Those Times I Did Not Die For Being So Normal

I've documented this prior within previous posts, and I'll say it again.  When I was a teenager, my parents' home at 197 St. Augustine Dr. had the most publicly accoladed landscaping / hardscaping within our 'hood.  The summers, in particular, is when its beauty peaked.  Bob & Darlene poured hours and hours each weekend (during the Spring / Summer months) into keeping it perfectly manicured.  

Their house's lot was on a prominent corner, therefore that 50% of frontage provided ample opportunities for gawkers to inspect.  And even our backyard was easily viewable from the street, thanks to the traditional picket fence gapping.  But upon nightfall, like most backyards of its day, it was bathed in darkness unless there happened to be moonlight to illuminate one's surroundings.  

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I've no idea where my idea to masturbate in the backyard originated from.  Back in the late '80s, I'd no access to "solo sex" videos / photos of guys masturbating by a pool or sprawled out on a bed.  But I do believe there was an instinctual pull towards unabashedly presenting my scrawny frame towards the heavens, all the while taking a wait & see approach as to whether or not I might be struck dead for doing so.  

All and all, there's no denying that I did want to take enough of a calculated risk to experience the ramp up in intensity (excitement) that I expected therein.  And when I refer to that specific risk, my only fear was being shamed by my father (upon getting caught).  

Years earlier (during middle school), my dad had covertly spied on me in my room in an attempt to catch me semen-handed.  And he achieved success.  From there, he intensely shamed me for masturbating while I believed to have been home alone.  Therefore, a precedent had definitely been set if I were to be caught (again) doing this, yet not only did I feel it worth the risk of facing Robert, Sr. again, but too some semblance of newfound dignity needed to be cultivated via this risk.  Dignity that harkened back to what I atmospherically referenced earlier. 

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The absolute weirdest truth to how the majority of fathers rear sons is their insistent avoidance to extensively / unashamedly dialogue relative to masturbation.  Dads simply refuse to discuss it.  They'll tell you from one end of the spectrum to the other what their experience is / has been with every other topic under the sun, but they'll never mention one word about masturbation.  Why is this?  What is the big deal?

My only guess is there's so much implied shame baked into the topic that the thought of broaching the subject feels monumentally emasculating.  And this especially seems to be the case if the man is in any way religious.  

On the opposing side of this instructional vacuum is the MIND-BLOWING PLEASURE that's at the fingertips of every adolescent boy.  A pleasure that's fueled by his physical self as it rapidly & awkwardly develops into a man. 

But I digress.

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Summer nights is when I mainly remember sneaking out the back door of my parents' abode to masturbate on the wooden swing (which was within 50' of the rear facade of the house).  

What's hilarious (to me) about these numerous escapades is what I chose to wear.  

For Xmas one year, I had received an extremely lightweight, just barely over the knee, cotton bathrobe.  The fabric was graced with a tightly repetitive candy-striped pattern, and it had a matching tie looped in around the waist.  This along with a pair of flipflops was my attire (until it wasn't).   

What was it about being buck naked on that swing in the dark, gazing up at the stars?

I think it was my way of getting out from underneath the ignorance of my earthly father, and from there, attempting to make peace with myself under the watchful eye of my heavenly father.  Or, to loop back to what I commented on prior, it was my attempt to find my dignity in spite of a familial situation that had taken it from me.

In closing, these adolescent experiences proved to me that sexual release does not have to be tied to sexual fantasy / lust.  And this was a marked truth that's remained with me to this day.

Thoughtlessness Can Equate To Masculinity (Generalization) Can Equate To Sexy, Virulent, Worthwhile, Valuable (Specific men)

For me TODAY, masculinity truly begins to lose its luster when you recognize that for some guys, it personally equates to dickdom licensure.   

We're all hyper self-focused as westerners, but masculinity - in some (repugnant) forms - can give credence to the guy who truly loathes inconvenience and thoughtfulness.  Too, though I'm no proponent of catchy, fashionable catchphrases, there's been a lot said as of late in an attempt to shine a spotlight on white dudes' - by default - "leg up" and how it seems to baptize many men into assholes.  Nonetheless, whether it's culture or majority privilege, this construct of masculinity, in the past, has set the bar quite low relative to "looking out for the best interests of others". 

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I'm convinced too that physical attraction (sex appeal) does plays a role in how tolerant one's posse becomes to one's own masculine assholeness.   I won't cite anyone specifically, but we all can collectively agree to those famous, great-looking men who's debonair served to immunize them from many expectational aspects of relational decency. 

All in all, this is where Rob, as a man whose sexuality is far from straight, has in the past been tempted to make some compromises.  Particularly as a teenager, but also, very early on within my involvement within Samson Society.  And whilst looking back, I believe that allure grew out of my own internal battle with a sense of worthlessness.  For what better feel-good relationship can exist than one which provides affirmation in deference to the default of sissydom? 

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As an aside, what is one constant that keeps culturally celebrated masculinity (as described above) in full swing?

Wives / girlfriends who tolerate it.

Women long for security from their men, first and foremost.  Thoughtless jerks can certainly qualify in this regard, and perhaps even as such, add to the allure.

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In closing, it's far easier jettisoning a jerk (masculine or otherwise) from your life (either full frontal or with discretion) when an alternative friend is in the queue.   

Thoughtful / selfless Samson guys, no matter the level of machismo, are what I'm drawn to today.  In spite of that, I'm embarrassed to say how enamored I once was by something so culturally prescribed.   

Here's to a smooth transition.

Photography Of Naked People. That's An Entirely Different (Read: Much More Captivating) Thing Than Naked People.

And interesting read:  Bradley Cooper, Benedict Cumberbatch and the Golden Age of Nude Men - WSJ

The School of Architecture, back in the early '90s, had a photography studio within the building.  It was staffed by a dedicated faculty member who - as far as I know - oversaw its operation exclusively.  We students were encouraged to have our models / drawings photographed at least annually in order to "build our academic portfolio".  From there, that portfolio would then represent our skillset as we looked to land a job post Mississippi State University.

