Weekly meetings available to you are as follows:

Tuesday at 6:30 PM, Truitt Baptist Church - Pearl. Call Matt Flint at (601) 260-8518 or email him at matthewflint.makes@gmail.com.

Wednesday at 6:00 PM, First Baptist Church Jackson - Summit Counseling Suite - 431 North State St. Jackson. Call Don Waller at 601-946-1290 or email him at don@wallerbros.com.

Monday at 6:30 PM , Vertical Church - 521 Gluckstadt Road Madison, MS 39110. Mr. Roane Hunter, facilitator, LifeWorks Counseling.

Wednesday at 7:00 PM, Crossgates Baptist Church. Brandon Reach out to Matthew Lehman at (601)-214-4077 for further info.

Sunday night at 6:00 PM, Grace Crossing Baptist Church - 598 Yandell Rd. Canton. Call Joe McCalman at 601-201-5608 or email him at cookandnoonie@gmail.com.


Showing posts with label Emotions. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Emotions. Show all posts

Tuesday, September 10, 2024

My Wife's Limp

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is just how she is and always has been.

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

How?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saturday, August 17, 2024

It's Been Ten Years Since I First Stepped Foot Into A Samson Society Meeting!

Over the past ten years, I've attended at least one Samson Society meeting a week.  August 2014 at First Baptist Church Jackson (Summit Counseling suite) was when that first meeting (involving Rob) occurred.  I had met with Mr. Don Waller (facilitator of said meeting) on one occasion, and from there, he ushered me into his group (which at the time was the only Samson Society meeting in Mississippi, as far as we knew).

There were +/-9 men in that first-for-Rob meeting, 3 of which (including me) struggled with same-sex attraction.  Having those two other brave men there meant the world to me.

I was in so much emotional pain due to my PTSD (fallout post job loss) that I would have taken any group referral, no matter how outlandish, seriously at that time.

Don was smart to not provide me with any preview of what Samson Society was.  Therefore, I walked in blind, with eyes wide open towards a ministry that seemed as approachable as all the others I'd been invited into (throughout my life).  For at that time, nothing could seemingly stop my emotional hemorrhaging.  I truly had lost all hope and therefore wasn't capable of trusting anyone.    

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As a same-sex attracted man, I can wholeheartedly say that what's kept me involved throughout these ten years has been my overall love for men.  That along with my servant spirit has allowed me to never grow tired / weary of this ministry.  

Regarding the latter, though that phrase, "servant spirit", may sound Titleist, what I'm referring to is my temperament.  In no way does it imply that I'm a "better Christian", more like Jesus or anything of the sort.  

I simply enjoy serving others.  Especially if those others have testicles dangling between their legs.  This makes me a type B personality which is unusual for Samson Society demographically.

As an aside, there are times when other men taunt me for executing kettlebell swings at the Y, citing my need to "wear a cup" (they do appear somewhat risky if they're executed correctly).  More often than not, I'll respond that I'm actually a eunuch.  That immediately shuts them up.

In many ways, I behave as a Biblical eunuch (though I do have my testicles) within this ministry.  Over the years, a lot of Samson brothers have taken advantage of that position.  Whilst looking back, I'm very appreciative of that.  I listen without being able to relate to much of what they've / they're experiencing, and I find that being heard is all they truly need.

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Because cross talk isn't allowed within Samson Society meetings, I 100% of the time feel heard and seen.  Because there's no requirement that you speak on the suggested topic, I feel free to open up as I feel so moved.  In other words, if I want to talk about Butt play, I can.  If I want to talk through how difficult it is to sometimes manage my feelings of shame (within certain circumstances) due to my homosexual desires, I can.  If I want to talk about how beautiful I find it to be to observe men pleasuring themselves (especially when it involves semen), I can. If I want to talk about how fortunate I feel to observe a beautiful man unabashedly peel off their shirts (within an appropriate setting), I can.

I loathe hearing men make some sort of attempt to "speak into my life" within a group setting.  I also despise group exercises that insinuate / relegate camaraderie or tribalism.  To me, this harkens too much into the political / religious / cult realm, feeling fake and forced.

Samson Society resists this emotional posturing outright (based on my observations).  And I love that.  As such, you can hate the guts of everyone in the room but still benefit tremendously by simply being present (& that's why it will never be church).

