Grit Required (Samson Guy Job Description)

Suicidal ideation is never to be taken lightly.  

Let me state firstly that when I initially walked into a Samson Society meeting back in August of 2014, I certainly sensed that fostering friendship was at THE CORE of the ministry, and that these friendships would be borne out of GREAT need (as a result of men being either within or having experienced the bitter taste of crisis). 

Prior to this, I myself had quite recently dealt with intrusive suicidal thoughts (over the course of a handful of months), and in actuality, it was those oppressive ideations that ultimately fostered me into said Samson meeting (kudos to my dad for his help).

But I suppose it was my naivety that cloistered me into suppressing any notions of actively befriending other Samson men who might similarly walk this dark road.

Because here we are, and no doubt, suicidal ideation is one of Satan's most widespread ploys.

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There's a local (Metro Jackson) "Christian" periodical that features the serial writings of a therapist (who just happens to be paralyzed and subsequently wheelchair-bound), and he's not at all shy about commenting on his longstanding confrontation with suicidal ideation.  

It can be unsettling reading his work, and I'd be willing to bet a dollar that most readers quickly take a detour whilst encountering his willingness to nonchalantly reveal this particular roosted personal demon. 

Now that I think about it, it's probably not too different from hearing someone announce that they're same-sex attracted, particularly if they're active within a fundamentalist church / presenting themselves as a "traditional, Biblical sexual ethic" believer.  

Nonetheless, suicidal ideation is a tough, tough subject that needs to be discussed on a regular basis.

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The primary descriptor for Rob is either level-headedness or arrogant asshole, and I first came to realize this during my teen years.  The Operator of the Chick-A-Fil I was employed at made this observation.  

I believe a lot of this trait (pick one) can be attributed to my best friend during that same era.  His influence was paramount in this regard.  Greg was unflappable when it came to the stress of standing up to opposition / difficulties of any kind.

My mom, too, genuinely displayed this cool-headed quality (level-headedness).  I couldn't help but be influenced by her modeling of this approach.  

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Nonetheless, you needn't be a Vulcan to be an effective Samson guy, though grit cannot be underestimated in its effectiveness relative to handling hard topics / situations.

And this is because you're going to face many of those (either past or present) as you walk alongside your Samson brothers.  Grit is simple determination to keep pressing forward no matter how difficult the circumstances become.  It's a mindset versus a character trait, and it can be called upon by ANYONE.

Regarding walking alongside a brother whose faced / facing suicidal ideation, I cannot stress the need for grit enough.  For there're simply few other topics more inexplicitly depressing, worrisome, triggering (I hate that word!) than this one.  

Why muster the determination to not back down from carrying the weight of this macabre topic?

Because, everyone who's brave enough to step into Samson Society needs to be seen.  No matter where there at for such a time as that.

The Ultimate Parasocial (Imaginary Friend) Relationship(s) - An Explicit One OR 5K Unassuming (Fully Clothed) Ones?

Recommended reading:  Parasocial Relationships Are Just Imaginary Friends for Adults - The Atlantic

At some point during my middle school years, my next-door neighbor relayed some 900#s (prerecorded phone sex blurbs) for me and my friends to delve into.  If I remember correctly, we called firstly at his abode, and from there, I naively took the handful of numbers home for further investigation.  This was during the mid-80s. 

It wasn't long before I was calling these "pay by the minute" numbers (Imaginary Friends) regularly after school.  My father had a "home office" crammed (literally) into one side of our third bedroom, and on his desk was a phone that I'd often use if I wanted any privacy.  

Oblivious to the "pay by the minute" phone charge, how shocked I was to have my parents approach me therein relative to the exorbitant telephone bill!  I recall apologizing before quickly blaming the neighbor boy's influence.  

This really has been my only exposure to phone sex of any ilk.  Whilst looking back, I'm thankful that I was too young / naive to understand half of the explicit words being said into my ear via the sultry prerecorded 900# voices.

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A huge part of my trajectory relative to my recovery from chronic gay porn (Internet) consumption was me gaining an understanding of my longing / need / desire for being seen clearly by other men.  Particularly men who I had respect for.  Consuming gay porn enabled that illusion with remarkable ease (Imaginary Friends).  But at the same time, it (these Imaginary Friends) perpetually served as a misanthrope (feedback loop) in proportion to the greater intrinsic need that Rob had.

Nonetheless, I LOATHED consuming Internet porn because I'd long since earnestly privately rejected the trappings of culturally normal, if not celebrated, parasocial relationships (available via mainstream entertainment) as a college student (well in advance of the Internet coming to fruition).  Therefore, I felt deeply immature regarding my bondage to Internet porn as a result.  

So, what qualified Internet porn so differently than mainstream entertainment, in terms of fostering a parasocial relationship (Imaginary Friendship)?

For Rob, it was the overt explicitness.  Right there on my private computer screen.  Beautifully photographed / filmed, extraordinarily sexy and naked men having sex with themselves and other men.  

I'd never seen anything like it.  It was mind-boggling to behold.

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Yesterday morning, I worked out at the Y.  As there's been a handful of other times, a lovely blonde woman (about my age) working out too.  It's always been apparent that there's a bit of chemistry between us, though we've only spoken in passing.  She's about my age, and obviously quite dedicated to her own physical fitness.  