When I was a third-year student, I was assigned to a small group of exceedingly creative peers, and we decided to execute our mundane site analysis project (which had been assigned to us) via an over-the-top Avant Garde video presentation.  One of the students within my group did have a laptop (a rare find back then) with an early version of Photoshop on it, but none of us had a video camera.  Therefore, we sought to "check one out" of the school's photo studio.  

Our group had a blast filming / editing / presenting our project.  The end result was extremely unique.  And for the most part, I ended up being the cameraman throughout its production.  This was my first foray relative to using a video camera, and as a result of this, my curiosity definitely peaked as I thought through what I potentially could do with said video camera in my spare time.

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I had the good fortune to backpack throughout Europe during the summer of 1994.  I was with a group of mostly architecture students, all young men from MSU.  As such, we visited most every architecturally relevant site we could throughout the eleven countries we visited during those two months.  Antiquity is on prominent display throughout Europe.  As such, commissioned sculptures are displayed throughout, much of it depicting prominent historical - Biblical / mythological figures, etc.    

One thing that you notice within the ubiquity of this 3-D art is that full / semi-nudity isn't / wasn't / hasn't been out of the ordinary for Europe.  

Hence, there are plenty of breasts, vaginas, and penis / testicles beautifully rendered (usually in stone).  And these figures' physical features no doubt add to the overall aesthetic.  They're striking yet not at all salacious.

In line with this general observation was my distinct first encounter with this European norm.  I've no doubt their culture of "reduced / zero shame" crystallized within my mind just a few minutes after disembarking from our flight into Paris.  As such, throughout the airport there were supersized print ads featuring semi-nude models, and these were on display prominently.  Over and over again.  

Being an American reared in Mississippi, I'd seen very few images of women revealing their breasts.  Hence, I remember instantly feeling exceedingly uncomfortable whilst encountering these very normalized images.  Shameful really.

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Growing up as an only child, I had no brothers - either younger or older - to grow up alongside.  Hence, there was no 24/7/365 familial measuring stick for me to associate with / compare myself to.  Too, I was not at all an athletic boy.  Therefore, locker room / gang shower experiences weren't ever part of my narrative (which I was very much thankful for).  

Hence, when I did have a handful of isolated changing room experiences during my early teenage years, the end result unfortunately was me coming away feeling exceedingly less than my peers.  So much so in fact that I only sought further to loathe my physical self (in contrast to what I considered my masculine ideal).  And this wasn't as a result of how I was treated / perceived / adjudicated by my peers within that changing room setting.  It wasn't that at all.  Every bit of this devastating shame was internalized.

It was as if someone's intent was to eradicate any semblance of self-dignity that should have taken root as expected.

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What I didn't realize as an adolescent (nor understood how to respond positively to) was how starved I was to make peace with my masculine - physical self.  Hence, photography of semi-nude male models did make one clear cut statement to me.  And that was that these individuals were where I wanted to be.  Yes too, I enjoyed the salaciousness behind many of these images, but deep down, I saw people who'd decisively understood their intrinsic physical value.  Or at least I thought I had. 

Now of course, regarding photography, this was all a ruse.  But I didn't understand how photography (especially photographic imagery) really worked, nor what much of its true intent was.  My ignorance was truly being taken advantage of (mostly by Satan).

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Now let me circle back to those private ideas I dreamed up whilst serving as the cameraman for my fun-filled, overly creative site analysis (architecture school) project.

Filming oneself masturbating was no doubt really intriguing to Rob and having an empty dorm room to do so in (combined with access to a video camera) sealed the deal.

The funny part of this story is what I decided to lubricate my toolset with as I was "performing" within my first solo video. 

Dishwashing liquid (Joy, Dawn, Palmolive) ARE NOT choice lubricants for self-pleasure.  But I didn't know this until firsthand (sorry) experience.  Yes, there was certainly enough viscosity provided coupled with a very pleasant fragrance, but dishwashing liquid is designed to clean dirty dishes.  Really dirty dishes.  Dishes that have burnt food clinging to them from last night's dinner party.  

Therefore, when you apply said liquid to bare skin, particularly very sensitive, very elastic skin (like your genitalia) and rub it in for 10-15 minutes (sans water), the end result is going to be bad.  Really scary - I'm never going to be able to reproduce - bad.  Like so bad that you're convinced that your junk isn't going to pull (sorry) through.

The lesson here is DO NOT ATTEMPT THIS AT HOME.

Nevertheless, Rob learned a boatload about what photographic imagery truly represents via this humorous DIY encounter with his own ignorance.

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When lust occurs relative to a photo / video, you're lusting after light.  Do you realize this?

      

And it's light that's professionally manipulated.  With an intent.  And that intent, if the photographic imagery is successful, can really mess with / impress upon your mind.  And this is especially true if you're a child.  For children have no clue as to just how expertly that light has been manipulated relative to its intent.  Therefore, they are sitting ducks.

With the advent of digital photography, the ubiquity of much malicious intent has perpetuated some serious mental health issues amongst both young people and the young at heart.  For they seemingly cannot remove themselves from the light.  They're puppets.  Consistently not at peace.  Enslaved to something they do not understand that they're constantly bombarded / faced with.

Educate yourself.  Unpack how you yourself came to be so transfixed by light.  And then go spend a lengthy period of time in the locker room (within reason), at the pool, on the beach.  Put on some dark sunglasses, take off your shirt, and be mindful of your place there amongst the semi-nude (or perhaps completely nude if you're not in America) throngs.  

Light isn't real.  Its intent cannot be trusted.  Learn from your mistakes.  You're no longer a boy.  Refuse to be manipulated any longer.  

How Will I Get Noticed If I'm Not On Social Media In 2022? / Respond! Respond! Respond!

We Americans celebrate, relish, elevate, & award ourselves relative to our penchant for creating and consuming entertainment.  It is a mainstay of who we are as a people.  And almost all of it is exported around the globe to other western (& even some eastern) cultures.  Hence, it is a massive component of our economy and therefore our identity as Americans.

With the advent of the Internet, social media eventually came on the scene, and it was there that our obsession with entertainment truly went into overdrive.

Interestingly, social media eschewed the stigma associated with other forms of interactive electronic media (video games).  Instead, it vaulted into the mainstream as the next must-have gee whiz experience, and of course what helped in that regard was its "pro bono" availability.  Therefore, per my research, there are billions of people engaging therein (mostly via their pocket computers).

