred at my uncle's apartment.  I was around 4-5th grade, and it was my cousin (my uncle's son - an only child like me) who exposed me to his father's Penthouse magazines. Even then, it was the male models that I was drawn to the most.  Nonetheless, I was so curious as to what sex / sensuality was.  These soft-lensed, exquisitely photographed pictorials fueled my desire to learn more.  I remember masturbating in the hall bathroom after my cousin and I had "had our fill".  I loved the powerful arousal that occurred via these photos (tied to the clandestine investigation) which in turn made the climaxes that much moreso unbelievable.  

Looking back, I had no idea what was truly going on due to being brought up in such a vacuum-of-sexual-information-household.  Nonetheless, what I did know was I too (as a human being) was "wired for sex", therefore it felt imperative that I take these opportunities to learn / feel as much as possible in this regard.

In a nutshell, this was simply prepubescent curiosity mixed with availability of explicit sexual material.  Did it lay groundwork for being captivated (in bondage) outright down the road?  I don't believe so.  That all grew out of the shame / loneliness I was experiencing as a targeted middle school faggot / loner.

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7th and 8th grade were tremendously difficult for Rob.  I was miserable and as a result, had to lay low at school.  I began fantasizing regularly about being pursued by older men (sexual relationships), and the most shame-filled fantasies of them all involved my youth pastor.  There was no precedent for this.  I'd not been molested outright, though in so many ways, the abject void of masculine affirmation qualified in and of itself.  

Young men must have the masculine affirming they deserve to develop into healthy men.

I had no older (or younger) brothers.  There wasn't a dad (Robert, Sr.) that had any semblance as to what healthy, customized masculine affirming looked like (much less a desire to participate therein).  I loathed team sports and scouting.  All of this added up to me literally being on my own.

In light of this, I stuck to comic books and music, eventually joining the poor excuse of a marching band (clarinet & later drum major) that was available to me at Madison-Ridgeland Academy.  Our entourage was a sad joke, but thanks be to God, there was some semblance of a loser community for me to fall back on.  

As my secondary education marched forward, I couldn't help but observe select other young men become hardened, successful athletes.  As such, I took the step of including them within my sexual fantasies.  This made things more personal and far more lowbrow within my mind (considering their relational closeness to me).  

As such, these homosexual fantasies became my go-to daily elixir for how inept I felt as Rob.  Rinse & repeat.  Rinse & repeat.

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During high school, I had no problem making friendgirls, and many, if not most, were interested in pursuing a romantic relationship.  But, at this point, I was now using salacious print material to homofantasize (in the form of wall calendars, greeting cards, men's exercise mags).  All of this material, I consistently looked to catalog privately as I became more and more captivated by masculine beauty.  By far, it was the most compelling visual find of my young existence (exponentially accelerated in potency relative to my ongoing private self-loathing).

Again, there was such the void of knowledge pertaining to what was out there regarding this seemingly intangible subject.  And I craved for more and more of that knowledge.  This too cannot be discounted.

If I've ever been addicted to anything, it was during this stage of my life, and my addiction was to what I perceived as masculine.

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Strength training was key to me putting a toe in the water of masculine self-affirmation.  It was during my last year of college.  I was living with Bob & Darlene as I was completing my 5th year of architecture school (in Jackson) at Mississippi State University.  I'd asked my parents to purchase me a beginner's (youth) strength training set in high school from Service Merchandise.  It consisted of a cushion bench (w/ a bolted on leg lift attachment), one barbell and one dumbbell.  The plastic weights were sand-filled.  A tri-fold instruction booklet, printed in black-&-white accompanied this '80s novice exercise kit-of-parts.  

Four months of using this rudimentary equipment (thrice weekly) along with sit-ups and pushups - down on the cut pile carpeted floor of my bedroom worked wonders.  It truly was miraculous.

Why?  Because it consisted of personal, private affirming at its finest.  All in tandem with me myself gaining muscle mass steadily.  For once in my young man life, I felt some semblance of pride whilst seeing my reflection in the mirror.  

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At this same time, I began dating my future wife.  Not long after our engagement, I confessed to having a serious "interest" in pornography, but the hardest part was divulging my homofantasy life (to both her and my parents) and how it had sprung out of a deep-seated loathing of my masculine self (this had not been difficult to figure out).

What was super convenient for me was how similarly crippled my future father-in-law (girlfriend's dad) was.  Hence, my fiancé had been reared by a father who was not all that much different - intrinsically - than I was.  This served (along with my commitment to therapy), I believe, as a bridge that moved us confidently towards marriage.  

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Not long after our wedding day, the Internet came on the scene.  

Oh.  My.  Gosh.  What a nightmare that was.

It was like moving a drunk (me) into a liquor store.  And not any liquor store but one where any and all forms of liquor could be conjured up on demand.  For free.  And placed in the palm of your / my hand.

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The adult (explicit) - content now available via the Internet should have been sequestered.  Adult (explicit) - content allowed over here / no adult (explicit) - content allowed over here.  But no one asked Rob.  

Instead, it was one big free-for-all.  Everything and anything you could imagine, readily available, so long as you had an Internet capable device / browser.  And this was how the adult content producers wanted it.  For they knew that the more (& younger) eyes they exposed to their explicit smut, the more deeply entrenched their wares would become within the viewers' psyches. This, of course, would then drive demand for more as the captivation concretized. 

Before long, so many (mostly men) were absolutely epidemically infected by this newfound ease-of-access-to digital smut.  Including me.  For it tapped into (& subsequently reanimated) my childhood coping mechanism.  A mechanism that in so many ways was no longer needed or wanted at this stage of my young adult life.

Therefore, this was its true wretchedness:  the monumentally tremendous unneeded / unwanted / unwarranted stress on me / my young marriage for such a time as this.