This AM, she was intentional about flaunting her spandex clad back end as I was doing floor-based roll-outs adjacent.  I remember thinking how awkward I would be feeling had I been straight.  

Nevertheless, I kept my head down throughout as I repetitively endured my set of roll-outs, choosing to not take advantage of the opportunity (ogling / flirting).

Whilst thinking back on that, even if I had been straight (& single), how akin it would have been for me to covertly seek out engaging within a parasocial relationship (Imaginary Friend)  (modeled perhaps after her "back end") than one directly with her.

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I'm at Sam's Club weekly, purchasing everything from fresh fruit to premade entrees (kale pasta salad!) and bottled water / staples for our family.  A few weeks back, I observed a couple "parking lot flirt" with each other as he assisted her in checking the fluids within her aging Honda Civic.  Throughout, they were sharing a vape while she took every opportunity to touch / embrace him (mostly from behind) as if he were a big teddy bear.  

She'd arrived firstly onto the vast asphalt pavement.  From there, he strategically pulled his full-size pickup alongside within just a matter of minutes.  

I made no attempts to disguise the fact that I was observing their flirtatious behavior in real time.  

Eventually, they walked into the giant discount retail store together with her arm around his waist.  And even whilst inside (I bumped into them), she continued her tactile affirmation.  

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I'm not convinced women overall find themselves ensnared by the pervasiveness of explicitness as we men so often are.  Most women are interested in far more subtle means of sexualization.

+/-15 years ago, I gave my sweet wife a freshly purchased copy (Amazon) of Bondi Work by Aussie photographer, Paul Freeman.  And I did this on Valentine's Day, hoping she'd "drop her guard" and begin to relish the naturalistic beauty of superbly (explicitly!) photographed men.  

Perhaps she'd have received my gift with a more positive response had there been less genitalia so prominently displayed throughout the coffee-table book.  

Nonetheless, it's a book of photos taken by a same-sex attracted man, therefore there's no shortage of digitally enhanced junk.  

In the end, my gift fell as flat as the time I gifted my mom (a six pack) CFL light bulbs for Christmas.

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A close friend recently divulged his belief that he's "rejection phobic" in tandem with being ADHD.  As far as I know, my friend's not been clinically diagnosed ADHD, but based on his own personal research, he very much believes himself to be.

I felt so humbled to have been bequeathed this discovery from him.  So much so, in fact, that I've now found myself historically ruminating on it, on occasion, ever since (I've known this friend for well over a decade).

What strikes me as slightly unconvincing though regarding his revelation has to do with him unaccounting for his deep entrenchment with parasocial relationships (Imaginary Friends).  Whether they're explicit (pornographic) or not.  For social media has been and is today's parasocial relationship floodwater(s), having inundated almost every facet (demographic, race, individual, corporate, nonprofit, religious & on & on) of humanity's existence.  My friend's (& his wife's) life is no different than the average bear relative to social media.  They are (& have been for a decade plus as far as I know) deeply entrenched therein.  As such, THEY ARE CULTURALLY NORMAL.

Nonetheless, is there no more culturally relevant place to be impacted by the parasocial (Imaginary Friends) than social media?  Social media, with its seemingly harmless yet infinitesimal display of photos, videos, memes, emojis, likes / dislikes, truncated statements, and on and on?

Question:  Has my old friend accounted for the role social media's been allowed to play within his life over the past 10+ years relative to the difficulties he has today whilst engaging face-to-face? 

I can't help but wonder about this.

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And this leads me to...

My argument against social media is as follows (in line with the notion that real, authentic relationships more often than not, take a back seat):

1.  There's less time ("crowding out") for them (taking into account the time spent engaging with parasocial- Imaginary Friends - relationships online).

2. I'm of the opinion that social media junkies' brains have literally been re-wired to devalue authentic relationships in comparison to the vast quantity of parasocial ones (due to the brain's allegiance / time spent therein to social media).

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In closing, I circle back to the young couple flirting in the Sam's Club parking lot as well as the aforementioned fitness beauty at the Y.  

Though I didn't engage with these individuals beyond observation, there's no doubt they were not Imaginary.

In fact, regarding the latter, I'll perhaps see her again in a few weeks (depending on when I next visit the Y).  

What sets these individuals apart is I had / have the opportunity to engage with these folks.  And there's miniscule risks that any of them are going to shed their clothes as a result.  This is normal human relational behavior that can be built upon - no matter what the outcome might be (rejection or otherwise).

Now, go back and re-read that article.  It's profound and incredibly thought provoking.  I'm of the opinion that it can be applied to every Samson guy's life.

Lagniappe

More lagniappe 

Cruising In Arkansas

I did extensive traveling through The Natural State earlier this week.  Around 8 PM CST one evening, whilst traveling I-40 W, I had to stop and urinate.  Being almost an hour out from my destination in northwest AR, I took advantage of a Rest Area.  A very remote Rest Area.  

The first thing I noticed as I rolled into my parking spot was how lacking the exterior lighting was.  As such, there was only one other vehicle (full-size pickup) therein.  Immediately after shutting off my Toyota, I exited and walked the short jaunt into the men's room.  It's important to note that I'd frequented this Rest Area in years past whilst making this same trip ('22, '21, '20) but always during daylight hours.  As such, the prison-grade plumbing fixtures inside worked to instantly refresh my memory, reminding me all the while of just how out-of-the-way this particular Rest Area truly was.