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Do yourself a favor this year.  Delete your social media accounts and remove their apps from your pocket computers.  

If you'll do this, I promise you your quality of life will improve, and this will primarily occur within the category of your walk with God.

Three fantastic benefits of dumping social media in 2022:

-  You'll no longer be influenced by the endless barrage of stupidity that's thrown at you via these networks.

-  If you're a parent, you can set a great example for your children of how best to use their time online (& offline).

-  You'll no longer be hooked on the notion that others actually care about your posts (via their responses).

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Let's break these down further:

1.  Everything you watch, read, listen to is making an impact - Christ affirming or not - on your brain.  If you're a Christian, and as such, consider the Bible of utmost importance, it's clear in this regard.  Therefore, being extremely cautious as to what you allow yourself to be exposed to is a no-brainer for God's people.

Social media is designed to keep you engaged.  Similar to broadcast television, viewership is of primo importance because the more viewers, the more the corporations behind these entertainment venues can charge for advertisements.  It's important to understand this, I believe, in order to best remain focused on their true intent.

2.  Entertainment's hierarchical place within we westerners is typically seeded when we're children.  And it's our parents / guardians who demonstrate / educate us in this regard.  

I would argue that if you truly care about your children, you'll swallow hard / make your priorities what you want their priorities to be (as grown ass adults).

3.  Gloating is what social media is built on.  Whether you're gloating about yourself, your family, your work, your hobbies, your pets, your vacations, and on and on.  But the hook is in the response(s).  You know, those little thumbs up symbols or some flippant comment someone makes about your posts.

If you're into gloating, you likely have a penchant for envy.  Envy is sin.  Social media is a wide-open playing field for envy.  24/7/365.  Envy is such the toxin that it catalogs.  Monitoring / tracking others' lives over time.  It's a horribly pagan activity that's inexcusable amongst God's people. 

Human beings care exclusively about one thing:  themselves.  We may pretend that we give a damn about others, but in comparison to our self-centeredness, it's a miniscule amount.  Hence, the notion that we engage in social media in order to "keep in touch with our out-of-state family / friends" is bullshit.  What our wretched hearts long for is attention, comfort, exclusivity, and entitlement.  Social media feeds into that wretchedness.  It was invented for it.  And that's ultimately why it should be avoided by Christians.

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2022 is going to be a great year.  Think of how God will honor / bless your decision to decouple from social media.  For good.  

Lagniappe  

Unpack It & Grieve (If Appropriate)

Compartmentalization is the process of capturing and subsequently locking away pain.  That container is constructed of a series of emotionally reinforced mental partitions, often hastily and no doubt in reaction to the intensity of the (oft unexpected) situation.  

For experience (life) is like a river that carries you along.  Especially during childhood.  But when you find yourself unexpectedly dejected (or otherwise) like I wrote about a few posts back (Wednesday, 1/5), the most viable reaction at the time may very well be compartmentalization.  For emotional overload is just that.  Overload. 

Please consider this post as a "Part 2".  I'm going to detail how I successfully unpacked my aforementioned childhood swimming pool physical assault experience - over the course of our end-of-2021 vacation week - prior to discussing what I've determined to be the next step (within an inevitable "Part 3" post).

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Unpacking takes strength and visibility of oneself (whilst in relation to what was compartmentalized) relative to both the why and what is compartmentalized.  The strength is what powers the workload, and the visibility of oneself acknowledges your ownership ("You did this.") of what actually got packed away.

What's lovely about the strength component is, as I've found personally, there are opportunities where within certain circumstances, other men can indirectly assist.

And this is where I'm going to descend (go deeper personally).  I'll do my best not to confuse you.

My defectiveness (see "Part 1" post) is centered on me having such a weak, if not completely absent sense of masculinity, therefore whilst relating to certain other guys, I do find myself, at times, leaning into theirs.  But only if I sense that they're respectfully relating to Rob.  

And when I say respectfully, I'm not referring to mannerisms.  That's not it at all.  I'm referring to the root word:  respect. 

Respect:  a feeling of deep admiration for someone or something elicited by their abilities, qualities, or achievements.

Too often, this respect is hinged on their seeing me as a mentor-type friend, but I digress.  It's the respect portion of the relationship that's critical for me to slip past my shame long enough to do some covertly coupled (to them & the situation) internal work.  

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We all have our childhood selves living inside.  In spite of our physical age, they're there.  I believe they can be especially present (during adulthood) as it pertains to a traumatizing childhood event(s).  For Rob, that subconscious boy is who's appeased / entertained when I choose to look at gay porn.  It's his eyes who're satiated with imagery that harken back to teenage lust-filled fantasies.  

Realizing this truth, I have found that one of the best questions to ask of that inner child is "What do you really want?"  

Mine inevitably answers "I want to be pursued by my masculine archetype in order to receive the affirmation that was held back from / escaped me when you (adult Rob) were my age."

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Whilst vacationing last week in Sandestin, I spent a good bit of time in the resort Fitness Center either alone or with the girls.  On the third day of me going about my routine there, there was an older white male patron who was being quite the prick.  His MO (hopefully only during that particular day) was to obnoxiously chide others over his insistence that equipment be thoroughly wiped down (after usage).  He'd stationed himself right in the center of the space, moving back and forth between two benches, all the while eyeing everyone with eagerness as he anticipated antagonistically barking their way.

I remember taking note of a few of the younger clientele simply aborting their workouts in response to his noisy outbursts, though most chose to ignore him (as I did).

This man was well into his 70s or perhaps 80s, and he was going at it like quite the stallion there on the floor.  The decidedly heavy dumbbell free weights, incline barbell machine, and one end of the cable weight rack were his mainstays.  

I stationed myself directly in front of him on an adjustable bench well before even sardonically considering leaning in.  As such, I was simply determined to outlast this geezer, but my cockiness eventually segued to respect.  From there, I found myself pumping iron for far longer than I'd normally commit to.

And yes, after I finally concluded my ad Hoc routine there under his cantankerous eye, I took a moist towelette and did the right thing.  That was my way of subtlety thanking him for garnering my inner boy's respect.

