He Said - She Said / Entertainment (& Success!) From "Lies"

We've lived within our 1,550 sf abode for over twenty years.  Never have we replaced any of the floor finishes (carpet, wood flooring, ceramic tile) within the house despite the fact that we've lived with a chronic - under the wood floor - leak at / near the front door.  My theory is that this leak is the result of a large picture window that was either incorrectly installed or manufactured faultily.  The leak has badly stained the floor at the juncture of the floor plane and wall, and it's grown progressively worse (leak has expanded) over the past twenty years.  It's important to know that I can distinctly recall placing my head within my hands, all those years ago, upon first realizing that we had this leak.  For I knew it was going to represent a massive thorn within our home's building envelope. 

During the first year of living within this "garden home", the man who had the house constructed (who was always very uncooperative / resistant to take responsibility) did pay a flooring subcontractor to return and replace the then stained portion of the wood floor.  He did this after claiming that the leak had been successfully repaired.  But we soon discovered that the leak persisted.  Even after I paid thousands of dollars, years later, to have the exterior wall finish (EIFS) refinished / sealed / repainted (around this now identified leaky window), the leak persisted.

Throughout the decades that this has been going on, I've essentially been lying to myself about its severity.  And this is how I've chosen to deal with the problem.  Particularly as a homeowner who's also an architect.  It's really been the only way I've known to manage this chronic, very in-your-face water infiltration issue.  

At the present, besides the aforementioned wood floor staining, there's also no doubt that our primary floor finish (throughout the house), carpet, is now badly needing replacement.  And this is simply due to wear and tear.  Yet, I'm choosing to not lie to myself about that one because I've a successful plan with which to do something about it.  

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Lies are always more comfortable to exist within than reality, particularly when our problems are way more involved / complicated than we're equipped to handle.  Somewhat related to that is entertainment.  The majority of entertainment is fiction.  Rigorously developed / written / acted / directed / produced fiction.  Fiction that's so clever / inspiring that we consume each episodic occurrence with abandon as we put reality on hold within the background.  

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Growing up within the city of Madison during the '80s, there were no retail stores whatsoever other than gas stations, therefore my mother had to drive either to where Angie and I live now (on the Rankin County side of the Reservoir) or into Ridgeland (via Highway 51) to grocery shop.  The most convenient Ridgeland grocery store was dubbed the "Big Star", and I distinctly recall it always having a carousel of paperbacks for sale inside.   

As a child, reading was a passion of mine, therefore if I stumbled upon something that piqued my interest amongst the tomes on this oscillating wire rack, I'd usually place it in our shopping cart (hoping Darlene would not object).

It was during this time that I encountered the "unauthorized biography", and I would be remiss to not divulge that Moonlighting was one of my favorites TV shows as a teen.  As such, Mr. Bruce Willis' career was being established right before my eyes as the infamous David Addison.

I remember curiously leafing through the Bruce Willis unauthorized biography paperback, paying heed primarily to only the candid black & white photos of Bruce there in the middle of the scoop.  From there, I skimmed a lot before tossing that trash into the trash.

What this experience proved to me was that David Addison was far more important / impressive to me than Bruce Willis, yet it did plant a seed within me regarding the fact that a lot of something else was going on here, far removed from our glowing television set at 197 St. Augustine Dr.

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One of the most credentialed Samson guys I've come to know had quite the successful shoplifting career as an adolescent.  His methodology involved wearing a trench coat into big box retailers from which he'd stash his stolen wares.  Decades later, as an adult, despite his role as "Chairman of the Deacons" at the church he and his family frequented, he was a behind-the-scenes serial adulterer, using hook up smartphone apps to establish / maintain his ruse.  And this went on for years 'till the Ashley Madison hack occurred and he, like so many men, had their lies exposed.

This friend has confessed openly that so much about his public persona is a lie.  Particularly within the vocational realm.  Yet, he's trusted more in those character lies, to propel him forward, than his true self.  As such, so have his colleagues, who've done the promoting.  

It's as if he's recognized / accepted his decision to be more comfortable / capable pretending in order to get what he truly desires out of his life, yet within the background, there's this ever present conflict between what he's created and who he truly is.

That, my friends, is an example of truly living in tension.  And I believe many white collar men accept this as their own reality each and every day.

But there's got to be a relief valve, doesn't there?

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My mother's mother is almost 90-years old, and she lives with my mother's brother (her only sibling) in rural Humphreys County.  Like many Mississippians who're her age, she is not in the best physical, emotional or fiscal health.  My mom (with my grandmother concurring) believes it's best for her to live in her +/-900 sf rancher with my uncle (versus living alone or within a nursing home) out in the middle of nowhere.  And this has been her status quo ever since my grandfather died back in 2014.   

Last week, she fell inside the house and suffered some lacerations on her face / head.  It scared everyone in the family but particularly my mother who wasn't there to witness what actually occurred.  This obviously resulted in rushing her away for emergency medical care.  Care which is only available +/- an hour from her remote home.  This was the first time she'd fallen in all the years she'd lived within this home.

This week, she fell again, but this time it was outside on the concrete patio.  Immediately thereafter, she accused my uncle of pushing her down.  She came away with a broken clavicle as a result, per the doctor's analysis here in Jackson.  She stayed with my parents for a few days before being returned to her routine in the Mississippi Delta.

My uncle had telephoned my mother immediately before her fall, claiming she'd "gone crazy".  Darlene could tell that her brother and mother were having a heated exchange (which is not an uncommon occurrence) over some tomfoolery.  He denies accosting her.  Instead, he claims he reached out to steady her walker prior to her hard felt fall.

My uncle is known for his penchant for lying, therefore in spite of my grandmother's age / emotional / physical health, I'm of the opinion that she's the one to believe here.  Neither of my parents would ever willingly side with me though regarding this.  Instead, they'd rather conveniently move forward as if it had been her fault entirely, or simply not discuss it.  Therefore, all I can do at this point is feel powerless.

You must know that my uncle is an extremely intimidating man.  In fact, he's the most intimidating man I've ever known.  As such, I believe, lying comes easy for him since it's presented within such a threatening persona.  Both his build, but particularly his voice, fall in line with these attributes.  He is the epitome of redneck, white trash machismo that consistently telegraphs the notion of "don't even think of crossing me".  Yet, underneath all of that, he's a brilliant, extremely articulate guy with a heart that, at times, can show true care and concern in spite of his long track record of self absorbedness.

Throughout my life, I've watched my parents often cater to my uncle and his needs, but this truly went into overdrive when I was close to concluding my college career.  And my grandmother has modeled this for them, yet her approach has always been enabling.  She's wrongfully bailed him out of countless, very serious scenarios that he's found himself within (a few of which would have resulted in an accrued criminal record).  As such, Bob and Darlene have - at times - been just as relentlessly merciful.  I can relate to none of this since I've no siblings of my own.  Instead, throughout most of my life, I've simply been a silent observer of these emotionally charged familial dynamics between people whom I care for immensely. 