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Curiosity also played a sizable role in my steady return to gay porn.  The Internet served me well in this capacity.  For there was an endless supply of new photos / videos.  All I had to do was search for "hairy muscle men" & voila!

Who knew there was so much historical smut out there for consumption!  Colt Studio Group was my instant go-to.  Especially in regard to "vintage" Colt.  Seeing gay porn from the '80s was especially profound.  For this was the decade of my youth.  How unusual it was to reckon with the fact that all of this smut was being created on the west coast throughout my adolescence in Mississippi.  Who'd a thunk?

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I sat down with a therapist at First Baptist Church Jackson in the early '00s, spilling my story and asking for help as it pertained to my being captivated by online gay porn.

I'd known this therapist / pastor since I was a boy.  He poured his encouragement into me, and for a while, I felt immensely strengthened.  But his words weren't enough.  

What made the first distinct difference in my battle was connecting intimately with another man who pursued me for who I was outright.  

Let me repeat that.

What made the first distinct difference in my battle was connecting intimately with another man who pursued me for who I was outright.  

Who was I exactly?

1.  Christian

2.  Husband

3.  Father

4.  Same-sex attracted

5.  Intelligent

6.  Athletic

7.  Articulate

8.  Loyal

And so forth.

This man amounted to being my first Silas.  And he was perfectly suited to Rob back in 2009.  

He allowed me to healthily bask in the love of masculine affirmation.  He did so via words and touch and so much steadfastness (listening ear).

During the core 10-months of that friendship, I consumed not one iota of gay porn.  This was a monumental achievement / breakthrough for me.  I had found my antidote.

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Fast forward to my inclusion into Samson Society in 2014.

My first (official) Silas (1.0) had so many similarities to this aforementioned, pre-Samson Society friend.  And though the pursuit was short-lived, it confirmed my suspicions.

If gay porn's grip was to be permanently loosened, I had to find men who'd affirm my individualistic masculinity.  And preferably, I needed it to occur in-person.  For their physical energy / aura was needed for me to receive the healing I so desired.

I became then a vigilante advocate for myself.  Any opportunity to receive, I gravitated towards.  So often men would believe they were simply being pursued (by Rob) in relation to their need(s), when in reality, it had nothing to do therein.  It was all about me and my needs.  For me to be friendly was easy.  But before long, when the stars aligned, intimate connection would occur.  Perhaps via a gesture or touch.  Maybe a short exchange of verbiage - heated or gentle.  But, in the end, I was exposed to that soft underbelly that so few were / are given the opportunity to see.  And it was that emotional energy that I drank down like dilithium crystals powering a warp core. 

This resulted in an instant leveling up for Rob.  For I was keenly aware of how privileged I was to experience those delicious, etched-in-my-long-term memory relational moments.

As such, my mantra eventually became (within Samson Society) to serve oneself wholeheartedly.  

In closing, make this place about you and your needs being met.  All in tandem with your deep desire to tamp down (& ultimately defeat) the morally bankrupt captivation (sexually explicit material, chemical, etc.) that's established / hardened itself within your mind.  

This is my personal rallying cry.  Because it's worked wonders for me.  

In closing, I will forever be on the prowl.  Hunting my next opportunity to be seen by men who are willing to take the time to know me outright.  Warts & all.

Intimacy With Men Lives On Via Memory & Technology

Sledge's birthday is 2024's Memorial Day.  Leading up to his birthday, each year, I re-listen to his audio journals & re-read his personal analytical work that he so fearlessly sent my way back in 2018.  Sledge was 28 at the time, and I was 45.  We'd met due to his willingness to step into the Samson Society meeting I facilitated at Lakeside Pres.  At the time, lust was a sizable part of his life, and he'd found himself convicted therein whilst hearing a mutual friend of ours share his testimony (prior to referring his audience to Samson Society).

Sledge needing psychotherapy and likely meds for clinical depression, but this wasn't apparent to me initially.  Instead, what jarred my attention (whilst parlaying my analytical thinking), to the massive degree that it did, was just how head-over-heels enamored he was of Rob from the moment we met.

Why did this matter?

Sledge loathed MS.  Everyone in MS.  Except for me and a woman at work that he'd grown fiercely attracted to.  This combined with his brilliance made for quite the enigma.  

So, how did he end up here within the Butt Crack of the USA?  Essentially, his relentless efforts to climb the corporate ladder begrudgingly brought him here.

At this time, Sledge was newly married and actively working to reproduce (he & his sweet wife already had one offspring). Regarding his spouse, I'm fairly certain she knew her husband was mentally ill (she was a healthcare worker) yet was too afraid to put it into words.  For Sledge had a razor-sharp tongue and zero tolerance for criticism from anyone sans using it in kind.  Plus, they'd tried couples therapy to no avail.  Nonetheless, she gave him what he seemed to care amount mostly.  Her desire for sex.  And this he obliged from her with absolutely zero resistance.  For Sledge received seemingly otherworldly amounts of affirmation via cunninlingus / vaginal intercourse.

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It was around this time of year (early summer) when I headed to south AL for 5th / 6th grade church camp.  This was a weeklong affair at a humble venue containing absolutely zero out-of-the-ordinary (from what I was used to in MS) natural beauty whatsoever.  It was a flat, forestry landscape with a relatively small lake.  Therein, each humble building was interconnected via gravel path / road.  

It was only our church, First Baptist Church Jackson, that participated, therefore there were no opportunities to intermingle / befriend with fresh faces.  In total, around 30-40 boys & girls were present for this scorchingly hot summer break week.

The year was 1985.  Van Halen's game-changing album had just come out (in fact, they'd even performed in Jackson at the MS Coliseum).  It defined this era pertaining to what it meant to be a young white male.  