After the fact, I could not remember a time when I'd worked out for as long and with as much fortitude.  In spite of this, I felt renewed and energized.

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The photograph of the two boys wrestling at the bottom of "Part 1" of that post isn't an arbitrary image.  The boy facing the camera is the Minnesotan (older of the two brothers).

From what my inner boy Rob recalls, this athletically built teen looks very similar to and has the same masculine swagger of the teen who physically assaulted him / me as a child.  Yet, other than that, the similarities drop off.  

As you might imagine, it took a number of evenings last week to finally coax my inner boy to come around, but once he did, he leaned into this kindhearted jock no holds barred.  And you should know that I believe wholeheartedly that the nighttime swimming pool setting was God breathed for this opportunity to present itself.  

And oh my goodness, it was such a healing experience for boy Rob / me.  

So what do I mean exactly by leaning in?  Respectfully acknowledging (cross pollination) the attention / respect.  That's the first step.  From there, it's observing very closely who the individual is / how they're engaging - WITH ADULT (IN RECOVERY) ROB EYES.  And that's super important.  Because the last thing I want to happen is to fall back into juvenile lust.

As I'm sure you've figured out, this respectful observational process is where the unpacking occurs.  For as I'm annotating / updating my childhood experiences with these new experiences, I can't help but see my boyhood self gleefully taking part whilst using my adult Rob strength to pull it off.  And no, this doesn't change or blot out my childhood trauma, but I can now at least sit with it out of the box.

  

Throughout all the years that I've had the privilege of being involved in Samson Society, there's been no better lesson learned than how to do this.  For if you could quantify the amount of compartmentalizing I've accomplished, it would amount to the contents of an entire set of 1980s Encyclopedia Britannica's.  Hence, there's a boatload to unpack.  Thanks be to God for the men who've come in and out of my life, who've allowed me to lean in for such a time as that.  I'm no doubt a better, more settled man for it.  

Reclaiming Childhood Trauma With The Help Of Unexpected New Friends (From MN Of All Places)

The +/-300-400 ranch housed 'hood I was reared in (Madison during the '80s) had a neighborhood pool that had been constructed as an optional amenity for the homeowners.  There was no homeowners' association to govern this mid-70s' subdivision, yet this pool was fortunately maintained - seasonally - by a group of volunteers - paying utility bills, overseeing upkeep, and distributing pool "membership" keys each summer.

The inground pool was a large rectangle with a slide, diving board serving the 12'-0" deep end.  As such, it was more than sufficient to accommodate the Traceland North throngs during the summertime.  

There weren't many occasions during my childhood where swimming at night within this pool was encouraged / allowed, but I do vividly recall spending countless mornings / afternoons there.  Bob & Darlene always ate dinner fairly early, therefore usually by 5 PM, we'd have vacated the swimming pool for the short drive back home.

Yet, there was one distinct occasion during my childhood where I did find myself at this pool at night, and it was then that I discovered how quickly a comfortable, very familiar setting can be so easily robbed of all its noteworthiness.

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The photo below is from the glossy cover of a 1988 wall calendar I kept "in my secret stash" as a teen.  The model shown here (gotta love that mullet!) was featured a handful of times within the publication, but it was this cover photo that mesmerized / captivated young Rob.  I nervously purchased this wall calendar at Northpark Mall's Spencer Gifts under the tutelage that I was "needing a gag gift" for one of my imaginary sisters.  I can still remember the excitement of removing the plastic wrap once I had it home.  And from there, sexual fantasy after sexual fantasy ensued, most of which centered on this guy pursuing me tenderly.  The fantasy made me feel safe, loved and important.  It was as reliable as daybreak, yet situating itself with great reliability as indwelling sin.

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When I was around the age (11 - 12) of my youngest daughter, Darlene entrusted me to some older neighborhood boys one evening while she and my dad went out.  This was during the summer, and the plan was for these teens to keep up with Rob whilst night swimming at the aforementioned neighborhood swimming pool.  I was understandably a little anxious about this setup, having never been put into this situation before.  These older boys were around the ages of 16 and 19 at the time.  They were brothers and both lived with their 'rents on the opposite side (from us) of our 'hood.  Though I didn't know them well, I'd agreed to this setup in order to accommodate my parents.  Plus, I sort of liked the notion of spending time alone with these older boys at the pool outside the bounds of routine.  I remember them as tough, carefree teens whose overconfidence far exceeded my own.  

Unfortunately, what happened that evening truly served to turn my love of that venue as well as any semblance of love for myself on its head, and the outcome here had all the more voracity due to Satan's impeccable timing (early adolescence).

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Last week (the week between Christmas and New Year's), we vacationed in Sandestin, FL, renting a condo overlooking the beautiful Gulf.  We'd never been there during the winter, yet we were pleasantly surprised at the (unseasonably?) balmy weather and overall smaller crowds.  The swimming pools are heated this time of year which helps with the comfort level - particularly if you choose to swim at night.  My daughters love swimming, but they especially love ending their vacation days with a swim.  For me though, swimming at night has never been an especially enjoyable experience, and up until last week, I wasn't exactly sure why.

Because of the breezy, chilled night air, even fewer resort vacationers joined us in the water after the sun went down (early).  Yet, during our first evening there, two boys did surprisingly appear.  I'd taken note of the older of the two (an unusually athletically built 16-year-old) as he slipped into the hot tub a few minutes prior with his younger brother.

After a few minutes of continuing to toss a glow football between my girls, I waded over to these (obviously) brothers and inquired if they'd be interested in joining in the fun.  And this set the stage for a very unique, temporary friendship.  A friendship that resulted in all of us rendezvousing most nights, within that same hourglass-shaped pool, throughout the time we were there.

You need to know that the boys were from rural Minnesota.  As such, having never been to this sprawling seaside resort (much less FL), they truly were fish out of water.  We had the best time getting to know and having the privilege of being hospitable to them.  Later in the week, I also had the good fortune of meeting their father (poolside), and from there, both of our families agreed to share dinner at a local pizzeria at the conclusion of our time together.  It was a blast.