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Mr. Nate Larkin and his sweet wife are my heroes.  Leading via weakness is where it's at (if you ask them).  He's the antithesis of Dr. James Dobson, Franklin Graham, etc. (men who incessantly critique - for attention and donations - everyone and everything around them).  Nate simply knows how to sit back and enjoy time with other men.  Whether it's his BFF Aaron Porter or Samson guys at the Summit.  I love that about him.

For I too just want to bask in the maleness (enjoying the view) whilst feeling / being seen.  It's an intoxicating experience that powerfully affirms me myself as an image-bearer.  I grow stronger and more self aware as a result.

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In closing, I love to push boundaries.  Especially with guys within Samson.  I like to see how men might react to stories / questions that are tough to hear.  

Because I'm here for my recovery, I'm far less fearful of offending someone (plus taking risks = feeling masculine for Rob).  And sometimes, these "tests" result in some real growth pertaining to our friendship.  Other times, the friendship implodes as a result.  Because of whom I am, I rarely feign sincere loss if the latter occurs.  For I have memory and more often than not, a record of that man via his writings, audio journals, etc.that I can look back on at my discretion (which I often do).

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One final note.  

The men who've attempted to woo me into a sexual relationship have been few and far between within Samson Society.  Remember, it takes two to tango.  That being said, you're always going to have guys who simply do not believe that homosexual activity is sinful, and when they see just how sincere I am (most Samson guys are) pertaining to my / their sexuality, some simply can't seem to help themselves from dipping their toe in the water (to check the temp).  

I think of a lot of this stems from these men desiring a virgin / Samson lay.  And I get that.  

One dude used to ask me repeatedly, "Are you sure you've never had sex with another man?" (hint, hint).

That horny old Catholic fart.  

Here's to another ten years!  

Sunday, July 21, 2024

As a Christian, You're Going To Get Hurt Within Samson Society. Why Expect This? Because You're Called To Serve Firstly & Feel Secondly.

Prior to losing my Campus Architect / Facilities Director position at Delta State University in 2013, I was surrounded by men day in and day out via the demands of / setup within my vocational role.  I did my darndest to treat everyone fairly, but since I was only there one year prior to my termination (thanks to me violating their IT policy), I really only had time to grow close to a handful of these blue-collar blokes.  Overall, though, I felt this experience was literally the zenith of my career as an architect.  And I felt this at day one.  It truly had all the makings of a dream job.

My leadership approach was as follows: open-door, listen and try to help without in any way pretending to know better than they did (because I usually didn't).  My predecessor had taken the exact opposite approach, therefore the change in leadership style, for my minions, was like a breath of fresh air.

Therein, what dragged / wore on me constantly was how one-sided this setup was.  Especially as it pertained to both me and my family being transplanted into this very new, very isolating small-town MS setting.  For my minions had been starving for respect, therefore my appointment was soon met with all that pent up demand.

Ultimately, no one there knew Rob - warts & all. Nor did I have any friends (outside of work) that served me within the same open door, subservient capacity (as I was day-in-and-day-out serving my men).  As a result, as each work week passed, I felt more and more like an outsider through and through. 

Nonetheless, Rob's respectful modus operandi was appropriate and helpful to all of these men, and this provided me with peace of mind.  For it represented me not being - in the least - overstepping of the supervisor / minion relationship.  For I'd experienced that myself when I too was a minion (within other vocational settings), and it was neither fair nor in anyway helpful therein as it pertained to me doing my minion job to the best of my ability.

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My introduction to Samson Society in August 2014 (11-months post job termination) felt like the "mirror universe" version of my aforementioned Campus Architect / Facilities Director role at DSU.  And this was absolutely apparent, within that first in-person Samson group, due to the fact that I simply wouldn't / couldn't be called upon to "hold the professional line" (put up or shut up).  Therefore, no matter what I happened to say, either within or outside of a meeting (after meeting / retreats) I was allowed to test this assumption repeatedly, yet never once did anyone pull me aside and say, "you might want to tone down the authenticity rhetoric a little."

For such a time as that, I was desperately in need of this weekly orgy of truth-telling / being heard and listened to, for I had so much anger, shame and desperation, with no idea what to do with it.  Plus, I simply wasn't interested in really hearing or knowing otherwise about anyone else's situation (though I certainly pretended to).  My own pain was simply too big to look away from - 24/7/365.  So much so, back then, that it came close to pulling me under completely (thanks to PTSD).