As such, I FIND THAT I HAVE NO NEED FOR MUCH OF ANY FICTION AT THIS POINT IN MY LIFE.  There's plenty of real-life drama these days, within my own family, to keep me in emotional knots / awake at night.  And these dynamics do a great job of doing just that.

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I wrote within an earlier post about utilizing gay porn to emotionally bank / connect.  

Despite the fact that it's been close to one year since I've consumed gay porn, I chose to do so yesterday.  And I can confirm that a whole lotta emotional banking / connecting did actually occur between me and those images.  Particularly taking into consideration what I now know of what went down earlier this week between my loser uncle and my sweet grandmother.  

The emotional connection I experience whilst consuming gay porn is hyper efficient, having been established all the way back to my childhood.  So much moreso than I truly care to admit to.  And I'm not sure how to not justify using it when I'm faced with emotional predicaments (that are out of my control) similar to the one I've described above.  

After the fact (later on into the evening / earlier today), I thought a good bit about attempting to rendezvous with my Silas over the weekend in order to simply experience some quality, platonic physical touch (I'm not in the mood to talk).  But I haven't done that.  Instead, I've chosen to simply write out where I'm at in tandem with talking to my sweet wife (who sensed immediately that something unfortunate had gone down relative to my sobriety when I walked through the door last night).   

In closing, I am so ready for the National Samson Society retreat to get here.  I long to hear some helpful truth(s) whilst experiencing those real world, hyper efficient emotional connections, allowing every ounce of it to wash over me in droves.   

Mother To Child: "You're Responsible For My Feelings. You're to Blame / To Be Celebrated For Me Feeling __________."

I referenced within an earlier post how important it can be that I keep a lid on my emotions here at the homestead (around my wife / daughters), and how that approach has, in the past (pre-Samson Society involvement), been detrimental to me successfully steering clear of lustful fantasies (supplemented by porn consumption or not) from the standpoint of using said fantasies as an emotional enema.   

But I'd like to expound on this a bit from the standpoint of what exactly my wife is forced to emotionally manage day in and day out.

And I want to do this because you may be able to relate either as a husband or wife relative to the dynamics of our situation.

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Firstly though, it's important that you know that my wife's mother is a widow whom lives just 7-8 miles from our abode.  She "stays" (as black people put it) within the same home Angie (who's now 50) and her brother (who's now 46) were reared in (in Jackson) throughout the majority of their school years (as students of Jackson Academy).  

This home was mortgaged by her parents, all those years ago, due to her father moving his brood back here from Hattiesburg - in response to an unexpected job loss - out of necessity to take another job.

This job loss and subsequent move no doubt (as it's been described to me) represented a major demotion for Angie's dad, and as such, her mother went off the deep end as a result.  And when I say went off the deep end, I mean she went batshit crazy over his job loss / demotion.

It's important to know that when I unexpectedly lost my job back in 2013, Angie was very intentional about staying emotionally / physically supportive of our family in spite of the obvious embarrassment / shame that manifested itself as a result.  And I must say, had she not been such a steely, consistently hopeful presence within our family's life during that dark season, I would surely not have endured the situation.  Angie reacted as such the contrarian - for her family - in response to what she'd witnessed from her own mother as a child (within a somewhat similar scenario).

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Emotional "flare ups", as I call them, do occur within our household, and more often than not, they're due to the inevitable internal dynamics between my wife and any number of our daughters.  There's a boatload of estrogen there, therefore...

I try hard to take them in stride, but there are times when I too, need to exhaust some emotions out of frustration / fatigue.

But when I do, and it's within earshot of my wife, this represents a problem for her.

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Angie's middle / high school years were filled with emotional torment.  Torment that put her (& her brother) squarely within the sights of her mother's penchant for refusing to take responsibility for her own feelings.  Therefore, Angie's default, even today as a 50-year-old wife / mother, is to blame herself for everyone else's feelings / state of mind.  Even if said feelings in no way involve her.  

It is the weirdest phenomena to experience, yet we're all so used to it, that it's become the norm.

So, here's the interesting part to all of this.

Angie's mother is a fiercely independent woman, yet she's now reached a point, due to advanced age, that she can no longer manage her affairs.  And this means, someone needs to step up.  Someone she should be able to trust (like her deeply scarred children).

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As Christians, we're called to serve.  Go the extra mile.  Turn the other cheek.  And Angie, for sure, learnt that growing up at First Baptist Church Jackson (alongside me). 

Jesus modeled all of these (as chronicled within the gospels) and FBC Jackson's senior pastor throughout the '80s (when she & I were children) both lived it out and preached it eloquently.

Yet, no amount of obedience to the commands of Jesus can come sans the supernatural.  Especially when that call to obedience happens to involve those whose hands have doled out their fair share of trauma.

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Dr. Laura Schlessinger often makes good sense whilst giving advice to her radio show listeners, but it's important to note that she is not a Christian.  As such, were she in my wife's shoes today, her mother's former emotional abuse would result in payback that consisted of a reciprocal neglect later in life.  I know this because it's one of my hang ups regarding her approach to advising her callers.  (Plus, she also lived this out with her own mother.)

Dr. Schlessinger often justifies this kind of response as one which stems from "mom tearing up her mother card".  In other words, mother's disqualifying themselves due to their neglect, therefore deserving to be forever punished by their children as a result.

It's a hardline, militant approach that completely ignores the prospect / joy of potential reconciliation, and one of the best slang terms that I've found for this is delightfully "burning bridges".

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One of my oldest friends just recently returned to the Jackson Metro after being terminated from a fantastic job opportunity within another state.  His former out-of-state employer is also a friend of mine / ours, therefore as you might imagine, this put me in quite the emotional quagmire.  And to make matters much worse (for everyone involved), my friend, who just recently moved back to Jackson, chose to burn the bridge between himself and our mutual friend (his former out-of-state employer) out of disgust regarding the situation that transpired.

And this man has served as a deacon in a number of local churches.

His rationale for behaving this way was rooted in one thing:  his feelings.  Feelings which consisted of outrage, disillusionment, mistrust, and so forth.  And I get that.  Those feelings are legitimate and deserve to be accounted for.

Yet, I disagree with his decision to blame others for those feelings, and in turn, punish them therein.  Especially when those others have such a longstanding track record of support and love.

As Christians, our overarching focus should be, each and every day, on eternity.  Eternity obtained via our inevitable death.  Eternity where Jesus is within our presence always.  

Why?

As our king (today and on into eternity), emulating his humility and care properly befits us as representatives of his grace.  Even within the most accusatory, unfair, debilitating circumstances that embroil us with heady, visceral emotions.

We are not our own.  We are now serving within his ranks.  Heaven will be ours to enjoy because of what he chose to emulate for us.  Christians are not to behave / react / enact like everyone else.

Lagniappe

Have You Too Been Hoodwinked Into Idolizing The Human Body?

One of the first lessons you learn within the Philosophy Of Architecture class is the most jarring, and that is that beauty IS NOT within the eye of the beholder.  As an architecture student at Mississippi State University from '90-'95, Philosophy Of Architecture was a required course as a sophomore.  Therefore, all of us second year students endured this enlightening experience there during our fall semester.