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Through all of this, God tenderly reminded me of the physical assault I experienced as an 11 - 12-year-old boy at my long since compartmentalized Traceland North swimming pool.  It was as if he literally walked me back to the horror hand-in-hand as night after night we'd reconvene with our routine there at Sandestin.  Observing these MN brothers' masculine character, in such sharp contrast to what I'd experienced as a boy, served as the perfect reformative sauve.  For it so clearly demonstrated how much I'd longed to be / understood how I could have been affirmed within that swimming pool setting all those years ago.  

The physical assault was a childhood horror that I'd never spoken of to anyone.  For in and through that, I'd had impregnated within me the notion of young Rob being defective relative to his masculinity.  Hence, from that point forward, I simply refused to face my defective self.  Immediately following, I began hiding and turning inward to placate / medicate my trauma.  And that's where homosexual fantasy, in many ways, became my "adolescence preserver".  

Please know that I cannot underestimate the intense shame I experienced as a result of being treated, by these adolescent guardians, with so little respect.  What little masculine dignity I had - at that time - as a very young man, was literally stripped clean that night.

In closing, I'm grateful to have clear direction relative to my work ahead.  For 2022 will definitely be a year of focusing on unpacking / wrestling with this notion of childhood me being internally labeled as defect(ive).  Combined with all the ramifications therein, I hope to best position the boy inside, going forward, in opposition to that label.

 

Darlene, Jr.

As strange as it may sound, my mom is the closest person to me relative to serving as some semblance of a mentor.  Yet, she's done so throughout my life via a hands-off approach.  What I mean by that is she's modeled behavior versus attempting to teach it directly.  Perhaps that doesn't necessarily qualify her as an actual mentor, but it's never been in her DNA to attempt to instruct me directly in the ways of manhood.  And I realize that sounds weird, but just keep reading for further commentary on that.

Darlene and I have identical temperaments (self-reliant / positive / forward thinking), therefore there've been inevitable seasons of serious head butting, yet it's never too long 'till we've realigned our trajectories amiably.  I can remember occasions when I was a teen as well as a new father where I felt she'd overstepped.  Each time, I'd be firm in expressing my frustration 'till she was willing to reign in her demands / criticism.  This would often result in enduring some lengthy seasons of chilled reception (from her), but in the end, it was always worth the trouble / discomfort therein.  I actually used to appreciate her stubbornness that much more after the fact.  Yielding can be hard for individuals who're as driven as she, yet I'm one of the few people who's capable of that persuasion.

I recently had lunch with an old Samson friend who described the persona of his wife as "a man in a woman's body".  In many ways, that same description fits my mom.  "Tough as nails" is a tagline that we've all heard before.  It fits Darlene to a tee.  As such, as her only child, I've come to realize how privileged I've been to be reared by her and to - even today - have a strong, respectful relationship with her.  At this point in my life, I see myself as sort of an insider as to who she really is - behind the scenes.

You've seen those talk shows that feature family members of rock stars.  I've always felt like I'd qualify for one of those particular shows regarding my mom, as both her presence in my life as well as her public image (amongst the community my 'rents are part of) has always been somewhat larger than life.  

On the flip side of her demeanor / temperament is her graceful physical beauty wrapped in sort of a countrified, folksy poise.  

My mother became pregnant with me at age 18.  She was an impoverished high school student in the Mississippi Delta who'd found herself in quite the quagmire.  And yes, it was her physical beauty that served to enable her to take the steps she did to officiate that predicament.  

My father married her just a few months into her pregnancy.  And her beauty has mesmerized him ever since.  

My mother is one of a kind.  I'm proud to be her son but not at all personified by indebtedness to her. Therefore, it truly is a fantastic win-win for Rob, having had her model so many rock-solid attributes that serve as the foundational bedrock of who I am today.  In the end though, it is very weird having a woman serve me so faithfully as a mentor.  

"Bitterness" - Mr. Matt Flint

                 I have been in recovery from a lifelong addiction to porn for almost seven years now.  I often tell men that are new to Samson that recovery for me has been like getting a master’s degree in Matt Flint.  When I first walked into a meeting, there was a certain degree of trepidation, but I was a desperate man seeking a way out of the darkness I had lived in for so long.  By God’s grace, I found a community of men and slowly began the process of learning who I am and why I struggle with addiction.  

 In the recovery community, we like to throw around fancy terms such as “presenting behavior” or “trauma” or “medicating” to help us paint the picture of our lives and better understand what drives us to want to act out in compulsive ways.  As I have sought to break the chains of addition, it has been so helpful to really get to know myself.  Ultimately the desire to escape into fantasy is a way of numbing the pains of life that we don’t want to face head on.  Knowing why we do this and what triggers us is a crucial early step in the recovery process.  Numbing or medicating pain away is contrary to the Gospel; where Jesus invites us into the midst of our pain and promises that He will be there with us.  Think of the story of the Samaritan woman caught in adultery in John 4. Jesus met her where she was, in the middle of her misery and offered her living water.  See also Deuteronomy 31:6,8; Joshua 1:5; and 1 Chronicles 28:20 where God promises to never leave nor forsake us.

We talk a lot about things that we have suffered, different traumatic experiences we have endured, what secrets our formative years hold over us that keep pushing this urge to numb pain.  These are all things that have been done to us and we do well to bring them to light and deal with them accordingly.  There is another aspect to getting traction in recovery that I know I have overlooked for a long time.  Bitterness and anger.  Anger is towards the top of my list of triggers and there have been quite a few times where it has reared its head in destructive ways, both around my family and in the dark corner of isolation.   The question I have been asking myself is: What role does bitterness play?   I would guess probably more than I would like to admit.  Hebrews 12:15 describes bitterness as a root that springs up and causes trouble.    Job speaks about “the bitterness of soul” in chapters 7 and 10.  Proverbs 14:10 says the heart knows its own bitterness… The point I am driving at is that if bitterness is held inside and not dealt with it can wreak havoc in our lives both physically and spiritually.    