Eventually though, it became more manageable as the pressure eased within my mind.

As such, I did begin to heal.  And from there, I truly began serving / giving back to this community in droves.  I'm here to testify to the fact that Samson Society absolutely worked its magic.  From there, I hit recovery cruise control via service to those who'd have me.  And oh, how much fun that's been. 

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Consider this memory of note:

My breakout attempt to extend an intimate hand of friendship within Samson Society took place right before Christmas 2014.  A younger man who'd been faithful (at that point, longer than I had) to the First Baptist Church Jackson Samson Society piqued my platonic interest in light of his exuberant, outgoing persona (super fun guy).  I'd been fortunate enough to hear bits and pieces of this Samson brother's story throughout the five months I'd been attending said meeting and had even attended a few Bible studies over at his apartment  

What I didn't realize was how my attempts to extend a personal hand of friendship would be reacted to via the other men or at least one, in particular, who'd long since crossed that particular relational bridge (w/ fun guy).

This was when I quickly realized that my involvement within Samson Society was in no way happening inside a vacuum, and that I was just as blokey as all my peers.  And running headlong into this now wedge hurt, but it also didn't deliver reciprocally anything other than a strong reminder of how absolutely okay it was for me to stand up for my own wants and desires within this sacred space of brotherhood.  

Or this one:

I poured mucho time and energy into a guy who'd, like me, come to a Samson story retreat.  This was my second of these, and mostly, I was there out of respect for the facilitator (who was my first "Silas" - pre-Samson Society).  This (fellow retreat attendee) AL native and I agreed to continue dialoguing into the future, and he was extremely faithful to that agreement.

Eventually, the stars aligned, and from there, we were set to both attend a Samson Society National Retreat.  I'd been to many of these prior, but this was his first.  I vividly recall comparing (to him) my previous Samson National Retreats as vampiric feeding grounds.  In essence, fantastic opportunities to make new connections and therefore "drink in" stories 'till one's heart's content.  

Disappointedly, he failed to engage.  In fact, he spent the majority of his time - throughout the weekend - text messaging his wife back in GA.  For she was his codependent female "Silas", for lack of a better word.  As a result, not one Samson guy benefited from befriending this dude (besides brushing shoulders with him during the lunch line).  And that was because he made zero effort to invest as he'd invested in me (& vice versa) throughout the lead up to this endeavor.

We continued our ongoing bi-monthly chats, but it took a long while for me to settle back into our routine emotionally unscathed.  

Nonetheless, I'd realized from the get-go, whilst walking into that second Samson story retreat, that it wasn't going to offer me a whole lot (repetitive) unless I made the most of this syndication.  And that's what motivated me to pursue new connections.  For this, I had no regrets.

Or this one:

Young guy shows up to my Samson meeting at Lakeside Pres church one Saturday morning.  Since he's a newbie, I immediately follow-up with him out of respect for showing up.

The deep-seated respect that returns to me is noble but also uneasy-ly blind.

He continues attending (like clockwork).  Eventually, I tell him to let me come alongside and intentionally assist in his recovery (over the course of the upcoming calendar year).  Months pass.  From there, we agree to meet once a week.

I become his very intentional big brother cheerleader, attending his side hustle events, gifting him at birthdays / promotions at work, and ever steadily continuing to meet regularly. Our friendship is richly rewarding. 

I even loop him into a movie night ("1917") with my father at the newly opened suburban MoviePlex.  Fun times.

Then very unexpectedly the relationship exploded violently.  And of all places for this to occur, ironically, it was during an in-person Samson meeting.        

Within just a few minutes, our friendship / brotherhood ceased to exist in spite of it being bookended on either side by this very ministry.  

A few weeks later, I followed through with (yet again) attending the National Samson Society retreat.  This was never an option for my previous Samson brother.  For anytime I brought up the notion of him accompanying me was met with swift refusal / rebuttal.  

It was during that retreat that I asked Mr. Justin Schwind about attending the virtual Samson Society meeting he facilitated (I'd never prior given serious thought to attending a virtual Samson Society meeting).

And that formally segued me from in-person to virtual literally overnight.