So obviously, this begs the question:  Who then does decide what's beautiful and what is not?  The critics do.  And these individuals have earned the right to do so.  For a great critic is far more experienced in doing so than non-critics.  They're experienced and educated.  And no, this doesn't always make them right, but it does up the ante relative to their adjudication batting average.  

Therefore, if you're ever wondering why a certain fashion trend is hot, paint color, or kitchen motif, you have only to look to the critics to thank (or loathe) for this.

To sum this up, I'll work to make a present day statement that should resonate with many of you.  Chip and Joanna Gaines built their fortune / influence on their roles as critics.  Though it may seem that their popularity is anchored in their million-watt smiles, it is not.  Instead, both of them are incredibly gifted critics, and this means that their ability to adjudicate beauty - within single-family homes, home furnishings / decor - is off the charts.  And to be as equally weighted as they are, in this regard, as a couple, is rare indeed.  

The Gaines have harnessed this talent by packaging it within a super approachable Texan folksiness that's made them a fortune.  Thanks be to God that their show wasn't dubbed Fix-a-fucker, otherwise, there'd be that many more westerners (& otherwise) - then there already are - saddled with chronic porn consumption issues.

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99% of architecture students (back when I was a student) weren't athletic and very few were involved in Greek life.  But, there was one student who was a couple of years behind me that did serve as a male cheerleader, and as such, donned the mascot ("Bully") costume for a handful of seasons.

As such, this young man was most definitely athletically built, and this made him stand out like a sore thumb amongst the rest of us.  But, it didn't help matters that this physically anomalous student was completely at peace with "exposing" his body.  Therefore, during the spring semester, as the temps were beginning to climb, it wouldn't be unusual to see him out sunning himself within the architecture building amphitheater.  I can remember specifically feeling torn between what he obviously saw as naturally pleasurable versus my own powerful - almost instinctual - urge to idolize his flesh.

Fitness magazines, published for men, which were readily available on magazine stands during the mid-'80s, offered me the opportunity as a middle schooler to idolize those images therein.  And, of course, the publisher didn't care who purchased the periodical or whether someone was idolizing their photos.  All they were interested in was sales.  

I can vividly recall the shame I felt in having to explain to my mother (she couldn't help but notice the grape purple bag) that I'd purchased an "Exercise For Men Only" mag from our local K&B drugstore.  

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Paul Freeman is an Australian photographer whose repertoire is nude or semi-nude men.  And more often than not, the men he photographs aren't within a studio space but within much more naturalistic environments.  If you look at his work, it's apparent that he's a superb critic of the male body, yet the images that he publishes aren't - at least to me - titillating in the least.  

So what separates his work from what I was exposed to as a young boy within the aforementioned fitness mags?

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Pornography's sole purpose is to illicit a titillating response.  Early exposure to porn versus non-pornographic imagery that respectfully celebrates the human body can short circuit a boy's embracing / understanding / appreciation for the beauty that lies within both his own and others' flesh, particularly if he's unsure of his own "fleshly worth".

More often than not, this exposure occurs during adolescence, and as I alluded to earlier, this can be a decidedly unbecoming development within the life of a teenager.  For he knows he's being taken advantage of, yet his hormones (& perhaps his home life, etc.) are seemingly working in favor of this private curse.  It's a bad, bad scenario that's especially prone to screw up a kid's head if it happens to be within a vacuum.

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As a side note, all forms of body augmentation from anabolic steroid use to breast implants to tattoos, I would argue, stem from man's idolization of the body versus appreciation.  And this is because, these augmentations are "permanently" enhancing the body to be more in line with someone else's ideal (either real or photographed).  

For example, an athletically built man who sees an anabolic steroid using athlete is likely going to immediately notice the size differences between his own drug-free body and that of the juiced dude.  Similarly, a woman with regular sized breasts, encountering her artificially endowed sister, can't help but notice her silicone implanted chest.  And finally, an ink-free individual, rubbing shoulders with someone he admires - who happens to be expertly tattooed - may very well soon obtain his own first tattoo.

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So what's the recipe for success in recircuiting our brains to see pornography for what it is (cheap, intrusive, disrespectful, debilitating, harmful, poisonous, toxic, explosive, robbing)?

I would argue the first step is recognizing where you were (& how exactly) initially hoodwinked by Satan to elevate / idolize the human body as you did.  And from there, invest a boatload of time in unpacking that deceit (perhaps alongside a trained professional) prior to working hard to forgive yourself for so much shame and guilt that you really weren't solely responsible for experiencing.

In closing, remember that God created man in his own image (including his sex organs).  We are image-bearers.  God too, created sexuality, from the reproductive process itself to arousal and everything in between.  We are not meant to be ashamed of our sexual desires, nor are we meant to not see each other through a sexual lens.  

Lagniappe

"There So Few Christians There"

My oldest daughter is slated to return to her college dorm later on this afternoon, now having accomplished her initial 3-weeks as a freshman (& being home for this long holiday weekend).  I had breakfast with her on Sunday morning, and she let me know how surprised she was to experience a community of students & faculty - at her chosen university - that was so very (relatively) pagan.

Her response instantaneously returned me to my freshman experience back in the fall of 1990, and back then, I was also "being educated" at a public institution here in Mississippi. 

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Arguably, the college experience's biggest liability is the spiritual vacuum students are so often faced with.  And I'm not referring to curriculum or campus life.  I'm referring to the true influence - peers, professors, etc.

This is, of course, unless the student respectfully recognizes and subsequently maps out her situation, knowing full well whom she belongs to all the while.

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For Rob, it was the architecture school professors, whom I respectfully yielded to, that surprised me the most.  Their outlook was always so clinical and devoid of any sort of eternal perspective.  As such, I would especially appreciate those who'd make a point to smile and crack jokes in order to lighten the ever ominous (who's going to change majors / "double D" next?) mood.

I remember - particularly as a freshman - feeling like I'd been caught up in an entirely different world.  A world of ever present academia, amongst leadership that was far more knowledgeable than anything I'd ever witnessed.  

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But then there was marching band.  What a godsend it was.  I played clarinet and marched with hundreds of other students - every late weekday afternoon for practice and at most weekend football games.  The band directors were down to Earth and no doubt Christian.  Polar opposites of the majority of my professors.

It was there that I could simply exhale (literally) each and every day, no longer having to take notes, worry over project deadlines or professors' expectations.  Instead, it was simply a maximized (massively scaled up) experience of high school band which is where I'd felt most comfortable simply being myself during the previous five years of my life.  

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Samson Society is a similar reprieve for me today.  Tuesday evening (tomorrow night), I'm anticipating attending (for the first time) the Pruitt Baptist Church meeting.  Especially from the standpoint of me not having the honors of facilitating the meeting.  

It's nice having that reprieve.  That opportunity to exhale.  Especially when you're subject to - as we all are - the real world.  A world where there're so few Christians.  I am so thankful God ushered me into this community of men.   