So that leaves us with the next question:  How do I deal with bitterness?  The answer is simple on the surface, but easier said than done.   Forgiveness.  As Christians we understand forgiveness to be one of the foundational teachings of our faith.  Christ shed his blood for the forgiveness of our sins, Matthew 26:28.    As we begin 2022 seeking to be better husbands, fathers, friends, and followers; I think we should be searching our hearts for areas where we are harboring bitterness and allow the Spirit of God to lead us into true forgiveness.  Forgiveness of others who, for a lot of men, have committed grievous wrongs against us, but do not stop there.   As men in recovery from addiction, we need also to forgive ourselves and feel the weight of the forgiveness paid for us by Christ our savior.   If bitterness and anger are the substances by which our hearts are hardened, forgiveness is the balm that softens and restores.   Proverbs 4:23 says “Keep your heart with all vigilance, for from it flows the springs of life.” A gate keeper doesn’t only keep out those that want to do the city harm, he also lets in those who mean well and bring life. 

 Now, take a moment to ask the Holy Spirit to reveal where you are holding on to bitterness; then allow forgiveness to come in.  Much like recovery, forgiveness is a journey that takes time and perseverance.  If the person you need to offer forgiveness to the most is yourself, remember the words from step seven of The Path that ring so true: “Despite the lingering effects of sin, I am a restored son of the Sovereign Lord, whose spirit is at work in my weakness, displaying His glory and advancing His Kingdom.”

How Might Cultivating / Observing Your (Grand)Son(s)' Ongoing Maturation Impact Your Own Maturation?

There are so many questions I have regarding this topic.  As such, I've attempted to provide an overarching summation of them all within the title (question) of this post. 

But firstly, I need to qualify my use of the word maturation.  That word implies merited positivity, but I'm not necessarily making that assumption.  I'm citing this word more from the standpoint of unmitigated growth or narrative.  Growth / narrative that moves forward but not necessarily within a righteous / healthy capacity.  The emphasis here is on the concept of forward.

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I'm a father to three daughters, therefore I've no firsthand experience with fathering a son whilst observing / taking note of how it might affect / impact me.  That's my disclaimer before you read any further.

Here's an interesting question (to me at least):

Obviously, adolescence brought on by the onset of puberty brings the penchant for lustful fantasy within boys.  If during that development, you as the boy's dad experience a reduction / newfound resolve not to (continue to?) nurture the same, is this somehow the result of your identity as the dad (older, more mature man) being amplified / distinguished - by association - in kind?  

I do believe there are a lot of opportunities for fathers to find their footing / make better sense of their identities as grown ass men in contrast, but also in relation to, their sons, and this occurrence surely plays out via an offset, progressive narrative as both males take on their associative roles within the family.

And I'm really interested in knowing more about this phenomenon, yet everything I do know is speculative based on observation.  Nonetheless, I feel so moved to imply some theories / relay some thoughts here.

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At my uncle's funeral earlier this week, I was pleased to see a younger cousin of mine (he's in his mid-40s) who has resided in Austin, TX throughout his adulthood.  Benji is a richly successful businessman within the tech field.  He gained a foothold within that industry (after finishing at Delta State University) thanks to a familial connection (his wife's family) to Michael Dell.  In line with that, Benji is an extremely handsome guy with a megawatt smile (& charisma to match).  He's also a family man with an adopted son and two biological daughters.  Smart + good looking + ambitious + opportunistic has equated to worldly success for him.

Not surprisingly, even at the graveside service, Benji was nonchalantly gloating about his hectic professional life, peppering the formalities with talk of him needing to jet over to Europe for work before the Thanksgiving holiday.  I asked a handful of questions during the few moments I had (having not seen him since 2010), some of which were clearly confusing.  But that was only because they were tied to details he'd shared with me years ago (via a handful of email exchanges) that were no longer presently relevant (my remembered reality versus his present reality).  And that's what got me thinking about his drive forward and what possibly has fueled that for he himself.  It's important to note that Benji is the middle child of three sons, yet he's by far the only hyper-successful standout.

Similarly important to note is that Benji's (became deceased back in 2010) dad (an older brother of my father) was the antithesis of Benji relative to ambition.  So where might have Benji's drive culminated from exactly?

Let's take a closer look at my cousin's relationship with his adopted son.  For I believe therein may lie one of many distinct keys to understanding his distinctiveness.

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Within Year One of Benji's marriage (he married a lovely young woman from the Mississippi Delta soon after completing his undergrad work at DSU), he and his new wife hastily proceeded with an international adoption of a Russian boy (the child's exact age unknown).  At that time, Benji's obligations at Dell Computer had him dutifully traveling worldwide for the majority of the year.  For his meteoric rise up the corporate ladder, in spite of his youth, demanded this.  Hence, the adopted son saw much less of his driven dad, as part of his newfound Texas upbringing, than he'd expected to.

Once the boy entered into middle / high school, he began experimenting with illegal drugs and fornicating.  In time, three girls became pregnant prior to the young man being incarcerated within the Pacific Northwest.  

Now, I know I've blazed through that boy's life with those few sentences, but my point is this:  He became an unbridled rebel that in no way synchronized with his upstanding, materially wealthy, highly successful / established Texas family.

What few times I've dialogued with Benji about his relationship with his son, there's been nothing but bitterness and outrage towards the boy's "ungrateful moral assault" on Benji and his wife.  To me, that particular attitude is simply posturing.  For I know my cousin.  He's a smart dude with a heart of gold.  As such, I believe he both bit off far more than he could chew on one hand whilst refusing to do the necessary intensive parenting work (rooted in being present for the adopted boy) on the other.  In other words, he chose his career over his very unique parental obligation.

Could the moral failings of his adopted son be serving to sink one side of an associative identity pendulum between these two men?  A pendulum that, in opposition, elevates / propels my cousin, Benji, to perform / succeed at a ridiculously demanding pace?  Is that even possible?

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Along the same lines (but by no means the same), I often wonder how the patriarchal shame my father experienced relative to impregnating my mother (his girlfriend), as an 18-year-old country boy, impacted his moral outlook going forward into adulthood.  As far as I'm concerned, my father's entire identity is anchored in the notion of the prosperity gospel (well before anyone dubbed it as such).  Hence, after making that big time sexual mistake (& seeing it come forth even, into this world, as Rob, Jr.), there would be no more slip ups in that regard or otherwise.  

And I can vouch for that.