And finally, this one:

A newcomer to this "Make Thursdays Great Again" virtual Samson meeting caught my attention.  I DM'ed him via Slack and before long we were off and running.  He'd attended intensive weekends within other men's parachurch ministries, therefore Samson was serving him beautifully as an everyday reminder / placeholder of that / those sacred event(s).   

We talked A LOT for weeks on end.  The alignment pertaining to our intellect, personas, faith were undeniable. Plus, he was just so hungry for attention.  As such, the attraction was building between us. 

By this point (this was February of '23), I had amassed quite the impressive resume of Samson stories.  So much so that I truly thought I'd heard it all.

But with this guy, that was most definitely not the case.

My reaction therein was blunt.

Needless to say, he was deeply offended.

And that was the end of that.  

But, in the end, it was this offense that motivated me to reposition myself in (virtual Samson meeting) "Brain Changers" on Sunday afternoons / evenings.  And eventually, from co-facilitator, I became sole facilitator ("Transparent Training Union").  

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Last weekend, my wife and I bumped into a guy I often see at the Y.  At the time, she and I were at the local grocery.  This man's younger than me, but due to his build, looks a good bit older than his biological age.  I'd been praying for an opportunity to give him my business card in hopes of us having lunch someday.  And lo and behold, here was my opportunity.  

Why pray this prayer?

Because he's right there in front of me, and he's got a story I want to hear.  That's why.

Plus, he knows my name.

Seriously, I can't not take the chance to see where an extended hand might very well lead.  I love men.  God loves me.  It's full circle.  

Lagniappe

More lagniappe

Even more lagniappe

Friday, June 21, 2024

The Earnest Wife (Puppeteer). Am I Happily Married To A "Doormat"?

During my first Samson Society meeting back in August of 2014, I met a younger man who'd also lost (two, actually) jobs for breaking company policy (IT / personnel).  I wasn't at all sure how to feel about that connection for I was still deeply overwhelmed with shame / grief therein (my similar job loss occurred in September of '13).  

He was very friendly though and did not discount the role his wife played in his recovery.  This piqued my interest.

This younger professional man's initial job loss came during a season where their young family was (as the Turners were) living in small town MS.  They'd been there a good bit longer than our one year, and therefore had made more platonic connections.  As a result of his job loss, his wife promptly "threw him out" (his words) of their house which resulted in him bunking on a friend's couch for +/- one week.  Eventually, he found another job (civil engineering firm), and after that seemingly reciprocal termination, they found themselves looking for work either back home (AL) or somewhere in Jackson (they landed in "The Bold New City").

At some point during all of these fits & starts, my new friend's wife declared that her husband was "someone she didn't recognize".  

I really became dialed in at this revelation for I knew that what she actually meant was:

"This part of you that's so drawn to sexual content / salaciousness / flirtatiousness with the opposite sex, I refuse to acknowledge (though I've been aware of it all along)."

In other words, pretend to be someone else.  Everyone likes you better that way.

I believe it's important to know that his wife was deeply religious, having come from a deeply religious family.

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A much younger, mentally ill Samson brother was quick to call out "doormat" wives within our then troupe.  The year was probably 2018.  In that regard, the husbands married to these ladies were Type A, dominant males.  This younger man obviously felt as if wives shouldn't be submissive?  I have no idea.  

Of course, this raises the question of what actually is / qualifies as submissive.    

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My second architect bossman (1996-2006) divorced his first wife (the mother of his two young sons) due to her being "unreasonable".  This man was / is ten years my senior (he hired me when I was 24).  Now, he'd been intensely hands-on with their second son (birth - preschool), leading me to believe his wife was an educated, working full-time professional (this man, my boss, had since remarried - to one of his employees).  I was never given the opportunity to meet Wife One but oh, how I longed to.  I absolutely wanted to understand more about his terminology.

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Last year, I reached out to a Samson brother who'd posted grim marital news on Slack (on Xmas Eve).  From there, we began to chat weekly.  He'd been separated (but only during the daytime) from his spouse for awhile, living instead at his sister's home (20-minutes drive away).  He been readily dismissing his siblings / parents' criticism of the arrangement (they wanted him back living full-time within his own home).  Instead, choosing to vouch for his wife's demands.

Keep in mind that she was a homeschool mom (to three young children) with bizarre health issues that were / are seemingly undiagnosable.  In fact, one of those bizarre health issues convinced her to demand that they build a new home in lieu of living comfortably (except for her) where they were residing.     