I could hear the door shut on the pickup truck that was parked outside just as I entered the men's room, and about halfway through my steady stream piss (at one of the stainless urinals), I was approached by its driver who'd obvious nefarious intentions.

The middle-aged man positioned himself adjacent at another urinal whilst simultaneously peering directly at / examining my exposed genitals.  Whilst doing so, he asked how I was doing through a wide smile, his body now turned obliquely towards me.

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Cruising isn't something I've encountered too often within the Samson community "pedigree", though one of the first Samson guys I befriended back in 2014 did / had dabbled in it.  I vividly remember him describing seemingly going into a bit of a trance whilst traveling the roadways, always on the lookout for other men who're similarly "tuned in" / needy.  

What was particularly disturbing about his tales had to do with him behaving this way whilst traveling with his family (wife and four children) to youth sporting events (traveling soccer team).  He described one episode within a chain hotel restroom (adjacent to the lobby) where he encountered a fellow who exposed himself before asking him if he'd like to join him upstairs in his room.

The stranger apparently was sporting some sort of a genitalia leather harness or somesuch.  This shocked my friend out of his trance-like state, recognizing the fact that the man had no doubt "dressed his junk" before coming downstairs - before breakfast - to cruise.  My Samson friend, then remembering how saddled he was with fam, politely declined the stranger's advances whilst all the while secretly enjoying the momentary attention / seedy excitement.

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I've only frequented one "back room" area within an adult bookstore, and that was in Houston, TX decades ago.  I was so naive at that age as to what those dedicated areas were designed for.  At the time, all I was interested in was screening gay porn (this was pre-Internet).  Thankfully, relative to the time of day I visited (mid-morning), there was no one else present (at least that I could see or hear) amongst the plywood stalls.  I remember randomly choosing a spot and watching a few minutes of gay porn (screened via the behind plexiglass CRT) before leaving discreetly (with an empty prostate and a boatload of guilt).  

Too, I came away feeling really, really dirty.  Dirtier than I'd ever felt up until that point.  This experience kept me from ever returning to one of those sad spaces with the bare, colored A lamps dangling from the ceiling joists.  

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Our western lives are mundane.  There's no arguing that point.  There're no wars to fight.  Our healthcare system provides a solution to a myriad of aches and pains / fear of early death / disability.  Refrigeration keeps our foods safe and unspoiled.  HVAC systems keep us cozy.  Transportation networks whisks us to wherever we see fit.  We're consistently entertained / distracted relative to Hollywood / video games / social media.  We have either insurance or the government as our proverbial safety nets.  Kafka's The Castle really does sum up much of our existence.

Cruising is rooted in excitement.  Excitement that comes from the suspense of a chance encounter, breaking up the mundanity of modern life.

There's no intention of developing a routine via cruising.  Few, if any words are ever spoken.  Instead, it's all physical, all sexual, all excitement for those select few moments / minutes.

And, I believe, cruising can be a hard, hard habit to break.  For once your brain becomes hooked on this "trance-like" mentality, it's almost constantly looking for the opportunity to "shift into gear" secretly and on the fly.  As such, men who travel, with plenty of time on their hands, are often suspect to lead this covert, very dangerous life.

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After I'd finished peeing, I promptly zipped up my fly and exited the bathroom.  By the time I'd made it back to my parked Toyota, the man who'd been so obviously interested in my junk emerged too from the restroom.  As I drove away, I stopped short of allowing myself to fall prey to Satan's accusations regarding why this man had chosen Rob to physically proposition.  

Just a few minutes later, by God's grace, I was chatting with a new Samson friend.  And this went on for the majority of the final leg of my drive.  The dialogue eased my mind.

The following day, I called my Silas and immediately relayed the story to him.  He listened intently which is what I appreciate most about him.  

He'd never heard the phrase "cruising".  

You're welcome, brother.

Was I Making A Selfish, Irresponsible Move Or Not?

Your grown ass man brain is best served by a consciousness that practically protects it from emotional harm.  You have a God-given skull to protect it from impact / falls, but emotional harm, your skull cannot guard against.  Instead, it's up to your consciousness to recognize that risk and manage it accordingly (to the best of its ability / within reason).

My experience with feeling dejected by a mentor (immediate supervisor of mine at a college I was employed at throughout 2013) did SUBSTANTIAL emotional damage to my brain.  I had never experienced anything like that before, at least to that degree.  And this experience, mind you, wasn't drawn out / within a season.  Instead, it occurred over a period of 15 minutes.  It's important to note that my sensitivity was significantly amplified due to how needy I was at the time.  Desperate for help, inclusion and love, but instead, I was met with the exact opposite.  It was not unlike taking a sledgehammer to the temple.

As such, I made an immediate attempt to minimize further damage (professionally, emotionally).  Hence, I was convinced that the best way for me to pull that off was to pack up my bags and leave.  And not just from the institution itself (which was quite easy to do since I'd been fired), but also from the small town we were residing within (in order for me to work there).  All of that occurred over the next +/-30 days.