Lagniappe

More lagniappe 

Theology Of The Turners' Bodies (With Particular Attention Paid to My Own)

I described Rob's body politics within my last post as such:   complete unrecognition / avoidness / blindness.  To sum that up, I like to use the word void.  This is absolutely the best word I've come up with to describe what happens when I attempt to see my physical self.

Therefore, it begs the question:  How can you love something you simply cannot see nor have ever seen?

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When I was a teen, and please know that what I'm about to say simply didn't grow out of teenage angst, I did not feel as if my dad was truly my biological father.  Now, as a result of this, I also didn't believe my mother had become impregnated with little me via another suitor, therefore overall, I sort of made the assumption that I couldn't possibly be a "natural born citizen" within our fam.  Now, I'm not going to go into all of the why behind my feeling this way, as it pertained to Robert, Sr.  But trust me, in many ways, he reciprocally felt the same about me.  It made for a childhood where I would find myself enviously looking at my friends' relationships with their dad's (& more than likely the same was occurring with my father enviously looking at his peers - & especially his brothers' - sons).

Therefore, with no siblings to parade around with (or seek counsel from) whilst growing up, I was left to wonder why I felt like such the oddball - particularly as a teenager.  

And to expound further regarding this, I also naturally looked hard at my uncles (my dad's three brothers) / cousins (each & every one of them male children) and was unsuccessful in locating a reprieve.  Though I loved these men / boys and enjoyed spending time with them (& of course, still do) as my known family, I just didn't BELIEVE that I fit into the group.  At all.  BUT IT HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH HOW THEY TREATED ME.  They truly were (& still are) really wonderful family members to have.

(I feel obligated to interject THAT.)

My hunch today, whilst looking back, is that the similarities / pedigree were / was absolutely there; its just that I couldn't see them in me myself.  And I still today don't know why that was / is.

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It is so pagan-feeling going to Wal-Mart on a Sunday morning.  I know that firsthand, having shopped there this AM.  

We've been having Sunday morning church at our abode - over the past month or so - due to the uptick in COVID-19 cases throughout our state, therefore this lends itself to even (at times) executing our family church service on Saturday evenings - if need be (which we did last night).

As I was hurriedly shopping at Wal-Mart (surgically masked), I walked past an unmasked guy whose eyes locked with my own.  A few seconds later, I wondered aloud if I actually knew that guy.  By this point, I was much closer to my big box store destination zone (hardware), yet I couldn't help but continue to ruminate on his face / build, trying to put my recollective thinking into gear.

"Where do I know that guy from?"

After placing my needed items into my shopping basket, I eventually made my way to the self checkout section, and fortunately, I spotted him again.  

Then I remembered where he and I used to interact!

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Throughout my life, I've had a love-hate relationship with my imagination.  For on the one hand, it's what - in may ways - consistently springboarded me from my adolescent identity vacuum, but on the other hand, wrought so much regret and anger relative to fueling my propensity to willfully sin.

At the center of that chronic routine was what I've dubbed my archetype.  An amalgamation of masculine physical attributes - that embodied for me - a sexualized ideal of what it meant to be a man.  This archetype was, more often than not, (within my sexual fantasies) an imagined big brother, uncle, next door neighbor, teacher, coach, and on and on.  Any of which would eventually work towards seducing me into engaging in homosexual relations.

It was through the "pursuit and subsequent validation" of this archetype that I attempted to endure the void.  For he (singular) was as affirming as any group of ideal athletic teammates might very well be whilst all the while being more comfortable with me (& accessible to me) than I was with my own self.

The aforementioned fellow Wal-Mart patron (whom I eventually recalled was a former friend from over a decade prior) happened to - past & presently - embody my archetype both physically and emotionally.  He was / is the ideal, and this is a significant truth.

And as a side note, the fact that this former friend continues to be so (at our close-to ages), is rare indeed.  For most middle-aged Mississippi guys aren't anywhere near the physical parameters of my archetypical, masculine male (which is a godsent reality for me).

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In the past, encountering my archetype as I did this AM at my local big box retailer would have elicited quite the elicit response.  Particularly taking into account a long since forgotten friendship with the individual.

And as such, days and days, if not weeks and weeks would likely have gone by where me being privately consumed with that encounter were the absolute norm.  

And as a side note to that, when I began consuming gay porn online (back in late '90s), the impetus for that was me realizing how expeditiously / efficiently I could locate (search engines) and therefore harness those salacious facsimiles similarly (sexual fantasy).  All in reaction to the void / vacuum / blindness or whatever you want to call it.

To be clear, it wasn't that I wanted to be these archetypical men.  All I was looking for (through sexual fantasy) was a means to manage the pain of acknowledging the reality of the void itself.  But it was those specific archetypical men who were the key.  And I'm not sure why that was either.

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In closing, it is incredibly difficult to face the truths that I've written about here.  Not only emotionally but intellectually (particularly from the standpoint of there being so many unanswered questions).  As such, I don't believe I even began to truly wrestle with my own body politics 'till I was well into my 30s.    

I do remember, as a much younger man, wishing I had a body that I felt at peace with (self-affirmation), but even as I took action to change my build (age 36+), it had no impact on clarifying my visibility. 

So here's that question again:  How can you love something you simply cannot see nor have ever seen?

The only thing that has even a remote impact today is holding fast to what I believe of God's take on me (as well as all of his children).  His promises.  His narrative.  His approach.  

Otherwise, I'd simply be blind all around.

Sometimes only having a peripheral view of yourself does in fact prescribe an outlook that drives more truth / more faith and less comfortableness with a holy God.

"To Bloom Where You Are Planted" - Finding Peace In The Places Where Life Takes You

 

We Should Bloom Where We Are Planted...

In the video clip above, two friends are standing on a bridge. The character of Lee has been trying to encourage his friend, Griffith, to abandon his family and to leave the state of Mississippi in order to pursue better opportunities. Griffith, rooted firmly into the soil of Mississippi, is very reluctant to leave, and ultimately ends up staying in his beloved Mississippi. This clip is one that has always resonated with me.

When I turned 40 years old last September, it didn't really hit me all that hard. Really, my 40th birthday came and went just another day in my life. It was nothing special, and I had previously requested no parties, accolades, or surprises from my family. Of course, being in the middle of the Covid 19 pandemic help to ensure that any birthday celebrations would be at a minimum. For months prior to my birthday arriving, the thought had been lingering at the back of my mind that I would soon approach 40 years of age, and would soon embark on my 40th journey around the sun. Longevity does not seem to be in my favor, as all four of my grandparents passed away before ever reaching their 90s. My longest living grandfather was 87 when he passed away four years ago, while both of my grandmothers passed away in their 70s. Arriving at my 40th birthday served as a sobering reminder to myself – I am more than likely halfway through living the earthly life that God has blessed me with here. Of course, I very well know that none of us are guaranteed tomorrow, and I could very well die at any moment, a victim of any number of maladies. But when I take into consideration that my natural lifespan (Lord willing) is most likely going to be the mid-80s at maximum, it is indeed a sobering thought.