During the late evening of the day we arrived at the church camp, I headed to the communal bathroom, there within the boys' bunkhouse, to brush my teeth.  Mid-way through my brushing, I heard the lone shower (that was being used) turn off.  When the curtain was raked violently across the rod, our collegiate chaperone, Dan, put his wet, naked bod nonchalantly on display.

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Sledge's audio journals were meticulously narrated / recorded.  The degree of vulnerability within is unlike any Samson deliverable I've ever received (& I've received A LOT of deliverables over the past decade).  

When I first listened to them back in 2018 (immediately following their gifting), the density of the recordings was too much for me to process with any real foresight / diligence.  That, along with how positively intimate they were, short-circuited my understanding of just how needy this young man truly was at the time.

It was almost like seeing him too (through that 1985 wall mirror) naked and wet, right there behind me, for such a time as that.  As such, I did what I only knew to do.  Smile awkwardly and continue forward with my teeth cleaning routine.

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Dan's collegiate frame was awe inspiring.  Both his impressive height and muscular build classified him as intimidating.  Not to mention the thick sandy brown chest and stomach hair that added years of maturity to his 22-year-old self.

And then there was his junk.  

Let's just say, I didn't even know where to begin to process what rested there moistly between this stranger's legs, though when I now come across Ezekiel 23, it easily harkens back.  

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Sledge's upbringing hadn't been normal, and he was just beginning to truly wrestle with the ramifications of that truth.  I could not relate to his growing up years for it all seemed so pejorative.  Particularly considering how intelligent / grounded his parents seemingly were.  

And then from there, his college girlfriend (who eventually became his wife) allowed him to become her dorm room fuck buddy.  And this went on "out of spite" (according to Sledge) in light of their parents' desire to see them complete their higher ed prior to marriage.  

What served as icing on the cake though was the fact that Sledge's dad was a pastor.  A devout, average-sized congregational pastor who loved both his wife and three children immensely.

At this time, Sledge was wondering out loud about pivoting and becoming a pastor himself.

And here I was just standing there at the sink minding my own business...

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Throughout my life, I've never ceased relishing the memory of seeing our collegiate chaperone's freshly showered physique, there on private display, in all of its glory.  For though I'm certain there've been plenty of greater than or equally beautiful men for me to admire, my unexpected exposure to him, at such an impressionable age, taught me such the important lesson.

Timing is everything.  Therefore, be alert.  Some of the most (eventually) fruitful & memorable experiences of one's life may very well occur when you're least expecting it.    

Lagniappe

Rob's (Adolescent) Self-Pleasure Hidey Hole

You've heard the trope.  "I'm taking / claiming sanctuary / asylum here within the church house".   

During the previous US President's administration, a number of illegal immigrants took this approach (as a last resort to being deported).  

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When I was in high school, my family faithfully attended First Baptist Church Jackson.  At this time (1989-1990), the church had just completed a massive Fellowship Hall / Sunday School classroom addition.  This was a multi-story building (5-6 floors) which served to (architecturally) completely fill the urban city block (immediately to the east of the State Capitol Building) the church resided within in downtown Jackson.

Oftentimes, on a typical Sunday morning, I would drop my parents off at one of the church's many covered drop offs prior to parking their car (in light of us inevitably running late).  We lived in Madison (in the country!) in an average-sized ranch house, therefore the drive to our downtown Jackson church was a very repetitive (boring) +/-25 minutes.  

All of my peers that were also - for the most part - faithful churchgoers (11th / 12th grade Sunday morning) went to other schools than I did.  And these schools weren't just different than my own, they were far better (academically superior) than my own.  

I especially loathed arriving on-time to Sunday School and having to endure the dead space prior to the class starting.  For everyone knew each other from their school(s), therefore in spite of their late-night grogginess, small talk came easily for them.

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At this time, I knew I wanted to pursue architecture as a college degree / career field.  As such, this interest empowered me to explore buildings with an "eye for design" / out of curiosity.  

Not long after the massive Sunday School / Fellowship Hall addition was occupied by the church, I took the time to explore it from stem to stern.

This afforded me the opportunity to find some "off the beaten path" one-hole restrooms that were perfectly suited to steal away to.

And this became my cathartic routine.  Every Sunday morning.  Prior to Sunday School.  

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This was me rebelling against a situation that I felt powerless against.  Having to repetitively face the uncomfortableness of Sunday morning (high school Sunday School) stood in stark contrast to my budding desire (as a new believer) to learn about God's word / be at church.  For I had no doubt that I had been positioned well, particularly at that age, to reap tremendous spiritual growth via First Baptist Church Jackson.  

To expound on that word powerless, let me offer up the following.

My parents were attending this church, at this particular time, due to their fierce loyalty to it.  This loyalty was borne out of the love and care they experienced whilst being ushered / invited into this fold as a (very) young (not at all locally sourced) couple.  From there, just a few years passed before my dad found himself as an (very young) ordained deacon.  This too solidified their place amongst the Protestant throngs within this thriving '80s mega-church.

I wasn't about to complicate the situation / rock the boat by voicing my frustration related to one dumb weekly hour of Sunday School.

Yet...

each rebellious sexual-fantasy-fueled act seeded my Sabbath day conscious with immense guilt.  And even though I would regularly find myself consistently tardy to my assigned high school Sunday School class (way up on the 5th floor), no one seemed to notice.

For I was Rob Turner.  That effeminite-acting (gay?) kid from Madison who went to that outlier private school.  

Who sincerely gave a shit about him anyway?  Especially amongst the dressed-to-the-nines northeast Jackson throngs.

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Fast forward to today.