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For me, the surefire way I became cognizant of just how eviscerated my brain had been was as follows:

I've always loved, loved, loved screening films at the theater (from childhood onward).  Post aforementioned dejection (I was 41 at the time), I could no longer do this without crying throughout the entire length of the film.  And those tears were falling on behalf of how undeserving / unequipped / unable I believed I was to have an enjoyable experience of any kind (but especially one as nostalgically reliable as a cinematic one).

In essence, it felt as if this time-tested memorable love of mine had been poisoned outright via these massively negative feelings.  And I suppose, in a way it was.  It took 5-6 years 'till I actually felt confident enough to screen a film in a theater setting once again.

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A sizeable proportion of your vulnerability to feelings of dejection is wholly linked to the degree of respect you have for that other human being.  Whether that's your employer, friend, spouse, sibling, parent.  Have a massive amount of respect for an individual?  Be aware of how that will expose your heart to their critiques - both positive and negative.

Whilst saying all of this, please don't in anyway discount your own inner critic.  I'm referring to that voice inside your own head that's adjudicating in real time, most every move you make.

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Back in June of  '20, my wife was in a rehab hospital (in Jackson) having had a stroke a few weeks prior.  Too (at this time), the pandemic was in full swing, therefore most everyone had shifted their mentality relative to physical contact with other human beings.  And lo and behold, a prospective (sizeable) business client came into focus (referral) - literally overnight -, and I reacted reflexively therein (in kind).  

The prospective client though was far, far away from the Jackson Metro.  Farther than any client I was then working with.  

Nonetheless, I made the trip, and in the end, they agreed to work with me and the solution I proposed for their business.  In fact, it literally was a picture-perfect (climate / cultural) fit.  And this client has not wavered in their loyalty to Rob since that first juncture.

Taking all of that into consideration, because of how absolutely torn I felt whilst making that first trip in June of 2020, I dread making the annual return trip (which I'll soon be doing).  For I remember clearly how doggedly my thoughts punished me for choosing to "leave my wife's side" (if only for a few days) during her "time of need".  Was I making a selfish, irresponsible move or not?  

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Yesterday evening, my middle daughter and I attended a banquet at the college she'll be attending this fall (as a freshman).  The banquet was held within a ballroom that I was asked to make a short presentation within back in 2011 whilst working as a Staff Architect for the State of Mississippi.  I remember what I chose to wear for that event as well a handful of the distinguished alums' reactions whilst speaking (me attempting to make eye contact with my audience).  I also remember my face heating up in shame as I spoke, and me wondering if anyone noticed my blushing.  

I remember sitting down after my few minutes of having the floor and berating myself internally for what I considered to be a completely worthless effort.  Wishing all the while that I was someone else entirely, both regarding my looks and how I sounded / presented myself.

Yet last night, once again, here I was within that exact same space all these years later.  Celebrating my daughter's achievements alongside hundreds of other parents.  Working to respectfully set in motion via my physical presence, her soon-to-be collegiate career.

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Angie (my wife) and I grew up together (we were friends within the youth group) at First Baptist Church Jackson.  She was one year (class) ahead of me, but nonetheless, we were both outcasts that gravitated towards each other platonically in kind.

When she went to Baylor after graduating from high school (Jackson Academy), two of our youth group classmates (within my class) joined her a year later out in Waco.  One of these young men, soon after his freshman year whilst being a student there, somehow remarkably - reinvented himself entirely.  

This reinvention occurred within the vein of him becoming absolutely zero effeminate acting / sounding.  Whilst making these mods, he also shed his southern drawl entirely.  This resulted in an exceedingly red-blooded, "all boy" / "man's man" kind of guy (which he most definitely was NOT during middle / high school) that coherently existed going forward.

I believe it's important to note that after his time at Baylor, he began working as a sociologist prior to becoming a (quite successful) published author, and then onto being appointed (at a remarkably young age) a University President.  Having heard him speak / preach from the pulpit (within the last decade) at FBC Jackson, it's astounding the level of masculine confidence that now radiates therein.  

It's literally as if Dr. Armitage from the film, Get Out, worked his neurosurgical magic (but on a white man), and I'm serious as a heart attack whilst saying that.

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In light of me choosing to not reinvent myself entirely (immediately following the aforementioned job loss), I can say that heading away from the pain (and those inflicting it) was a very smart move.  Considering those pragmatics, there was also a lot to be gained from not running too terribly far away (we returned to Jackson from the Mississippi Delta).  

I'll also leave you with this.  There's a lot that can be gained by re-living the past via future experiences.  Taking those settings / circumstances even, into account within that recognized present (where you're at today versus back then).  It presents a new perspective that can work opportunistically to re-frame the past.  That being said, we must permit that re-framing to happen.  And that can be awfully hard to do when we're still wrestling with unsettled feelings from the past.  

Was I making a selfish, irresponsible move or not? 

Find A Way To Exploit Hope(fulness) As A Means To Strengthen Your Resolve To Choose Something Other Than Porn

My favorite attribute of my oldest daughter is her choosing to be hopeful.  She's wired opportunistically / positively, and it's infectious, and this certainly points her in the direction of her forecasting to be as such.  When you first meet her, her positive wiring might come across as trite, but it doesn't take long to realize that she's working her grey matter towards being a genuinely hopeful young lady.