I spent so many years of my life living in anger and denial, repressing things that had happened to me and not knowing how to process those thoughts, or even understanding that I should begin to process those thoughts. Thoughts of guilt, shame, anger, hurt, bitterness, and betrayal; all these thoughts were packed up in the boxes in my attic, and I was determined to never go up in the attic and bring those boxes down or to let anyone else see the contents of those boxes. Being a part of Samson has forced me to make several trips up into the attic began to take the boxes down and go through the pieces – shattered pieces of my life – and look at them and figure out what the heck to do with them. Since becoming involved in Samson back in 2014, I have been on a journey of self-discovery, examination, acceptance, healing, forgiveness, and just allowing myself to be loved by others. It hasn't been an easy path, and there have been many times where I have slid back. But with the help of others and with God, I've made a lot of progress.

Due to the nature of my dad's job, we were very mobile when growing up. Over the course of my K-12 years, I went to any number of schools within three separate school districts. By the time that I arrived in Petal, Mississippi in the summer of 1993, I was shutting down. I was angry, bitter, incredibly hurt, and unable to express myself to anyone. Growing up in a relatively rural area in the 1990s, there was no one to open up to and even if there had been, I certainly would not have known how to even begin to do so. The older that I grew, the harder that my heart grew. By the time I reached the end of my high school years, I was drifting. To intensify an already rough situation, my family dynamics were extremely strained during my 11th to 12th-grade years. At the beginning of my freshman year in college, my dad's job transferred him to Louisiana, and he, my mom, and my younger brother all moved off and left me to attend college in Mississippi. I was not sure what I wanted to do when I got out of high school, but my parents absolutely put their foot down and insisted that I must go to college. Looking back, I think that it would've been a much wiser decision if I had taken a year off between high school and college to work and to just find myself and to just find my way in life. But I didn't.

It is a long story, but straight out of college I was hired by a national corporation that ran the largest store in Grand Canyon National Park on the south rim. Originally, I was set to begin teaching overseas (my college degree was in English) in the fall, and I simply wanted to go out West for the summer just to get away and to experience life someplace other than Mississippi. Little did I know, but when I arrived at the Grand Canyon National Park store, they would like me so much that they put me to work upstairs in the accounting department on a permanent basis. What was intended to be a summer job turned into a two-year gig which found me living at the National Park on a full-time basis. My time there was bittersweet, and I was haunted for so many years upon my return to Mississippi by the experiences that I had out there and some of the things that I had done.

My beautiful bride and I met when we were in college together. We dated for two years in college, then went our separate ways after we graduated from the University. We decided to stay together long-distance while I was in Arizona, though I will be the first to tell you that it is incredibly hard to maintain any type of relationship over a long distance. After two years in Arizona, I received news of my beloved maternal grandmother's failing health and so I made the decision to leave my job in Arizona time back to my home state of Mississippi to start graduate school for my first Master's degree, get married, and spend time with my grandmother. My wife (then fiancée) moved to Clinton, Mississippi in the fall of 2007. We were married that December in 2007, and only intended to be in Clinton for the duration of the time that I was in graduate school.

I had such grandiose plans for our lives – we were going to go to another state (preferably somewhere with less humidity) and live a beautiful life blissfully happy in a place that was anywhere but in Mississippi as most of my other relatives have done. But something really strange happened along the way. We somehow got stuck in a time warp, and it is now 2021 – nearly 14 years later. And guess what? We are still living in Clinton, Mississippi. Not only are we still living in Clinton Mississippi, but we also have a house, a kid, three dogs, and many, many friends here. I was thinking about that the other day. In a mere few weeks, my son is about to start his second-grade experience in elementary school. Even as recently as a few years ago, my wife and I struggled with trying to figure out what in the heck we wanted to do with our lives. While we both have great jobs here, we have family scattered all over the United States. Aside from my mom and dad, we are basically the only ones still here in Mississippi. Well, that and I also have an eccentric great aunt that means the world to me and that we love dearly. During the time that we have been married, we have buried all four grandparents, a great uncle, another great uncle, and my wife's grandmother. So we really do not have that much family left here in Mississippi.

But you know, it really is a funny thing. You don't have to be related by blood in order to be family with people. My wife and I have a wonderful church family that we love dearly, and I have never had a chance to be a part of the same church for more than 13 years. Prior to moving to Clinton, I had never had the opportunity to live for nearly 14 years in one location. My Samson family is here, my friends are here, my job that I love dearly is here, and my church family is here as well.

People knock on Mississippi all the time and say what a horrible place it is to live. But they just don't know. I have lived out West, and I have also had the pleasure of visiting many other states. While the weather here is warm in Mississippi, the people are even warmer. You just don't find the graciousness, kindness, and generosity in a lot of people in other states as you do in the people of Mississippi.

I am 40 years old, and there are still times when I feel like I am stuck in a rut – I have lived in the same house, been married to the same woman, gone to the same church, had the same dog, and lived in the same town for nearly 14 years now. Part of me thinks that it shows a lack of ambition on my part to not want to advance past the confines of Mississippi and find a better life elsewhere. But then it really hit me all of a sudden last year when I hit 40 years old during Covid – it is an absolute blessing! When my wife and I asked our son the other day if he ever wanted to move, he said no, "I love my church, my friends, and my school!" And then I thought to myself – the grass is not always greener and what a wonderful gift it is that God has given me to be able to provide my son with the stability that I did not have when I was growing up. My wife was born in El Paso Texas, the daughter of a high-ranking military official. Although her parents eventually got divorced, she spent her early childhood being bounced around from city to city and she and her brother both have PTSD as a direct result of this. My wife and I directly attribute our respective childhoods as a contributing factor in our hesitancy to move in our adult years.

My wife and I talked a few weeks ago and we both realized that at some point over the past year, we both individually came to the conclusion that this is home. Perhaps there is more money to be made in other states. Perhaps there are better opportunities in other states. Perhaps we have grown complacent and become stuck in a rut. But you know what? That is okay. God is good, all the time. And all the time, God is good. He has given me so many opportunities here in Mississippi to continue to pour into others, as well as let others pour into me. The wounds of my childhood have finally begun to heal. The comfort that I feel living here in my house with my beautiful bride, wonderful son, and three annoying dogs is never something that should be taken for granted. Nor is it something that should be seen as a sign that I am stuck in a rut. I heard God say last year very clearly: live where you have been planted my child and enjoy this gift that I have given you while living the life that I have blessed you with.

My wife and I have always loved to travel. These days, we don't travel nearly as much as we did before the days of having a kid, as we are bound by the constraints of full-time jobs, the kid's schedules, dogs, and a household to manage. But we do travel, it is usually to visit relatives in other states. But you know the funny thing? Whenever I am returning to my home in Clinton and I hit the home stretch of road, a huge smile slowly spreads its way across my face and I think to myself "I am home."

I finally understand that whether it's the life I had imagined, I am living the life that God had planned for me in the place he decided to put me. And there, I have found healing.

Desperation To Fit In & Be Loved For What You Bring To The Mix

I've never been desperate to fit in amongst my peers, and I suppose this is due to my sexuality.  Knowing as a boy that I was potentially going to be seen as a threat or liability by someone within the group - by default - I learned early on to focus my emotional longings towards intense (chronic) sexual fantasy. 