My Samson brother too had lost a job (D-day) via breaking his employer's IT policy.  He'd also executed a full disclosure with his wife under the guidance of a therapist.  I believe it's important to note that his job loss and all the complications therein resulted in suicidal ideation.

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Another Samson (younger) brother whom I've communicated with for a number of years ranks within the top 3 pertaining to intelligence / career success.  He's a brilliant guy who's in turn making money hand over fist.  In spite of his drive / vocational stardom, he's recently endured an "in-home" separation from his spouse.  

Too, she's feeling more agreeable now that his pocket computer is locked down, leaving him unable to go online.

Now, when I say brilliant whilst describing this young man, I'm not referring to just a high ACT / SAT score kind of brilliant.  I'm talking about - change the world sort of brilliant.  

What's interesting about his situation is he's terrified of his wife and her threats (particularly related to divorce).  

Yet, they spend almost all of their free time together.  Whether it's playing sports or vacationing (together with their two small children).  

Another interesting note is his wife is of Mexican descent (he's white).

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And finally, another Samson brother attended last Sunday's "Brain Changers" virtual Samson Society meeting (that I facilitate), having (earlier that Father's Day) been humiliated by his wife (in front of their adult children) via her chiding him pertaining to his "untrustworthiness" with computers (pocket & otherwise).  He was so distraught at her crass disrespect (he was in the middle of doing vacation research for their family) that he was visibly shaken.  I didn't know what to do in response.  

But I can tell you what my kneejerk reaction was.

Hire a divorce attorney yesterday.

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My wife recognized three things back in 2013 (D-day) regarding Rob, her husband:

1.  He'd been honest with her regarding his struggles with sexual sin since their formal engagement in 1995.  

2.  He'd been actively looking for help ever since.  Particularly in line with technological advancements (digital smut's viral availability).  

3.  The emotional fallout tied to his job loss had been devastating to him personally as well as their marriage, considering the risk they'd both taken to execute the new vocational role (with three small children).

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What frustrates me about my friendships with Samson guys, who're either married or seriously involved with the opposite sex, is how disjointed my feelings become regarding WHAT I HEAR of their spouse / spouse's reaction.  And this is due to the overlay of my own spousal support therein.  

I suppose too that I truly believe marriage is a sacred yoking between two very imperfect people.  People who didn't choose marriage to begin with in order to not recognize the desire for integrated, ongoing support.  Especially considering the unpredictability of culture / technology / life and how they intersect personally with each of us as individuals.  

In closing, I often hear Samson guys disclosing how their wives don't feel safe around them anymore.  

As strange as it may sound, I don't know why any woman could find a man attractive who's completely safe to be yoked to.  Men, by definition, are masculine in the sense that they will things into existence that weren't there prior.  They're also disciplined and resilient in line with this pursuit.  Hence, yoking oneself therein will result in risks that far outsize the security baked into a life lived alone.  This is what makes men men, and it's what makes marrying a man so enticing.

Saturday, May 25, 2024

Intimacy With Men Lives On Via Memory & Technology

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

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

Why did this matter?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then there was his junk.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Monday, May 6, 2024

Rob's (Adolescent) Self-Pleasure Hidey Hole

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yet...

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

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

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

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Fast forward to today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wednesday, April 10, 2024

A Hard Funeral(s) To Sit Through

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tuesday, April 2, 2024

Overwhelming Recognition

Last week, I was approached by someone who's made an indelible, though very indirect, positive mark on my family.  He's retirement age, though still working full-time, and as such, has recently embraced the perspective of preparing for the inevitable.  

Over the past decade, I've only spoken to this family friend a handful of times - in spite of our vocational / professional proximity.  Mostly, these short dialogues were necessitated out of politeness more than anything else.  For he's always been all-business all the time (& I respect that).

When he approached me and shared his thoughts therein, I absolutely couldn't believe it.  For it bolstered my identity tremendously.  In fact, I'm still walking on air as a result.  

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Within the Samson universe, I receive my fair share of recognition.  And this is anchored within my tenure / notoriety within the org.  And all of that recognition, I do not take for granted.  

But having someone of this stature take the time to align himself with Rob, completely devoid of Samson protocols or otherwise (this man isn't even a practicing Protestant Christian), was absolutely shocking.  For he made that choice based on his quiet day-to-day observation alone, over the past decade.   