This has worked in her favor relationally as a college student, particularly as it pertains to accruing friends.  Her cohorts gravitate therein in response to her more (seemingly) adult-like point-of-view (versus the stereotypical pessimistic adolescent).

Our other two daughters are optimists too, though it's most pronounced within our youngest (middle schooler).  As such, she's quite the anomaly as a tweenager (having become somewhat of an outlier as a result).   

Overall, I'm firmly resolved to thank God for their positive bents versus one that leans negative / pessimistic.  That being said, keep in mind that I'm biased in this regard for I too am an overall opportunistic / positive individual.  And you can blame my parents for this (they modeled it / passed it down).

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A handful of Samson guys that I / I've regularly chat(ted) with aren't the optimistic-types.  I actually find this refreshing and uniquely contrastive.  But what I am beginning to observe is how demanding their temperament can be relative to them compulsively turning to lust to emotionally placate / regulate.   

For an example, I offer the following (this scenario is based on hearsay):  Negative feelings encroach in response to doing some run-of-the-mill (psychological) assessment work and from there, reflexively - compulsive sexual sin pacifiers are feverishly grasped at.  

This is just one example of a negative (temperament) feedback loop.  And frankly, I do believe it's quite a tough one to rewire, particularly as a loner. 

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All this begs the question:  Can a melancholy Samson guy counteract this temperament?  More specifically, can he rebel against his emotional instincts long enough for him to choose to drawdown the necessary hope to directly combat his circumstantial kneejerk lustfix?  And can this leeching be sustained rhythmically enough - over time - for him to remove himself out his fatalistic rut?

Inquiring Samson minds want to know... 

Let's make an attempt at defining what hope is firstly before speculating further.

Hope is a feeling that's earned via intellect (mindfulness, if you will).  As such, I believe, it's much harder for dumbass people to experience it in droves.  Intellect powers sharp memories (both good and bad).  Memory is key to feeling hopeful as it serves as a framework relative to the (potential - in tandem with or opposite to) future.  

Compulsive behaviors such as drug / porn use "clog" / "cloud" the brain's synapses (proper thinking ability), and this is akin to making a person dillweed-like.  Therein, they lose their proper framework (smarts).

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Here's a specific example of how drug-use can steal one's ability to instinctively choose hope.

In 2012, a prominent local (Jackson Metro) attorney's son committed suicide.  Now, you must know that I have no reason to not believe wholeheartedly that this boy was also akin to choosing hope (sprungboard off of a positive mindset) as much or more as my aforementioned oldest daughter.  He was one of three boys, but unfortunately, he'd turned to both selling and using drugs whilst living / working out west (gap year post high school).  His prominent parents, in response to his heart-rending death, chose to take part in a speaking tour where they read his suicide note, indirectly warning audiences across the region of the dangers of drug use (whilst beautifully interweaving "Armor of God" scripture).  It was massively courageous on their part to give so freely out of their pain and suffering.

Thank you Taggarts!  (Some of my local heroes of the faith.)

One of the most interesting statements their son made within his suicide note had to do with his pre-suicidal mindset.  He noted the contrast between how drugs had noticeably diminished his intellect (primarily memory) in light of where he had been (pre-drug use).  From there, he renounced any hope of seeing his prior intelligence return.  This fatalistic assumption fostered his hopelessness which led to his suicide.  

And that was pretty much the gist of his hopeless letter.  A letter, again, written by an optimistically tempered, overall positive-minded young man who just happened to make some poor choices relative to drugs.

It's important to note that many professionals believe that chronic porn use can affect the brain similarly, particularly if it's coupled with masturbation.  

And that's what makes it and drug use notoriously difficult to see beyond / out of.  A number of therapist tagline this the "shame cycle".

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Once again:  

All this begs the question:  Can a melancholy Samson guy counteract this temperament?  More specifically, can he rebel against his emotional instincts long enough for him to choose to drawdown the necessary hope to directly combat his circumstantial kneejerk lustfix?  And can this leeching be sustained rhythmically enough - over time - for him to remove himself out his fatalistic rut?

Attraction is key.  Whether you're within an in-patient facility or working through a recovery program like Samson Society.  You must find yourself attracted enough to someone (who's far enough into their own personal sobriety) to trust them with your heart.  From there, their hope can transfer to you, effectively counteracting your persistently hopeless state of mind.  

What might impede this from happening?

-  Sometimes attraction is never given an opportunity because recovery colleagues aren't considered worthwhile enough (up to snuff), or simply the group itself is privately labeled a "freakfest".  

-  Clinical depression has reduced the man's outlook to nothing but intrusive emotional pain.  

What promulgates / perpetuates this attraction process?  

-  Spending time together on a regular basis.

-  Asking really good questions (cross referenced).

All the while being vulnerable.

What Aspired Rob To Climb Upward Towards Nate?

Mr. Nate Larkin, the founder of Samson Society, paid a visit to the Jackson, Mississippi Samson groups back in August of 2017.  I don't believe that was his first visit here relative to regional-specific Samson "marketing", but I do believe it does represent his most recent.  He'd been in Alabama a few days prior, speaking at a men's conference (sponsored by a church).  From there, he and Dr. Tom Mouka drove west to the illustrious Magnolia State.  They'd arrived later than had been planned, but nonetheless, in plenty of time for the local Samson guys who'd come to share a meal (BBQ pork + homemade dessert, if I remember correctly) and meet THE MAN face-to-face.  