Angie and I attend Lakeside Pres.  Of note, for almost four years, I facilitated an in-person Samson Society meeting there on Saturday mornings.  It was a wonderful opportunity that's imbued a tremendous amount of loyalty of my own towards that church.  The facilities at Lakeside Pres are lackluster.  Hence, there's simply not enough church building to properly accommodate the church body (I am keenly aware of this due to my background as an architect).  It's the exact opposite of what Angie and I experienced at First Baptist Church Jackson (growing up) where space was plentiful / thoughtfully designed to accommodate / serve that '80s church.

I really enjoy Bible study.  Sunday School is one of my favorite ways to delve in.  The class we've been attending for a few years now found its origin as an offshoot of a much larger class.  Today, this class is bursting at the seams (considering the room we're assigned to).  Plus, it's simply starting to feel stale / repetitive in spite of the quality teaching / friendliness of the group (Rob's blue ocean itch).

Yesterday, Angie and I agreed to take a bit of a sabbatical from Sunday School (only) in order to think through and pray about where God might lead us next relative to Sunday morning Bible study.  

Within this class, we're very well known.  And mostly due to how unabashed I am at providing commentary / asking questions.  Therefore, it's become a very, very comfortable experience amongst very familiar friends.  

But, it's important to remember that God is good and effectively orchestral.  

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I workout at the Y twice weekly.  The facility I frequent typically hosts middle to Medicare-aged folks (relatively speaking).  Over the past few years though, there've been a handful of high school boys who've become faithful gymgoers.  This generational variety has been welcomed wholeheartedly.  

Presently, one young man has been very regular for close to one year.  

I introduced myself to him late last year, and from there, it's been delightful to know him on a first name basis (though we rarely speak if he's there with his posse).

A month or so ago, I overheard that he was slated to move away, and I confirmed this with him last week.  

My heart hurts for him.  I can't imagine having had to start fresh as an 11th grader in an entirely new place / setting.  Particularly where he knows no one.

I had him try on my workout gloves this past Saturday in hopes that my size would fit him too.  It didn't.  

I have two unboxed pairs (my size) at the house, and I'd hoped to gift him one - as a wellwisher gift.  

Unfortunately, this particular glove is no longer made, therefore purchasing a smaller size - for him - is off the table.

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Powerless is a feeling that I keenly sympathize with.  In fact, I'd argue it's a bit of a theme of my life that's rooted squarely in my teenage years.

Nonetheless, God is good and effectively orchestral.  I believe that with all my heart.  

Feeling powerless doesn't mean we necessarily are.  God is good and effectively orchestral.  He is always advocating on our behalf as his adopted sons.

That being said, especially whilst considering our inner child, those negative feelings can effectively disrupt / hijack our intentions if opportunity presents itself.

Utilizing Unresolved Familial Baggage To Perpetuate / Justify A Rudderless Life / Existence (With Much Rubble By The Wayside). Recognizing How Easy It Is To Establish An Identity For Identity's Sake.

Growing up Southern Baptist, I recall vividly (as a teen) one particular pastor chiding us parishioners (First Baptist Church Jackson) from the pulpit with, "Do you know that you know that you know?" 

He was referring / speaking to what he considered to be the Christian imposters, sitting there amongst the throngs (or perhaps the Christian amnesiacs?).

It was a question that was laser-focused on his listeners' personal profession of faith, but via wordy distortion, it instead landed underneath the umbrella of emotional petulance (angst).  And as a result, most every mature adult (had they been honest) simply wished to stand up and walk out due to how patronizing (& cultish) it sounded. 

I believe it's important to note that this nagging orator not at all looked the part of Southern Baptist pastor.  And I recall distinctly that his voice was incredibly baritone and therefore rich (& chocolatey)-sounding.  Perhaps that was what served to soft-land his stupid pitch?  For this repetitive verbiage was his mantra.  No matter the sermon, it would be repeated ad nauseum (mostly at the tail end prior to the altar call). 

In a nutshell, whilst looking back, this pastor had a distinctly inaccurate view of our Heavenly Father that he'd perpetuated in line with his own identity.  In short, I have to assume that he felt that it suited him specifically, therefore he allowed its credence to shape / instruct / inform who he was outright as a preacher man.  As a result, this distortion resulted in his reliably odorous pulpit delivery.

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Anyone who has common sense will remember that the bewilderments of the eye are of two kinds, and arise from two causes, either from coming out of the light or from going into the light, which is true of the mind's eye, quite as much as of the bodily eye.

There are a lot of low intelligence individuals in Mississippi.  I've said this before.  

Here's the sad truth:

Low intelligence folks are hard pressed to live their lives beneath the banner of delayed gratification.  This combined with the inability to analyze their familial history / narrative constructively (if at all), leaves them like cultural "sitting ducks".

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Okay, having written those two sections, I'm going to attempt to tie all this in a neat bow by focusing on the sometimes-difficult coupling between both of these: delayed gratification and analytical skills (assuming moderate to above-average intelligence).  From there, I want to explain what I sometime see happening when we allow our fundamental desire for a stark / distinct / foundational identity to take precedent over process.

If you're a southern boy in lieu of a Midwesterner or out-westerner, community standards aren't going to scream ONLY EXCELLENCE RESIDES HERE.  That "low bar" combined with haphazardly "knowing" how to analyze versus taking the needed time to do so (well / thoroughly), can result in an identity that's an identity for identity's sake.  As a result, I would argue, individuals end up much worse off - in the long run - cross eyed.  

And this is because those identities are false.  And yes, even if they're off by just one degree, they're still false.

The preacher / evangelist I cited earlier had an identity rooted in a Jesus that simply wasn't the Jesus of Scripture.  Yet, he pressed on with his dumbass message in light of the obvious, all the while confusing / frustrating the masses every time he opened his big mouth (in spite of that rich voice).  