Starting within childhood, all of us boys desperately work to find value within the mix of other boys (real or imagined).  And as a result, it doesn't take us long to adjudicate where we may precisely fit in - unless there's nowhere to fit in.  This desperation to fit within the mix can be especially torrential if we don't click with dad / within dad's community.  

For example:

Let's say a boy's legal guardians are his grandparents (his father's in-laws), and their guardianship has been from the boy's birth.  As a result, much of boy's masculine persona is imprinted upon him by his (grand)father (who's in no way genetically kin to the boy's biological father).  Yet, the bio dad spends some time with his son (a couple of weekends a month), and hopes for the boy to synchronize with his modus operandi (particularly as a teenager).  But, it ain't happening.  And then from there, both the bio dad and son find both heartache and frustration as a result, and their relationship suffers.

And, of course, the (grand)father simply looks on with a grin.  For better or worse.

The boy, on the other hand, may just asks himself, "Where do I go from here?  If I don't fit in with my own biological father, where can / do I fit in?"

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I loathe team sports.  Always have.  But, I'm in the minority here, and I've always recognized this.  All that being said, I admire boys' / men's passion for team sports despite my not relating to that passion.

Team sports exist for a number of reasons, but one, in particular, is to satiate the desperation boys (& girls) experience to fit into the mix.  They're looking for that synergy that comes with working together as a team.  Parents too vicariously experience (yet again) the thrill of synchronized community whilst catering to their children's same longings, therefore it can be an amazing familial win-win.

Similarly, is the existence of youth gangs / cartels.  Again, there's that universal longing to fit into the mix.  Even if crime is involved.  This risk of criminal punishment / criminal record pales in comparison to be integrated therein.

Cults work the same way.  Bizarre beliefs are easily stomached when one's desperate.  Particularly if there's an intricate ordering (rank) involved.

And on and on.  You get my point.

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But if we look to the example that Christ left us via the gospels, we don't see this kind of behavior / longing.  Instead, all he desired was pleasing his heavenly father.  Now, he did assemble the disciples, and they followed him throughout his earthly 3-year ministry, but there's absolutely no hint that Jesus longed to fit into the mix of those dudes and therein earn love and acceptance.  Read Matthew, Mark, Luke & John and tell me if you see otherwise.

Of course, you can argue here that we're not Jesus.  Instead, we're more like those 12 disciples.  And that's a true statement, but only on the surface.  For if you look at the behavior of the disciples (the book of Acts) post-resurrection of Christ, it's markedly different than before.  As if they've been radically changed as a result of their now redirected / clarified priorities and the infusion of the Holy Spirit (which descended at Pentecost - again documented within the book of Acts).

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A handful of years into my tenure at an architecture firm here in Jackson (back in the late '90s / early '00s), I began to become less and less interested in fitting into that particular mix.  As a result of this, my tongue began to loosen considerably relative to what I was actually seeing (character / persona) of my four bossmen.  And almost all of this lollygagging was no doubt in jest, yet on one particular occasion, despite the obvious air of sarcasm, I witnessed what I'd not realized existed prior.  

The particular joke I released on this day had to do with one of my boss's physical seniority (he was 10 years older than I was) in relation to me.  And it was executed amongst a handful of my younger colleagues and my then boss back in what was dubbed the "drafting room" of this firm.  

And then something truly bizarre took place.

You must know that the "drafting room" of this particular firm held 6 built-in drafting tables which all surrounded a very large built in island (which served as our laydown space - for drawings).  My bossman, wearing dress slacks and high dollar Cole Haan shoes (his typical uniform), literally leaped - from a standstill - up onto the island moments after I released my sarcastic joke about his "seniority" over me.  To summarize, he did this in reaction to me jocularly pointing out his "old age".  

Everyone was so stunned by this bizarre reaction that we simply stood there speechless, looking up at him now standing on top of the island.  In fact, I don't even remember how he got down from there.  It was simply all so surreal.

I realized in that moment how, despite my own beginnings of relinquishment of the desire to fit into the mix, that he was nowhere near that same point.  Yet, he was 10 years my senior.  And this was incredibly eye opening to me; for he desperately wanted to still be seen as part of the mix.

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What is one reason the notion of driving fancy cars and living in fancy single family homes is elevated as it is within our culture?  And what actually drives lifestyle creep?

What is one reason professional and college sports teams are obsessed over?

What are some reasons men invest in deer camp memberships, set aside time to listen in to shock jocks, and prioritize time to watch loads of porn?

And finally, to circle back to the beginning, what is one reason some men purposefully pursue higher and higher standing up and up the corporate / institutional / government ladder (besides the pragmatics of increasing their income)?

I think it's the boy inside.  For these men, he's still very much in control.  Even though, he's long since been eclipsed by physical manhood.  Little boy demanding attention.  Little boy refusing to grow up.

And this is a fascinating truth to ruminate on.  It is astounding to me how much brain power many of us men exude relative to attempting to satiate our desperation for fitting into the mix.

Men Trending Underneath The Banner Of Disappointment / Frustration

All of us experience disappointment and frustration.  It's a result of having expectations and those expectations not being met.  As a man in my early 30s, I vividly recall the last 2-3 years of my tenure at an architectural firm here in Jackson.  I was extremely disappointed in so much (multifaceted) of what that job represented to me at that point in time, and in fact, I was also using that disappointment as an excuse / fuel to sin (in the form of chronic lust via Internet porn use).

But too, combined with all this, was how circumstantially I'd found myself tempted to sin (at work).  Therefore, all of that made for a very challenging few years there at that particular place of employment.

As a result of all this, I knew I needed to move on.  So much so, in fact, that I even looked (& prepared) for an entirely new vocation away from architecture entirely.

And this is where disappointment and frustration can be productive, helpful tools of God, teaching and guiding us through firsthand experience.

From there, a state government job came to fruition, and though it was far from perfect, I banked my appreciation of my new job on what I absolutely did not miss from my previous one.  And this is how disappointment / frustration should and certainly can work to one's advantage.

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But what of those individuals who tend to stay within a consistent loop of disappointment / frustration?  Perhaps pertaining to far more than their work.  What if this bent towards disappointment / frustration revolves around many, if not all, of the relationships they are part of?  Also, what if it applied to their church?  Their marriage?  And so forth.

Over the past few decades, we've come to be more and more dependent / expectant of the ubiquity of customization - down to every minutiae - relative to every aspect of our lives.  From the food we eat to the clothes we wear to the people we interact with to the gender / hair / eye color of the child (invitro fertilization) we choose to parent.  And this is all quite gee whiz, but what comes alongside all of this opportunity for customization also comes two things.  One, the tendency to be disenfranchised quite easily - with all manner of things, and two, the powerfully impressionable notion that IT'S ALL ABOUT MY NEEDS / MY DESIRES / MY WANTS and how they're specifically being met.

Thusly creating some men who tend to gravitate towards disappointment / frustration as their default.  All the freaking time.  Kinda like having a toddler's outlook.