!?!?!?!?!

I never could have dreamed that this man, who's so well respected by so many, had been observing me so closely.  And as such, had made the decision to align himself with the notion that I'm essentially equal to his younger self. 

I'm actually wondering if this was someone's idea of a joke, but at the same time, I know deep down that's simply self-doubt creeping in.  

If this man sticks to his word (& I have no reason to believe that he won't, for he's already taken pragmatic steps that align with his intentions), his recognition of Rob will alter my reach / influence tremendously - literally overnight, and in turn, the reach of the gospel of Jesus Christ.  

I'm humbled.  Overwhelmed.  Amazed at God's orchestration.  I do not deserve this.   

Wednesday, March 13, 2024

What Is A Silas?

Here is what our experience tells us: You can get sober from anything going to meetings, but you can’t stay sober just going to meetings. That’s why, in the end, it isn’t even about the meetings. The meetings are a portal into the brotherhood. Samson really lives BETWEEN the meetings in relationships, conversations, friendships. Christianity, properly understood, is a team sport, not an individual event. We’ve been failing because we’ve been playing the wrong game! If we play 1-on-1 against a superior opponent, we will fail.

The lead person on your team we call a Silas. He is the one you are in regular communication with. There is an element of accountability, but it is not focused on sin management. If I just focus on the behavior, I run the risk of mastering that specific behavior and becoming a self-righteous Pharisee. Instead, I give another person (my Silas) real-time access to my whole life. What I’m feeling, thinking, doing, and thinking of doing.My Silas is not an expert. He is a guy on the same road walking the same direction. But when it comes to my life, he has an advantage over me – he’s not in it! That gives him a perspective on my life that I don’t have. There are whole parts of my life that I can’t see because I’m inside it. Like trying to read the label from inside the bottle.Here are some of the things my Silas does:- He gets to know my story.- He remembers the things I tend to forget.- He asks the questions I tend to avoid.- He notices patterns I don’t see.- He reminds me who I really am.You are not imposing on him. He gets as much out of the relationship as you do. He needs you to call him. Everyone needs a few moments each day to get out of their own head and focus on another person.

Thursday, February 22, 2024

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

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

I love to hate to run.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But back to that earlier statement.

Children rearing children is completely distinct from adults rearing children.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Friday, December 8, 2023

BREAKTHROUGH!

 I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I choose to trust you.  I'm not only hearing you but I'm allowing myself to feel your love for me as well.

Thursday, November 23, 2023

What Is The Greatest Gift You've Given Your Wife?

 


A heat sink is a technical term for a portion of a machine that is crucial to managing / regulating the buildup of heat.  This heat is waste energy that's necessitated relative to the machine's creation of movement or light or any number of good things.  Were it not for the existence of the heat sink, this waste energy (in the form of heat) would almost immediately destroy the machine itself by overheating.  Therefore, components would melt down, motors would seize, and everything would go to shit very, very quickly.

Engineered heat sinks are typically bulky and not at all very aesthetically pleasing, therefore they have to be discreetly positioned within the device in order to not draw unnecessary attention away from the whole.  When they're doing their job well, the machine can run at maximum efficiency, performing remarkable work whilst being protected from the inevitable but deadly waste heat.

That being said, Earth's oceans are a God-designed heat sink.  They do their job by absorbing radiant heat from sunlight throughout the day whilst slowly radiating that absorbed heat energy into the atmosphere during the evening.  This oceanic heat absorption / release cycle is paramount to regulating Earth's weather patterns whilst also allowing our planet to benefit so fully from unencumbered sunlight as it spins away on its axis.

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Not long after Angie and I were married (27.5 years ago), we agreed to participate within an evangelism education program at First Baptist Church Jackson (where we were church members).  The 8–12-week program met on a weekday night, and after sharing a meal / listening to the evening's evangelism training lesson, teams of three set out into the city of Jackson to evangelize.  Because our church was as large as it was, there was usually a plethora of recent church visitors who were our first targets.  

I distinctly remember my team visiting a soon to be divorced young wife and her two children.  She was beautiful yet obviously very stressed, sitting there perched on the edge of the stylishly upholstered couch cushion within her family's sizable northeast Jackson home. Everything about her telegraphed the stress of her still new reality.  It was unmistakable and very unsettling to observe.  From the way her eyes darted around her living room to how she nervously reigned in her restless (& soon to be somewhat fatherless) elementary-age children.  It was as if she had been a victim of such the unexpected trauma (which she had), and as a result, everything looking ahead had a deep-seated brokenness framing it. 