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There are plenty of teens who stay frustrated with their family of origin.  And oftentimes, this frustration is justifiable.  Families aren't perfect.  They disappoint.  They fall short.  Sometimes they do terrible things that result in tremendous hurt to the everyone (w/ the concentrated hurt falling on the children).  

And none of this should be ignored.

But if an adult child has the intelligence to respectfully / historically analyze (perhaps with some therapeutic assist), having lived through it, I would argue that in due time (sometimes taking FAR LONGER than one cares to commit to), clarity can be had.  

Answers to questions such as:

-  Who exactly are my individual family members?

-  Who were those who influenced them?

-  What role did I play within the family dynamic?

-  How will the answers to the first three questions within this list play a role in my own identity?

-  How do I see myself, going forward, as I continue to mature forward into adulthood?

-  What can my family look like in spite of my upbringing?

These are a great analytical jumping off point.    

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I look at friends of mine who've established a false identity (for identity's sake), and I so often cringe at the informalness (not at all striving for excellence) approach to living out (a portion of, if not most of) their lives.  

And this approach can, depending on the individual, perhaps only "infect" certain areas of their identity.  Maybe it's their job or their relationship with their spouse that's at the mercy of this biased (false identity) approach. 

Speaking personally, I believe I've been able to spot this approach with ease due to a deceased uncle's tragic legacy within my own family.    

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How do you know if you fall into this camp (harboring an identity for identity's sake)?

I have to believe that (taking into account those of us who're blessed with ample grey matter) it's not genuinely satisfying to live a life that's half baked.  Just as it's never going to be permanently affecting preaching a gospel that's distorted and pushy. 

And I realize that some individuals simply refuse to fully process the tremendous hurt they experienced as children, therefore they rebelliously build their identity on that shaky void.

Nonetheless, it's foolish for anyone with half a brain (& an assumed healthy mental state) to buy into this half-assed, discounted settling.  For it's a settling that perpetuates generational failing forward.  

Remember, you can't hide true intelligence.  Therefore, if you're a Christian as well, and fall into this camp, I would argue that in many ways, you're actually worshiping an internal idol.  An idol of false identity that likely moved in during a season of your development (adolescence?) where it's tangibleness seemed to do far more regarding your need to heal than it actually was / ever could.  

Be encouraged to evict it today and seek out the help you need to do the necessary analytical work to find your true identity (in Christ).  And please, for goodness' sake, be patient with the process.  

You will get there eventually.  And perhaps Samson Society can help.

Lagniappe

Either Remove Yourself From The "Handful" Or HOLD ON 'Till Opportunity Presents Itself To

 

This thought-provoking illustration could easily be a reference piece of an imaginative Hollywood screenwriter.  Perhaps he / she's dreaming up yet another misunderstood villain (antihero?) for us his purported audience to love / hate.  

Think of the Beth Dutton, JR Ewing, Brenda Walshes specifically, and you'll understand where I'm coming from.

They're a lot more interesting to watch than Fred Rogers, aren't they?

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Television characters must exist on a disproportioned spectrum of reality.  This is an outgrowth of theater where everything must be larger-than-life to truly be entertaining / keep the audience's attention.

But what gives when you find yourself living alongside one (or more) of these?  Where do you go from there?

You know the answer to that one.  Get the hell out of dodge.

Let's discuss the harder part of this equation.  Preparing yourself to face these folks.  Identification is key.

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My closest female friend in high school, Shannon, was one year my senior.  She was very mature for her age and quite the contrarian when it came to both her style and interests.  Shannon came from an upper-class family whereas I was very much middle-class.  Her (Golden State) mother had remarried her attorney (Magnolia State) father after losing her first husband (Navy sailor) in a tragic submarine vanish.  Both Shannon and her younger brother came from that second betrothal.  This now blended family (her mother had birthed two daughters from her first husband) was one I always found intriguing to hang with as a teen for they were SO VERY unlike any other family I was close to.  

And that unlikeness was spearheaded by Shannon's mom.  A typical Mississippi suburban mom of the 1980s she was most definitely not.  It was always a bit intimidating engaging with Jolene, even in passing (& I was by no means a shy teen).  She was so intelligent, opinionated and articulate.  The complete opposite of the familiar folksy, sweet and cornpone.

But I digress...

Shannon had an admirer who was two (or maybe three) years her junior at our small private academy.  This younger girl was also in the marching band with Shannon (& I) even though she was only in middle school at the time.  

It became immediately apparent to everyone that this young admirer was not at all well as it pertained to her admiration (obsession) of Shannon.  For her behavior towards herself, Shannon and everyone else became unusually out of character for a middle-school girl.  

How Shannon coolly handled this younger girl was absolutely empowering to witness.  It was as if my friend literally had been born to navigate the relational dangers / complexities she'd found herself now saddled with.  

I still look back on that with intrigue (as well as heartache).  In the end, the younger girl was removed from school and institutionalized.  Post release, she thankfully didn't return ot our small school.  Nevertheless, I admired Shannon that much more for what she'd endured and modeled with such civility / compassion towards this junior (high) admirer.  

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Shannon immediately identified her relationship with this younger girl as problematic.  Especially so considering her somewhat "forced proximity" to her (fellow schoolmate / marching band member).  From there, she did everything she could to shield herself from the girl.  Much of her strategy consisted of fencing herself in via healthy, supportive friends.  

But firstly, the miracle herein was her deep-seated sense of self protection versus what you might typically see from a female teen (manipulation, harassment, pandering, entitlement) who was the subject of said emotional (& eventually physical) stalking.  