My dad has never made any time for lust.  He's never made any time for cheating.  He's never made any time for lying, and always, always attends church (& served as a deacon) on Sundays / Wednesdays.  The man doesn't drink or smoke or hang with those who do.  Now, he's by no means a saint, yet his appearance is consistently saintly, with no mention EVER of his teenage moral failings.  Whitewashed veneer is he.

And then there was me, his son.  Who eventually became an effeminate outcast as a young man who was quietly rejected (by him).  An outcast who, without the very stable home life he was given, his overactive imagination, and the gospel of Jesus Christ, would have been at great risk for losing every bit of his emotional / spiritual footing in this world of woe.   

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Now, let's change this up a bit before we close all this speculative thinking and hearsay out.

There's only been one occasion (that I distinctly remember) where I've heard a dad acknowledge his son's athletically built body in a way that felt sanctimonious.  And not surprisingly, considering the context, this occurred in reference to the son's past decisions relative to (not) playing college sports (as if his athletic build had been put to waste).  Decisions which the father regretted witnessing (likely because he'd have chosen differently had it been his choice to make).

I do recall being within the presence of family friends (both father & son present) who had sons who were respectfully acknowledged for their physical builds / athleticism, but these were super rare occasions that I simply stumbled upon.   One in particular occurred after a varsity football game when I was a young teen.  My grandfather and I had stopped by one of his fellow parishioners' homes, and during that short visit, I witnessed what I just described.  The only reason I was there was due to me visiting my grandparents within the Mississippi Delta as a teenager, and man, witnessing this affirmative event became the highlight of my stay with them that weekend.

Here's how it played out:  The unspoken yet respectful acknowledgement consisted of the athletically built teenage son presenting his semi-nude self post shower, in response to our visit (simply to say hello).  From what I recall, my grandfather and I were dialoguing with the boy's parents in their small living room when he came in to speak.  He was wearing shorts with no shirt, and his hair was still damp from his shower.  If I remember correctly, he did have a towel flung over one shoulder.  And all of these particulars made his greeting that much more dynamic as everyone, in turn, congratulated him on the "big win" (he was a player on the hometown varsity team) earlier in the evening.  

And that episode, my friend, is what I'd like to segue from since it points directly to the beginning of this post.  It may get a little weird from here on out, but I'm certain you'll not be surprised at that, considering the author of this post.

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Mr. Don Waller brought his college-age son along to the 2021 National Samson Society retreat a few weekends back.  I didn't spend too much time with either of them, but one thing I did take note of was Don's associative role (as father) versus what I'm used to seeing of him within those settings.

And I've tried to think through that in reverse.  Wondering how different an associative role truly is - as a dad - when your child is female.  Of course, there wouldn't have been any appropriateness to Don bringing his daughter to the retreat, but for comparison's sake, what if he had?  How might his associative role play been different - internally and otherwise?

The primary need that men have is respect, whereas the primary need women have is security.  And I believe that manly need has a great deal of cross pollination capability / opportunity between father / son.  And this is the key difference in rearing sons versus rearing daughters.

Sons are a male version of your DNA.  There's no denying they're a next male generation of a portion of you.  As such, I would argue, the efficiency / efficacy therein relative to this potential cross pollination (healthy or unhealthy) is noteworthy, if not undeniable.  And that's pretty exciting stuff to acknowledge.

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In closing, I spent close to an hour listening to a (new to me) Samson guy's story on Saturday night during the 2021 National Samson Society retreat.  He'd been referred to me, therefore in spite of my fatigue, I lent my ear.  This man was extremely articulate, highlighting his story episodically with a multitude of remembered dates.  Nonetheless, I simply wasn't all that absorbed in what he was disclosing, even with the calendared milestones that were there for reference.  And it wasn't as if it wasn't an interesting, relatable tale.  I just had other things on my mind.

Yet, he said something to me that took me aback.  And that was this disclosure:  he was grateful that he didn't end up (this man was a widower in his early 60s) with a son to rear due to his fear of sexualizing the boy. 

And him sharing that reminded me of something someone said to Rob when my first two daughters (the third was yet to be born) were small.  A colleague of mine (serving within a volunteer organization) relayed to me, off the cuff, that she was convinced that I was "better equipped" to father girls than boys.  Hence, she was glad to see me given that opportunity.

What the fuck?!?  (This was my internal reaction then.)

What the fuck?!?

Maybe someone had said something similar to this Samson dude.

The (Horny) Christian White Knight / "You Look Like Vice."

The first teenage girl that became infatuated with young (also teenage) Rob did so primarily via telephone conversations she and I had over the course of a few months.  This young, very sweet lady lived with her family in Saltillo, MS.  We'd met at a winter concert band event (hosted by a MS IHL) over the course of a weekend.  She played clarinet as I did, and me being as articulate as I was, we hit it off.  Over time, she lost interest, and this no doubt was accelerated by my unwillingness to frequent her repetitive (to me) invitations to awkwardly rendezvous while she was here in Jackson with her north Mississippi family.

Similarly, another girl (colleague from church) also fell (quite hard) for me thanks to Ma Bell, and this occurred despite the fact that this young lady lived in the Jackson area (near me).  At the outset of our relationship, Jean would call me from a local hospital (pay phone) as her parents were there visiting a dying relative (I believe it was her great uncle).  And this went on for a number of days / weeks, usually late in the afternoon / early evening.  I have no idea what we dialogued about for all those hours on end, but nonetheless, whatever it was, she obviously felt "attended to" enough to keep listening.

Me being an only child typically afforded plenty of opportunity & desire to chat it up with these friendgirls.  And this was especially the case during my early high school years (before I was frying more & more Chick-A-Fil during my junior / senior years).  Too, all of this made me feel like a nice Christian guy.

Angie and I had a long distance relationship while we were dating, and this occurred during my last year of architecture school at Mississippi State University.  While she was residing in Shreveport, LA, we'd chat most nights for hours.  I loved having this time with her.  It was a nice stopgap in light of the miles between us.

My brother-in-law was such the telephone magnate during his teen years that my in-laws installed a second telephone (land)line within their home just for him.  I distinctly remember looking Angie's home phone number up within the telephone directory on a handful of occasions, and always taking note of the indented verbiage that read (directly below):  Children's telephone....