Therefore, these cyclical feelings of disappointment / frustration become the norm for them (& everyone they interact with), therefore circumstantial maturation may be thwarted due to this juvenile outlook regarding just about everything.

As such, for those of us who endear towards these individuals - friends / spouses / children, we're put in a tough spot.  For we know if we question this temperamental cycle of disappointment / frustration, we may very well be labeled reflexively, and from there, cast aside as "yesterday's disappointing / frustrating mistake".  

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I find that guys who're within the camp that I've described above are often habitual justifiers relative to porn, drug, alcohol usage because of this predisposition towards disappointment / frustration.  

I hurt to see guys - seemingly programmed by our few decades past gee whiz culture - to have a modus operandi as such.  

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Yesterday, I had a friend ask me over lunch if I'd take the opportunity - if given - to have my homosexual urges removed forever.  This is a difficult question to both ask and answer.  I told him no, I wouldn't.  And my rationale for that choice is twofold.  Firstly, I've already asked repeatedly (when I was a teenager), and they didn't cease to be.  Secondly, as a result of that, it taught me to build upon that particular long-term disappointment / frustration, changing my outlook permanently.  

And what I mean by that is recognizing how particularly wonderful being burdened / neutered - so to speak - truly can be.  For you learn to trust in Christ to carry your brokenness both figuratively and literally (at times), and as a result it serves as a constant reminder of why we were called to be Christians in the first place (to surrender ourselves wholeheartedly & in turn serve others in lieu of ourselves).   

From there, situations / individuals who end up not meeting my / our expectations, I find, are given more grace than they otherwise would be.  For I too was / am shown grace that originated initially in me being lassoed in by the gospel of Jesus Christ in tandem with my conviction relative to my chronic sin.

In closing, one other positive attribute to being consistently disabled by some version of a spiritual thorn is how it forces you / us to make peace with your pain.  Oftentimes, I believe, those who're predisposed to disappointment / frustration seem to be hyper-sensitive to discomfort / pain, and therefore tend to look immediately for some version of an escape in tandem with chronic complaining.

I'm not sure where this hyper sensitivity comes from, but it reeks of immaturity.  

May God help us all to properly differentiate between fully communicative (& therefore) helpful disappointment / frustration and that which is simply a kneejerk reaction to circumstances that bring us / take us into a season not necessarily of our choosing.

Lagniappe

On Wednesdays, Refill The Bird Bath With Bottled Water Only!

I'm at my most vulnerable relative to entertaining lust-fueled musings (fantasies) whilst lying next to my sweet wife immediately following turning in for the night.  Isn't that weird?  But, it's the truth.  

I have to assume this (today) is due to habit.  Habit formed literally over the course of my lifetime.  For I can vividly remember using this "turn-in bedtime" routine from middle school forward.

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For six years, I was a state of Mississippi government employee, and I loved the work.  But the one thing I quickly learned was how integral procedure is to being a member of a bureaucracy.  Exact procedure.  So much so, in fact, that a sizable portion of your value was directly linked to how adept you were at following procedure to a tee.  

Many years ago, a very noteworthy Christian book was published which detailed a procedure to best manage episodic lust as a God-fearing man.  And, as you might imagine, it became a bestseller.  For who wouldn't want a formula to eradicate lust?  The target audience were men who were wired to resonate with an instinctual bent.  And those Type A's (as I call them), soaked in the advice, and I believe for many of these men, their resolution to lust-fueled fantasies was met.

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For me, I learned early on as a teenager that my penchant for lust was directly linked to a specific purpose-driven need, and 'till that need was met healthily, no amount of procedural hurdles would keep me from it.

And God has provided relative to those needs as I've aged, though not necessarily within the compositional keepings that I would have preferred.

For example, while we lived in Cleveland, MS during the majority of 2013, I had zero friends - either there or back here in Jackson.  And that made for an extremely isolated year.  We were actively involved in our local church, but small group interaction wasn't encouraged.  Too, we were living within a rental house that didn't lend itself to entertaining - at all.

So, I took a heaping dose of reality check during that year.  And God used it to sear into my brain the importance (for me) of relational accountability (through close male friendship).

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In closing, we cannot always have circumstantially what we crave / closely desire relative to intimacy with others (or even God).  But we can take stock of those experiences when we once did have that - in fullness of measure and even overflowing.

Memory can take precedent over present-day reality.  Therefore, this is all the more reason to catalogue experiences and even photograph them.  And from there, display / ruminate on those memories when temptation strikes.

And too, there's something to be said for simply rolling onto one's stomach.

White Hot Heart(s)

Using other men as a conduit to emote.  Similar to music.  [Those are the notations I made in advance of writing out this post.  If I don't take notes, me will forget where I'd like to take the narrative.]

A young Samson guy who took to Samson Society like a duck to water used to describe how emotionally overwhelming attending meetings was for him.  And what he was referring to wasn't empathy but actual emoting.  Efficient, expedient emoting unlike any he'd experienced prior (except maybe whilst engaging in sex with is girlfriend / wife).

This young professional found the meetings provided him with a setting and therefore means to emote.  And emote he did.  All manner of emoting.  In fact, his emoting went from one end of spectrum to the other and back again (throughout the tenure of our friendship and his relation to our local Samson Society groups).  It was like releasing the Kraken.  No doubt a marvel to behold.  

It's important to note that this Samson guy didn't happen to struggle with same sex attraction, but otherwise he reeked of gayness.  And not necessarily in his mannerisms but mostly within his demeanor / outlook / temperament.  And others besides me had corroborated this to him directly.  Gay men are typically highly intelligent and articulate, therefore they're often hyper-critical relative to their outlook on just about everything around them.  This Samson guy was like that to a tee, yet he was immensely straight.  To the point of often being in anguish if he found himself out of step with the expectations of the women (mother, sisters, work colleagues, wife, daughter) in his life.  Hence, in a way, he was sorta super-straight.

There are those gay men who're out there who fall into the category of generally (averaging relational time) miserable to be around.  He could at times be one of those guys.  Nonetheless, it was very cool seeing him find such emotional challenge from the meetings and all the positive relationships that developed as a result.  For this was a dude who relished a challenge, and obviously Samson Society (meetings & otherwise) provides ample opportunity for those inclined.  As such, I loved having him with us for such a time as that.

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For Rob, the act of emoting through another guy first occurred when I was in high school.  It was whilst working at Chick-A-Fil in Northpark Mall back in the '80s.  As an only child, I'd little experience developing consistent relationships with other boys / young men except for my cousins (who mostly lived within other regions of the state). 

But at age 15, whilst acquiring my first part-time gig frying chicken, all that began to change.  

As a newbie at the Chick, I mostly passed out fried chicken samples week after week for hours on end.  But eventually, after surviving that initiation, I began learning the actual ropes, and those consisted of running a cash register, breading / frying chicken (in the "Henny Pennys") and unloading the weekly foodstuffs brought in on various delivery trucks.  The latter of which was the most difficult for I was a lean, completely nonathletic teenager who weighed all of 125 lbs. (with a 29" waist).