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Your well-being matters firstly.  Even when you're tempted to compromise that in return for some prospective future reward / promotion / solidification / gratification.  It's important to remember that.  No matter the "rank" / position of family / friends / employers / leaders within your sphere of influence (or theirs), the most important consideration is your health firstly.  For you cannot walk back stupid.  For stupid is a past tense verb. 

In closing, if it's not feasible to physically fence yourself in with healthier relations in light of the unhealthy influence, take the time to do so with God's spirit BEFORE engaging with the "handful".  You most certainly can figuratively get the hell out of dodge via the Lord blanketing you throughout.  Bank on that, don't lose hope.       

A Hard Funeral(s) To Sit Through

Out of respect for my father, I attended a funeral (unrelated to family) today.  This wasn't the first time I'd done this.  When I was in high school, I attended a funeral with him.  I remember it clearly, for the deceased had killed himself via suicide, leaving behind a boy who was only one or two years older than I (the boy went to my high school and the divorced dad had attended church with us).  

That was my first hard funeral due to the tragedy tied to the cause of death.

This one today was tough, but mostly it had to do with the tragic, longstanding narrative tied to the deceased's family life.  

The pastor who officiated (who was a family friend of the deceased) beat the drum of his dead mentor "loving Jesus" to the maximum.  We mourners heard this over and over again.  All the while, everyone there knew the dead man, nor his family members had not darkened the door of the church in decades.  And the setting clearly spoke to this dichotomy.  For the wake and funeral was held in a tee-ninny suburban funeral home parlor where the overflow crowd of mourners were all squeezed in like sardines within the repurposed pews.

At the outset of the service, the officiating pastor cited the book of Samuel, quoting scripture which captured David eulogizing Saul (post his suicidal death).  That was fitting, but I don't believe many mourners picked up on the subtleties therein (is there no more anticlimactic Biblical figure than Saul?).    

Not long after that opening salvo, the pastor used the word chaos to describe the deceased man's family, doing so right there in front of his widow, two daughters and all the grandchildren / great-grandchildren (they were all packed in too).  He even went so far as to specifically cite the bastardization of the man's first grandchild (borne from his youngest daughter) as if it was yesterday's news.

Most of those in attendance likely knew the family when that particular shit hit the fan.  The year was 1989.  Understandably, his daughter's future (& their family's trajectory) was forever changed as a result, but what had to have made the greatest specific impact was the unshakable stigma they were now saddled with.  Particularly considering their place as a well-established, upper-class Jacksonian family.

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What I'm going to say next is going to sound like a cop out, but I'm going to say it anyway because I believe it (& lived through it).

The 1980s weren't good to any of us white folks, and this family was (like so many) right within its crosshairs.  I'm not blaming this decade of excess for their specific missteps, but you must realize that families were hit from two (if not more) sides during this decade.

1.  Enormous economic success that was unparalleled.  Especially for those who were put together and Dale Carnegie extroverted (as the deceased had been during that era).  Most professionals were making money hand over fist (both earned & unearned) which precipitated enormous buying power for these.  Constraint / "quiet living" along with temperance were ideas from the past that were outright mocked during this era.  Everything, and I do mean everything was hinged on excess and immediate gratification, no matter the risk.

2.  Massive shift in societal norms as it pertained to the prioritization of class / cliques / relational circles of influence.  Autonomy was so very out.  Country club status quo was everything and everywhere in the '80s.  There was more chrome and hairspray, Porsche and Winnebago than had ever been seen prior here in America.  For all of these veneers / brands screamed, "LOOK AT ME!"  Arguably, all of the upper / middle-class family's identity was classed directly to these pleasurable platitudes, leaving it particularly vulnerable to headship neglect / distraction. 

Considering both of these, time and energy to play within this particular arena massively downplayed what once was the bastion of familial importance:  

The husband / father's role as protector.  And not just via shielding but via exposure / knowledge / insight that's used to educate / shrew the family of cultural / societal deception risk(s).

The familial chaos cited by today's funeral pastor, I'm convinced, found both its origin and virility during this powerfully influential decade.

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Two distinct funerals.  Considering both this one today and the one from my teenage years, both were tremendously hard to sit through but for different versions of tragic.  

My dad thanked me at the conclusion of each for taking the time to attend.  Because I was there to stand with him, I'm glad I did.   

Simply Feeling Circumstantially Unsafe As A Boy Can Have A Long-Term Impact

I run twice weekly.  Once during the workweek and once during the weekend.  Each run is 5K broken in half by a one-mile brisk walk.  I run slowly sans a fitness tracker, and I only glance at my watch once in order to see the time.  I do not keep tabs on pacing, heartrate or any of that other nonsense.  I simply run away from home before coming back, the exact same route twice weekly.

I love to hate to run.

Last week, I ran one weekday evening, and upon my return home, it had become dark out.  As I made my way into our 'hood, I could see a Chevrolet HHR parked just inside the property of one of the three surrounding churches - Episcopal, Assembly of God, Presbyterian (circumnavigating our neighborhood).  

Despite the fact that the intensely smoking (it was on fire) retro-styled automobile had emergency off-ramped at the Episcopal church, it was just as vacantly quiet as their religious competitors' property (at the time).  

If I'm remembering correctly, it was around 8:30-8:45 PM when I first noticed the smoldering vehicle and its distressed occupants (mulling about).

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My parents got pregnant with Rob when they were 17 (mom) and 18 (dad.).  (90) days later, they were married in rural Humphreys County (Gooden Lake Baptist Church), not far from where my grandmother (Darlene's mom) still lives (she's 92) within her 900-sf rancher to this day.  

My parents were children who unintentionally had a child together.  The year was 1972.  Both the era as well as the Mississippi setting presumptuously placed a shotgun wedding within their crosshairs.  

My father had no intentions of leaving Belzoni, MS until a wise, older man convinced him otherwise (my father's father died of lung cancer when he was a 9-year-old boy).  