I'm pretty certain this was the same year I began attending National Samson Society retreats in middle, TN (November of that same year).  Leading up to this dinnertime meet & greet, I vaguely remember becoming frustrated with one of our local Samson group facilitators who refused to make this event a priority.  His excuse for not attending was so impetuous, I felt certain he was hiding his true loner motive.

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Samson Society wouldn't exist were it not for Nate Larkin.  Taking all the good that's come from this ministry into consideration, why wouldn't you make meeting THE MAN a priority?

My theory relative to answering this question is as follows:  Nate is nondescript, he leads with weakness & he becomes visibly uncomfortable at even the slightest identifier (adulation) of fame.

Take a hard look at the photograph above, taken towards the end of the evening during that '17 event.  If you didn't know who Mr. Nate Larkin was, would you be able to confidently pick out the founder of the Samson Society within that photo?  

I would argue that of everyone pictured there, Dr. Tom Moucka looks the most "Samson Society leaderly", simply by taking his countenance, posture, dress and build into consideration.  But that's not Nate.  That's Tom.  Tom and Nate are great friends, but Nate is what I described above (which isn't Tom).

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Archie Manning has always been my father's primary role model.  A close, close second to Mr. Manning is Dr. James Dobson.  As a sidenote, I've always believed that my father's dream job would be serving as the Manning family butler (at their NOLA estate).  

Both of these noteworthy leaders have many, many admirable attributes / characteristics, and I would argue that first and foremost, it's their respective (spotless, squeaky clean) reputations that draw so many admirers.  Archie is Mr. Ole Miss football.  Plus, his pedigree has brought to bear strapping next (& next) generation athletes that honor his puritanical, hardworking, All-American legacy.  Dr. Dobson's audience is mainly women (housewives), but for whatever reason, my dad has always had a soft spot for Dobson's mellow, sublime yet earnest style (radio delivery).  If my dad has cut one monthly donation check to Dobson, he's cut a thousand, and will continue to do so until the day he dies (putting his money where his admiration is).

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Around twenty years ago, I began seeing a staff therapist at First Baptist Church Jackson (Summit Counseling) in response to the ramp up I was experiencing relative to my Internet porn use.  This man had watched me grow up, having come to our church when I was in either the 4th or 5th grade.  One of the questions he asked me during a session (about halfway through the +/-6 months I saw him regularly) was, "What men at our church do you admire?"

I remember his surprise when I simply couldn't tick off a list of 5-6 candidates that we both knew might qualify for excellent "masculine (Christian) admiration candidates".  I sat there in his office feeling strange, knowing I'd disappointed him by not answering.  

At that point in my life (I was around the age of 30 at this time), what I saw both within Christian and professional circles were men whose primary goal was to fixate on their reputations above all else.  Hence, when it came to dirty laundry (skeletons in their closets), these effectively remained hidden.  Regarding "company they kept", it seemed obvious that losers need not apply.  And regarding notoriety (fame), these men covertly embraced it wholeheartedly (every chance they could).

One overarching truth relative to this observation was how in contrast their modus operandi was compared to Jesus Christ (as chronicled within the four gospels).  And this is primarily what kept me from fully admiring them / holding them up as role models.

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I had lunch last week with a local Samson newbie who I met via the greater Samson universe (Slack).  He asked some great questions about my experience in Samson, one of which prompted me to write this post.

I never realized how much I admire Mr. Nate Larkin 'till I began taking a harder look at my own recovery / commitment therein to that recovery.  Recovery takes a long-term commitment, and the vessel therein by which recovery is accomplished is massively important.  I've no desire to throttle back my ongoing involvement within Samson Society.  Not because I'm "still having a grand time", but because I ultimately want to support Nate's ministry and Nate himself to the best of my ability.  As such, longevity is no doubt a big part of that.  

In closing, Mr. Nate Larkin is a textbook introvert.  It doesn't take long to pick up on this.  Whenever he's present at the National Retreats, you can tell he's being "sucked dry" of emotional / spiritual energy.  Hence, he's also unusual as a ministry leader in that regard.  And just so you know, I'm also an introvert.

There's a lot to be said for finding Christian men to look up to.  By doing so, you're positioning yourself well to learn from and in turn, support therein.  I honestly didn't believe I'd ever find my Archie Manning / Dr. James Dobson, but by God's grace, I most certainly did.

Are You Caressing My Scalp? / I Was Simply Attempting To Be Nice...

Back around 2007, I befriended an Aussie via the magic of the Internet.  Scott & I hit it off immediately, and the friendship endured (with fervor) for +/-18 months (it was an email bonanza as we were both fervent writers).

One of the curious admittances that Scott made to me was his willingness to traverse "over hill & dale" (many kilometers) to have his haircut.  Scott was quite scrupulous about his looks, admitting to wanting to achieve "maximum appearance appeal" 24/7/365.  It's important to note that the barber he utilized, he was very sexually attracted to, and as such, especially enjoyed the noteworthy "tactile special attention" he received (perceived?) therein.  