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During the 2020 National Samson Society retreat, I had the privilege of sharing a meal with a Samson guy who was real-time resonating from a pivotal personal revelation (as a result of one of the workshop proceedings).  This man was in his late-50s / early-60s, and he explained to me how he'd been a victim of exploitation for much of his teen / young adult years.  Surprisingly, the predator in this case was his pastor's wife (who was obviously much older than he was at the time), and she did her wooing / predatory work always over the telephone (seductive phone sex).  This routine went on through his college years and well beyond 'till he reached his early 30s.  Yet, it wasn't 'till that 2020 retreat (decades later) that he recognized her predatory behavior for what it really was - predatory behavior.

During this year's National Samson Society retreat, I re-met another guy (who's closer to my age) who shared much more of his story (we only spoke briefly last year) with me (& a handful of other Samson guys who were in our small group).  I vaguely remembered him from last year.  Nonetheless, he remembered me, and from there he talked in detail about his longstanding issue with "white knight syndrome".

"White Knight syndrome" is the penchant to rescue the "damsel in distress" and as a result identify tremendously with said rescue, and it seems to take root within some men via childhood trauma.  

This guy's glamorized identity as a white knight revolved around an experience he had in middle school involving a close friend of his named Ben.  Ben asked for help relative to socializing with his "Australian cousin, Kyra" who was here visiting the states all by her lonesome.

This Samson guy agreed to make the effort to cold call fraternize with this young lady, and eventually this ongoing dialogue lead to seductive phone sex between the two children.

In the end, this Samson guy shockingly discovered that all of this hot and steamy middle school phone sex wasn't actually happening between himself and an Aussie named Kyra.  Instead, it had occurred between himself and Ben (his close friend) who'd been posing as Kyra all along.  

And this resulted in big time T.R.A.U.M.A.

After hearing this, I worked hard to triangulate between my now much more well acquainted friend and my aforementioned friend from 2020 (decades of phone sex with the pastor's wife), and the Lord facilitated that beautifully.  That, in and of itself, was super cool.  

Fast forward a bit into my new friend's (from this year's retreat) adult life, and you can see how this traumatic, privately sexualized middle school event (between he and his friend Kyra-Ben) powerfully affirmed / poisoned a distortion that took hold of his identity with a vengeance.

Thanks to social media (hurray for social media!), this white knight found himself reconnecting many years into the future with a (actual) female high school friend.  He did not disclose this online juncture to his wife, yet his friendgirl from high school did reveal her newly made (re)connection to her husband.

This now adult friendwoman had a number of personal problems (most of which stemmed from alcohol addiction) that this white knight quickly identified firsthand with great interest and compassion.  And despite their being geographically apart from each other (he lived in Nashville, her in Atlanta), they managed to eventually rendezvous and have intercourse.  

After this occurred a few times, her husband wised up to it and then the shit hit the fan.

According to this knight, all of that occurred +/-5 years ago.  Nonetheless, he divulged that he continues to long (obsess) for this damsel.  And he wasn't ashamed to admit to thinking of her everyday.  

His knighthood demands that he take covert ganders at her social media pages forlornly.  As such, there's the opportunity to affirm his validated fantastical identity (relative to her life's continued travails).

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To circle back to my super chatty brother-in-law, his first wife (who's now deceased due to alcohol poisoning) was his damsel in distress.  In fact, her entire family needed rescuing, according to him, therefore he gladly stepped up to the plate.  And no doubt, this was a noble cause backed by the purest of intentions, but their situation was far more intrinsically dysfunctional than he could have ever imagined.

Therefore, what resulted was him making a huge mistake that ended in much loss, heartache, and tragedy (as I referenced earlier).

It's important to know that there're few men who've known / experienced as much familial childhood trauma as my brother-in-law (at the hands of his parents).

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I've talked in the past about how women desire men to provide security for them, and in turn, men desire respect.  The White Knight syndrome, I believe, finds its root therein within this normal sequence of operations.  Especially under the guise of nice guy Christianity.  

It's fascinating to me how the White Knight fantasy can be elevated to such an incredibly important emotional plateau for both men and women, all the while finding its roots in what men and women truly want / desire out of romantic relations.

But this seems to be especially true when it involves seduction and intercourse (in the form of fornication / adultery). 

Within our culture, women aren't to be relegated to a weaker position in relation to men, yet some vilify their naturally identifiable circumstances to their advantage.  And, of course, the genders can be reversed as such with the woman being the one riding the white horse and the man wearing the flowing, pink gown.  It's uncommon but no doubt possible.

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There're an awful lot of individuals out there who're well positioned to be rescued.  Yet, it's best to remember that some of these will deliver the part with no regard for boundaries, perception or recourse.  Their one goal may very well be to seduce and entrap (without them even realizing it).   

On the opposing side of that truth is the White Knight.  No matter his intentions, he's setting himself up for nothing more than some intense orgasms.  And those only last for a few seconds at best. 

Lagniappe

Living Out The Remainder Of Life Sans Bio Brothers / Ushering In Loneliness

My dad's one of four Turner boys, born and reared in the Mississippi Delta.  This morning, around 4:30 AM, he became an only child due to his youngest brother, Ted, dying.  His older two brothers died in years past, and as such, neither of those two were close to him.  It's important to note that my father is in his late 60s, and in perfect health, therefore he's physically well positioned to live decades longer.

I can tell you now that the loneliness he's about to be faced with has the potential to shorten his life span tremendously.  And this is due to the fact that the loneliness will more than likely seed depression. 

A massive portion of my father's identity has always been tied to his "rank" (as boy #3) within that troupe of Turner men.  And that "rank" had the most relevancy in relation to his youngest brother, Ted.  I've actually never witnessed anything like it.  He served as Ted's "big brother".  And he had done so throughout his life.  This was a tenured position that no one could touch.  Except death, of course.

My father's penchant for nostalgia is unparalleled.  This may also play into his despair.  Especially whilst traveling through the Mississippi Delta town of Belzoni where he (& my mom) grew up (& adjacent to where my uncle Ted resided). 

Today marks the beginning of the remainder of my father's life.  My heart aches for him relative to facing his future as an only child.

Scars

 

Scars

(Note: all photographs taken by me, many years ago, in my hometown.)

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 40^th 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”