From there, he. pursued higher education both at MS Delta Community College and Delta State University (the three of us lived in married family housing during his two years as a student at DSU).

Immediately following graduation, my dad got a job in Jackson.  During this time, we lived within an apartment in South Jackson (I was around age 4-5 and my parents were in their early to mid-20s).

We traveled back to Humphreys County regularly to visit my grandparents.  It was no secret that my father longed to return to his small-town roots.  These weekend furloughs served as the antidote.  

I, of course, simply went along for the ride.  Back and forth.  Back and forth.  Always riding in the backseat of our army green Volkswagen Beetle.  

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I walked the ROW for about a minute before reaching the young family.  The mom was talking on her pocket computer while her young (preschool age) son stood close by her side (tablet in hand).  The father was hastily emptying out the backseat of the still heavily smoking Chevy.  Clothes and trash were being strewn onto the ground via his reactionary cleaning.  The hood of the defunct car had been raised.  This served to only solidify the despondency of their situation.  I asked the young man, from ten or so feet away, who the woman was talking to.  He smugly replied "911" without stopping to look over at me.  

I then turned and walked back to the entrance to our 'hood, sensing that I wasn't needed (or wanted).  

By the time I reached it, I could hear the screaming of the fire truck approaching fast.  As a result, I paused to watch the vehicle eventually pull into the same church entrance drive, directly behind the now - somewhat less smoky - vehicle.  Law enforcement also came alongside within a matter of only a few additional seconds.

I felt at peace knowing they were being tended to during this tough situation.  For they were so very young and obviously just starting out...

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One evening in the late 1970s, my parents and I left Humphreys County (too) late at night for the 90-minute drive back to our apartment in Jackson.  You should know that it wasn't 'till the mid '80s that Highway 49 N was constructed into a divided highway.  Hence, at this time, it was two-lane, all the way from Yazoo City to Jackson.  Up and over, up and over those massive hills as the opposing traffic whizzed by.  

It was on this highway that my parents' VW Beetle ceased operating (we weren't far outside of Yazoo City) whilst traveling south.  Overall, we'd been on the road around 45 minutes.  I can remember my dad pulling over onto the ROW, and from there, him asking my mom to locate a flashlight within the glovebox.  Once she did, it unfortunately failed to illuminate with anything other than a faint glow.  

I distinctly remember how dark it was sitting quietly there in the cramped backseat as I watched my mom's motionless silhouette seated just a few feet in front of me.  Neither of us spoke.  We could hear my dad outside.  He'd raised the hood (on the rear of the Beetle), though we both knew he'd no way of seeing anything via the faint glow of the almost dead flashlight.  A familiar fear crept up inside of me like some sort of emotional nausea.  Yet, there was no means to escape it.  Our situation (once again) looked and felt bleak.  We were like three sitting ducks.

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As I continued to grow as a boy, my parents grew alongside.  Because of this, their perspective matured in tandem with my own.  Hence, the fears I faced as a young child were mostly faced alone (as they did their own).

Children rearing children is completely distinct from adults rearing children.  I was privy to this, even as a boy.  For I was no dummy.  Every one of my peers had parents who were much older (& therefore behaved far differently) than my own.

But back to that earlier statement.

Children rearing children is completely distinct from adults rearing children.

And it's especially apparent when families like the one I was reared within face crisis.  

Children from those families must find a means to cope with the insecurities that come with being reared by childparents.  

For Rob, that coping came in the form of fantasy.  Elaborate, commiserate fantasy that was customized to my needs (security) as a boy, then teenager, then young man, then man...

Eventually, at the outset of adolescence, those fantasies became sexualized.  And this happened in proportion to hastily accelerating (sizable) insecurities surrounding my sense of adolescent masculinity (or lack thereof).  Aligned with that stopgap solution was me being - by God's design - an extremely visual boy who was easily captivated by beauty - beautiful people (mostly masculine men), automobiles, buildings.  All of these enthralled Rob, but none had the seemingly tangible allure as them Adonises.  For they represented - to me - safety and strength, confidence, gentleness and care.  Sexual fantasies revolving around these men served as the ultimate boyRob pacifier.

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My parents & I have numerous stories we can tell relative to our adventures as a 3-legged stool family unit.  I love my mom and dad.  And frankly, I know that it was only via God's grace that we made it through intact.  

I realize I've posted this prior, but I love this photo of all three of us on my parents' wedding day.  Enjoy.

Wield Your Positive Influence Here Within Samson Society

One of the most substantial outcomes relative to teenage Rob wielding his (positive) influence happened during an (snow day) ice storm.  The year was likely somewhere around early 1988.  The Christmas prior, I'd been gifted a Yamaha keyboard (though I actually didn't play keyboard with any semblance of true ability).  

My best friend, Greg, on the other hand, did play keyboard with envious skill, and he'd just purchased his own Yamaha synthesizer (from Service Merchandise, no doubt) in response to having "test driven" my own.  

Since I was always looking to spend time with Greg, and knowing that we both enjoyed our mutual friend, Todd's companionship (who just happened to own a Casio keyboard), our keyboard trio, Infinity, serendipitously came together.

And man, oh man, did we three enjoy our time together, composing and practicing, practicing, practicing before finally performing (school talent shows, etc.).  And it all took root with the three of us sitting cross-legged on my small bedroom's cut-pile carpeted floor, laughing and carrying-on, as only us three nerdy Mississippi teens could do during a mid-January late '80s snow day.  

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Being cognizant of (& comfortable wielding) your positive influence is the very best toolset at your disposal as a Samson guy.  Each of us is unique with our specific gifting in this regard.  Some are writers, others are encouragers (spoken word), others still seemingly sages relative to most any circumstance.  And of course, it's a given that communities like Samson Society are perfectly suited to positive influencers.  How and why is this?   