Overall, (according to Scott) this barber was not at all bashful about touching my Aussie friend (around his head and neck) with just enough delicacy to telegraph that perhaps there was moreso there than just a professional rapport.  Was this intentional?  And if so, what exactly served as the motive therein for doing so?

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Back in the early 2000s, I found myself working side by side with a number of young architect interns who just happened to be female.  One young lady ended up - last minute - on an ad hoc design team with Rob, and once we met our (fast approaching) deadline (we were working on construction documents for a large scale collegiate educational building), I chose to give her a "thank you" note for her hard work.  I singled her out in this regard because this was her first large-scale project team effort to be a part of, and she was female.  I had enough firsthand knowledge about women to know that they LOVE handwritten notes.  So that's how I chose to communicate my sincere thankfulness.

I distinctly remember leaving the small envelope in her office chair after quitting time one day, and every day afterwards, our relationship was never the same.

I could see this clearly in her eyes whenever she and I interacted (post-"thank you" note).

Never again did I attempt to express my professional thanks in this way WITH ANYONE.  I became deeply regretful relative to my naive stupidity.

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My barber is around age 60.  I have been a patron for decades.  The haircuts are exceedingly affordable which I particularly like because my hair grows FAST.  In all honesty, I could get my haircut far more than I cyclically do (& no doubt improve my aesthetic consistency).  

A number of years ago, my barber's middle child attempted suicide, and due to the various self-inflicted (gunshot) wounds dramatically reduced his quality of life.  Eventually, this child died (quite young) as a result of these wounds, but the death was drawn out / very, very slow and as such, agonizing to endure (for he and his family).

My heart broke for my barber.  To witness the horror / endure the trauma of seeing one of your children both execute this move / live with the physical ramifications was so, so sad. 

Not long after this child's death (it was a private funeral that few individuals were made aware of), I wrote my barber a letter expressing my condolences whilst offering up an overview of my story (my barber had alluded to some personal trials this boy had endured during his childhood).  Apparently, this letter was very well received.  Enough so that it even sparked some follow-up dialogue (regarding Rob's story) between the two of us, and I was grateful for this.  

It's important to note that my barber has unabashedly stated that my letter is "tucked away inside the Bible" where it can be re-read often.

Wow and yikes.  That was not my intent.

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Over the past 3-4 times I've had my barber cut my hair, there's noticeably been a more unguarded approach to my barber's interaction with Rob.  Especially as it pertains to physical touch.  Now, barbers are like surgeons.  Their job is to touch their clients (albeit with tools in hand for the most part).  But, when you've experienced a longstanding pattern with said barber, and that interaction begins to shift to more intimate and less professional, that's bothersome.  Especially when you know you're fulfilling a need (close, longstanding friendship) for / alongside that person.

In response to all this that I've shared up to this point, let me stop here to announce the following:

One of the most important attributes of my job is NOT HAVING ANY COLLEAGUES WHO AREN'T BIO FAMILY.  

I work alongside my parents.  Eventually, I'll be hiring an employee, but for now, it's simply the three Turners.

I like the safety therein.  

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In closing, when I last had my haircut, my barber's touch (whilst rinsing out my hair, post-haircut) wasn't professionally executed.  Instead, it was moreso tender and delicate.  And because the hair washing sinks are in the "backroom" of the barber shop, there was no one else with us as this occurred.

Am I cursed to become Aussie Scott in this regard?  Was I simply reading too much into this / imagining things?  Those are pivotal questions in my mind as of late.

Christmas Eve in My Hometown

 

There's so much to remember
No wonder I remember
Christmas Eve in my home town

'Cause there were carols in the square
Laughter everywhere
Couples kissing under the mistletoe

I can't help reminiscing
Knowing I'll be missing
Christmas Eve in my home town

Nothing can erase the mem'ries I embrace
Those familiar footprints upon the snow

There's so much to remember
No wonder I remember
Christmas Eve in my home town

I'd like to be there
Trimming the tree there
And there's a chance that I might

I can hear singing
Steeple bells ringing
Noel and Silent Night

Wise men journeyed far, guided by a star
But though I'm not a wise man, this I know

Through dreams and just pretending
I'm there and I'll be spen-ding
Christmas Eve in my home town

 

As I sit in the semi darkness my living room, surrounded by the warm glow of the lights emitting from the Christmas tree, my world is all at peace. Truly, it is my most favorite night of the entire year. It is Christmas Eve, that magically enchanting time when the world lies in stillness on the eve of our dear Savior's birth. With my kid safely tucked in bed dreaming sweet dreams of what Christmas day will bring, I once again savor the moment that I possess to steal a few hours of quiet solitude. With the fire going in the fireplace and my faithful little dog curled up in my lap, my soul is at peace, at least for this moment. Although many claim Christmas Day as their favorite time of the year, for me, Christmas Eve has always been that special moment that I look forward to all year, and savor when it finally arrives. As a child, I never really paid much attention to Christmas Eve. But as an adult, I eagerly look forward to the time when the nightfall approaches on that special evening each year. With the television playing in the background, I briefly close my eyes and store this precious moment safely within the depths of my memories, held there to look back on for years to come.