During this period of my life, I was so ashamed / embarrassed of my lean physique that I refused to present myself semi-nude in public, therefore that meant no swimming and absolutely no showering with or around other guys (hence, my affinity for being a member of the marching band).

For I felt my body would make for an easy target of any other guy (or girl) who might choose to point out my exceptional leanness as an act of cruelty.  Therefore, I refused to provide them with the opportunity.  Perhaps this was cowardice on my part, but nonetheless, it worked to keep me from being bullied.

On the flip side of that, I quickly began elevating certain young men who no doubt did not (& rightly so) have this same hang up.

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The private high school I attended in Madison was small.  We only graduated, in 1990, a mere 45 students.  But there was one of those young men (a classmate) who'd haunt me with his athletically built physique.  For I'd no courage whatsoever to attempt to befriend this classmate (which no doubt would have helped to defuse the situation).  And this is really where my penchant for homosexual lust went off the rails.  Not only was this classmate a varsity baseball and football player, but he was exceptionally shy and reserved.  So much so that I don't know I ever heard him say more than a few words during 10th - 12th grade.  He was that quiet.

And, of course, this only made it easier for me to take advantage of him within my sinful thought life, seeing how he was such the mystery man to all of us.

I cannot tell you how many times I begged God to forgive me for engaging in lustful fantasies that involved this dude (& plenty of others).

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My senior year of private academy high school saw me friendless, and I was okay with that.  I was excited about heading off to college the following year, knowing that I'd be leaving all of my "dumbass" classmates behind.  My two best friends were a year older than I, therefore they'd both "flown the coop" - one now enrolled at a university in TN and another in CO - the year prior.  

So, I was alone and now working more and more hours at the Chick in the mall (which I sheepishly enjoyed).  For it all felt so very adultish.

And then an older, Christian guy showed up at the Chick, and I knew he was a Christian because he quietly reeked of the fruits of the Spirit (which I was then privy to), and he was a seminary student at Reformed Theological Seminary in Jackson.

The latter obviously made him a lot older than I was - likely mid-20s.  And this guy was physically built like a man.  I even moreso took note of this because he could execute physically demanding tasks twice as fast than I could.  Tasks such as mopping the dining room, behind the counter, kitchen or unloading the aforementioned delivery truck, and so forth.  I've never seen such stamina / work ethic.

But despite his physical age seniority to me, he refused to look down on me or question my role as "crew chief" (his superior).  I appreciated this for I'd years of chicken tenure (!) under my belt that he did not.  

Therefore, when he would be assigned to work with me during night shifts (there'd be three of us that would close up the restaurant at 9 PM), I would breathe that much easier.  For he was literally the ideal crew member - efficient, hard-working, respectful and kind.  The embodiment of what I aspired to be - someday - as a man.

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One noteworthy (to me) Saturday, this Christian seminary student (Dale was his name) had been assigned to my crew of three to eventually close up the restaurant, and as was typical for Saturdays when I'd work, my shift usually began around 1 PM in the afternoon.  As such, those days were typically long, exhausting endurance runs for teenage Rob at the Chick.  But, knowing Dale was there to assist me at close, that allowed me to breathe easier for he literally could expedite the work of two men with ease. 

And on that day, thankfully, the daytime hours went off without a hitch as did our closing regimen.  But something, for me at least, happened that night which unexpectedly awoken my senses to who I might very well be and how I was truly weirdly wired as a man.  

Like every other night where Dale was assigned to my closing crew, he volunteered to oversee the cleaning of "the red floor".  This verbiage referred to the dining room.  For during the 1980s, the dining rooms of Chick-A-Fil restaurants (all of which at this time were located inside of shopping malls) had glossy red ceramic tile (herringboned patterned) flooring.  Therefore, Dale had the responsibility of thoroughly cleaning this space (empty trash, clean / sanitize tables & chairs & garbage cans, sweep & mop "red floor").  And arguably on Saturday nights, this space was the filthiest, having endured a weekend day of steady usage from breakfast to dinner.  

As I was working towards double-checking all of our now completed work (by now it would have been around 9:40 PM), I surprisingly encountered Dale shirtless in the kitchen.  Immediately before that, I'd made my way to the electrical panel and switched off the house lights, therefore only the few remaining night fluorescent troffers were left illuminated throughout the front and back of the restaurant.  In looking back, this brown out had obviously given him the signal that I was satisfied and ready for us to depart, but too, it had provided him with somewhat of a veil of darkness to utilize to change clothes.

It took me a second, but eventually I realized he was simply quietly changing out of his Chick-A-Fil uniform shirt and into something else.  Perhaps for a late night date or meetup.  For I'd never had that experience before.

And then the three of us all left together with me ensuring the back door locked itself behind us.

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I've thought an awful lot about that night since then.  And here's what I know.

Though it's never easy to admit to, there are times in everyone's life when they are vulnerable to exploitation by individuals who're usually older / wiser / savvier than we are.  And mostly, on average, that vulnerability happens during our childhood years in tandem with us elevating someone within our minds.  As you can see here, based on what I've described of my private self-loathing (& the internal sin-laden self-medication I was administering as a result), it was during my high school years when I was in this isolated, critical position.  

Dale was one (if not the one) of the most ideal men I'd ever encountered.  Plus, he was a Christian.  And, on top of that, he had an enviable body & face (which I had the privilege to see firsthand) to match that humble, gentle spirit.  

It wouldn't have taken hardly any effort on his part to position himself in order to serendipitously take advantage of this young, very confused high school student (Rob).  But he chose not to.  Instead, he not only gave to me a stellar example of Christ through his work ethic / demeanor / character, but he also did so by trusting me with his own thoughtful decision to be appropriately vulnerable (the brief shirtless episode).  

Now, you may believe that as an adult I've romanticized this childhood event, and I cannot not agree with you on some level.  But, you cannot completely dismiss that what he chose to do by removing his shirt there in the kitchen - versus the men's room - must have had at least an inkling of intentionality behind it.  And for me, that decision made all the difference.  For it demonstrated trust.  And this is what I'd always longed to actually marinate in (outside of fantasy).  For it validated something in me like nothing else had prior.  And as a result, it seemingly started up an engine (idle speed) which eventually, after many additional years, trials, therapists, and Samson Society found its cruising RPM.

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Over the past month, I'd had numerous individuals comment on my physique.  Both men and women.  Most of these reactions had to do with either clothes I was wearing that accentuated my 48-year old, 196 lb, build or a lack of clothes thereof (whilst out running in the summer heat).  To experience this trend literally causes me to feel like the young Samson friend I mentioned at the beginning of this post.  Emotionally overwhelmed.  

But one antidote to those feelings is to take myself back to that night at the Chick which I've attempted to describe here.  That night where I felt I saw my ideal future self seemingly inside somewhat of a mysterious stranger.

For by doing so, I can recalibrate my heart towards the man who firstly demonstrated to Rob what he (me) might very well become.     

Thanks Dale.  Wherever you are, I love you.  For I owe you a whole lot.  And just so you know, there is a portion of me that believes you may very well have been my guardian angel.