(And though it's certainly priority number one to focus in on your individual recovery, there's still no reason to not keep as a very close second, the opportunistic influence you wield relative to supporting another's.)

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1.  Shared interests

First and foremost is recovery.  Every Samson guy can relate to that.  From there, it's usually humor and deep-seated respect that establish the parallel courses of so many men within Samson Society.  

2.  The need to run interference against despair

A true Samson guy enters in as a result of his recent confrontation with personal, marriage, vocational, spiritual crisis.  Many Samson guys have experienced suicidal thoughts / ideations as a result of this crisis.  Tenured Samson men are forever reminded of this starting point since they've lived it themselves.  As such, their positive influence isn't necessitated to ignore other guys' pain but to counterbalance it.  As a reminder that despair is not and will never be permanent.  Hope exists down the road.

3.  It's within the very DNA of a Samson Society meeting (format)

Every meeting you choose to attend, your presence positions you to influence, from the very moment you log / step foot in the door.  As Christians, carrying the Holy Spirit inside of us, we minister to each other therein.  During share time, as we break up into smaller groups, the opportunity for influence becomes more granular / fine-toothed as more individualized opportunity is placed in our lap.  

4.  Serving another man as his Silas is not unlike being Jiminy Cricket.

Who doesn't want an assigned / appointed friend to come alongside them during arguably the most trying season of their life?  Especially if that man has had the resolve to walk out some portion of his own recovery.  The very presence of one's Silas can do wonders to positively influence.  From there, his listening ear and thoughtful questions only add to the powerful elixir of relational accountability.   

5.  It feels absolutely natural to open your pocketbook and give back.

Positive influencers are not bashful towards putting their money where their heart is.  It's as simple as that.  

Lagniappe

Jesus January - Mid Month Update

Back in December, we had an all-together lunch with some friends whose daughter and son are longstanding friends (former schoolmates) of our children.  Christmas was around the corner, therefore everyone was in the holiday spirit, anticipating the annual celebration with all its traditions and (inevitable) headaches.  This couple had surprisingly (to us) been visiting our church, and as such, once we realized this, saw fit to make a concerted effort to recognize this exciting move via breaking bread together.

Not long into our lunch, the husband of this fantastic couple "laid bare" / admitted to his deep admiration for the band KISS.  I was intrigued.  I'd only heard of one other middle-aged guy similarly enthralled by the "Knights In Satan's Service", and again he too was a parent of our daughters' friends.

I sat there between bites of my Italian entree peering at photos (on his pocket computer) of he and his wife posing alongside KISS' bandmembers (backstage).  He went on to proudly exclaim that he'd seen the band in concert almost 40 times over the decades.  And to top it off, his two KISS pinball machines and signed guitars were some of his most prized possessions.

I asked when and how his passion for KISS originated.  His detailed answer left me unsurprised.  For as I'd assumed, it had taken root smack dab in the middle of his teenage years.

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It's been 15+ days since I've self-pleasured (masturbated).  I'm elated that my "Jesus January" fast is holding steady.  

Why am I doing this?

Though sexual fantasy / gay porn has long since been banished from my self-pleasure routine (by God's grace), I felt deeply convicted to come up with some cadence to briefly pause an established bi- (if not more) weekly trend.  My thinking was as follows:  how else might I conveniently learn via abstinence if I didn't intentionally pull back?

What's struck me the most is how much LESS shame I feel overall.  It's as if boyRob (who exists within my mind) is so very proud of manRob for acting as he has over the past two weeks.  In other words, my boyhood self is who's been bearing the brunt of the shame fallout relative to self-pleasure.  Even if I'm NOT lusting whilst doing so, shame is still manifesting itself as a result.  Why?

As an aside, keep in mind that my wife isn't interested in nurturing the sexual side of our marriage, and she hasn't been since becoming disabled in May of '20.  This realization has never bothered me (& it still doesn't).  In fact, I've often been deeply grateful to have self-pleasure techniques (originating from my boyhood) to fall back on.

Nonetheless, I'm finding - via Jesus January - that the boy inside hasn't been justly served via this laissez faire approach to manRob pulling on his wiener.

Let me repeat that.

Nonetheless, I'm finding - via Jesus January - that the boy inside hasn't been justly served via this laissez faire approach to manRob pulling on his wiener.

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In closing let's discuss pragmatics.  For Rob, lust-free masturbation experiences aren't at all extemporaneous affairs.  Especially if there's been little down time since the previous experience.  

As such, precious time / energy is relegated, and when you take habitual sessions into account, a sizable amount of time / energy (which could be allocated elsewhere) is utilized.

Of course, boyRob is keenly aware of this.  Particularly from the standpoint of how he sees himself TODAY as a 51-year-old man.

Throughout this life, he adjudicates his older self constantly, taking into account where / how / how much energy / resources are allocated across the entire spectrum of my / his adult life.  As such, it's boyRob who's kept me from becoming fanatical (as an adult) regarding any and all childhood passions that weren't deemed appropriate relative to my maturity (physical / emotional age) as a man.  But the exception to all of this has been self-pleasure.  For it's the one thing manRob has rebelled with.

But I've never realized just how disrespectful this undisciplined habit has been to boyRob 'till this farcical "Jesus January" idea came to fruition.  

So, the question now comes down to this:  What does he need from me in order to establish the respect I absolutely do wish to earn from him in regards to self-pleasure?  

I have no intentions of stopping the physical act of masturbation outright, but I can, most certainly, be more intentional about how often and under what circumstances I do this going forward.

Lastly, can I actually successfully abstain from self-pleasure for another 16 days?

We'll just have to wait and see.