I came away horrified at how powerless I was to this woman's woundedness, having never in a million years expecting to be faced with such the despairing situation during a routine church follow-up.  I cannot stress enough the awkwardness between our evangelism team (of three) and this smoldering heap of hopelessness of a human being, during those few minutes.  For it was literally off the charts.  

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I first befriended my wife when we were in high school.  She was an overweight, overly dolled up (cosmetics) porcelain doll of a girl with enough black head hair to easily manufacture three wigs with.  Angie was terribly shy yet so very intelligent / articulate (when she would actually speak).  Whenever I found myself with her (which wasn't very often), I always attempted to make her as comfortable as I possibly could.  And usually, that involved me attempting to inject humor into both the situation we found ourselves within along with the dialogue.  

Angie was naive but only because of her upbringing.  Her parents were much older (20+ years) than most girls her age, and overall, they were prudish to a fault.  

Eventually, she broke free of most everything I've described here (related to her childhood) by attending college far enough from Jackson, Mississippi that she was essentially given the opportunity to reset her entire existence.

Nonetheless, one absolute treasure that came about, in spite of her stifled upbringing, was the emotional counterbalance she naturally developed with her father.  For were it not for that, she and I would not be married today.

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"I can no longer trust him with my feelings."

This mantra is often repeated like a drumbeat within the minds of scorned wives / girlfriends.  For no matter what her man did to warrant this statement, once it's concretized within her mind, it's often a point of no return.

So, what does that statement actually mean?  Never - under any circumstances - would a husband / boyfriend be inclined to say this about his woman.  

"I can no longer trust her with my feelings."      

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Women crave security from their man just as men crave respect from their woman.  And that security extends to providing her with a means to contextualize / organize / engage with the vernacular of her (specific) real-time emotions.  And he doesn't have to be physically present for this to occur.  Not at all.  But he must be emotionally compatible therein and have made (some sort of) a commitment to that compatibility being used to her / their benefit. 

On the flipside of that process, most men (husbands / boyfriends) naturally reciprocate / counterbalance this "heat sink" role via sexual intercourse.  

In essence, the notion is that once he's reached a certain emotional capacity, he uses that reserve to perform sexually.  Therein naturally releasing that excess via coitus before the process starts all over again. 

This is why so many marriages fail as a result of adultery, if you follow this logic.  For it signifies that the husband has found someone else who's just as (if not moreso) compatible as the wife once was.  As a result, the marriage appears to be an outdated one (not unlike a high mileage machine). 

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In closing, this compatibility truly is something special when it's discovered.  And, oh my goodness, does it drive women crazy when it's first set in motion (dating).  Hence, the reason fornication is so prevalent (easy for guys to seduce towards) early into a relationship.  For these ladies are experiencing an incredibly optimized state of being during those initial romantic days.  It truly is being fully alive for them whilst radically buttressing their man's ego throughout.  

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When Angie was in the rehabilitation hospital in Jackson, post stroke (2020), I was so thankful to be allowed to have dinner with her every day in spite of the COVID-19 visitation restrictions.  Whilst looking back, I'm still unsure as to how this accommodation was made for us.  Nevertheless, whenever I'd show up after work, there'd be an extra plate of hospital food waiting for me.  

Oftentimes, I'd wheel her down to floor three, and we'd enjoy our dinner out-of-doors on the covered patio overlooking the adjacent (under construction) children's hospital wing there at University Medical Center.  She'd recount the therapy sessions she'd experienced during her day, and we'd chitchat about the girls / my work.  But I could feel her during those moments, so very efficiently, using me for her own emotional good.  For there was so much emotional energy within her - both positive and negative - during this trying time.  

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In conclusion, if your marriage is healthy, you're very likely married to a woman who had a father who demonstrated a proper compatible male / female emotional relationship.  From there, she grew to become a woman and eventually found a similar compatibility in you.  BE THANKFUL FOR THIS. 

The beauty of all this is in how effortless it operates within the relationship.  For it's God's beautiful, perfect design.

As such, it should be cherished, protected, regaled. 

Lagniappe (Pages 16-22)