When I was growing up, I had a great childhood but there was not a lot of stability in my life when it came to putting down roots and staying in one place for an extended period. Due to the nature of my dad's job, we frequently moved around quite often and never seemed to stay in one location more than a few years.

When I was a kid, my parents owned a few LP records (left over relics from their teenage years in the 1970s) that I found myself fascinated with. One set of records that they owned was a six volume Christmas collection produced by Reader's Digest records in the 1970s. I have always loved Christmas music, and to this day, I still find myself playing Christmas music in in my office at work all day long beginning on the first of November. As a kid, I dearly loved that record set because it contained all the Christmas staples such as Elvis Presley's "Blue Christmas" and being Crosby's "White Christmas." Now, you must realize that this was in the time before Sirius XM, Amazon Music or Spotify. No, if I wanted to listen to Christmas music, this set of records presented my only opportunity to do so throughout the Christmas season. Sure, there might have been a radio station or two that played Christmas songs, but if I wanted Christmas music on demand, this was it.

As a kid, I remembered one song that caught my attention and I found myself listening to it over and over through the years. The song was Kate Smith's "Christmas Eve in My Hometown." I remember being fascinated by Ms. Smith's hauntingly beautiful contralto voice. I grew up in a day and age where there was no Wikipedia or even the Internet as we now know it. If you wanted to find out something, your only option pretty much was to go to the local library and look it up in the World Book Encyclopedia. As a result, I grew up never knowing who this woman with the magical voice was. I just knew that every Christmas I looked forward to hearing her sing of a place that I longed for in my heart but knew would never exist for me.

This October marked the 15th year of my wife and I living in what I now consider to be our "hometown" of sorts. Neither my wife or I had a stable childhood, and we seem to both have developed a sort of "PTSD" when it comes to moving as an adult. Perhaps that is why we have never left our town after 15 years (our entire married life)? We have been in our same house for 12 of our 15 years of marriage even though many of our friends have bought and sold, and are now in their second or third house. We have had the same dog for 14 years. I have had the same old Ford truck for 12 years. Are you seeing a pattern here? Stability. Hanging on. Putting down roots. Finding a hometown.

But a strange thing happened a few years ago. I began to realize that people and places change, and nothing stays the same. To think that everything would stay the same forever goes against the very law of nature. When I was growing up, my late grandparents lived down in Crystal Springs, Mississippi. My grandmother's house, built in 1890, was the one constant in my life. I spent every holiday there as well as much time each summer. In fact, my aunt still lives in the house to this day, so it remains in the family. When I was growing up, some of my happiest memories were centered around that house and that town. Even though I never physically lived in Crystal Springs, Mississippi, it was such a constant in my life that it became sort of a pseudo-hometown of sorts for me. In fact, my wife and I were even married in that town in my late grandmother's home church. After my grandmother passed away in 2010 and my late grandfather moved in with his sister at her house in Terry, Mississippi (where he lived until his passing in 2015), I never went back to my late grandmother's house much, if at all. It was just not the same and it was too difficult for me. Many years passed and I did not go back down to Crystal Springs Mississippi at all. The one or two times I did go back down there to visit, nothing seemed as I remembered it. People had died, and places were gone.

Life is a strange thing. After my mother finally retired a few years back, she and my dad found a house that they wanted to buy down in Crystal Springs and decided to move back to my mother's hometown. Ironically, it is right around the corner from my late grandmother's house. Life had come full circle and I now had more of a reason to visit the town that had meant so much to me growing up.

Like life, memory is also a strange thing. When you go back and attempt to revisit places and scenes from your past, you find that they simply do not exist anymore. Indeed, the only place that they exist anymore is within the dim, cobwebby recesses of your imagination. Although we are making new memories down in Crystal Springs, Mississippi, it will never be the same as it was in the 1980’s and 1990’s.

As I sit back in my chair, I turn my attention back to “A Christmas Carol” playing on the television. Sadie adjusts herself as she nudges closer and sighs before drifting off to a doggie dream. My wife is sitting close by, drinking hot cocoa. And my son is fast asleep in his bed, dreaming happy thoughts of what tomorrow will bring.

The Christmas Eve of now looks different the Christmas Eve of my past. And in the future, I’m sure that it will look different than it does now. But no matter, what, Christmas Eve will always be my favorite night of the year. It’s that magical time where the past, present, and future all collide together. It’s the eve of my savior’s birth, and a time where I am blessed and happy to be alive.

You can never physically go back to a moment in time. Even if you were blessed to have had a stable, steady hometown while growing up, it will not be the same when you’re 42 as it was when you were 12. But Christmas Eve in my Hometown still exists. It exists in all the happy moments in time, which gather and come rushing forth in unison to greet me on that most special night of the year. Christmas Eve in my hometown is NOW. It is going to the candlelight service at church with my family. It is coming home to eat taco soup as we watch a Christmas movie before putting my son to bed. It is staying up with my wife to watch television in the dark on Christmas Eve.

One day, these joyful moments of the present will also be gone. And I’ll long for them with as much fervor as I do for the years spent at my grandmother’s. But they’ll be safe. They’ll be a part of the memories stored in those dim, cobwebby recesses of my memory. And I’ll sit back and smile once more. Christmas Eve in my Hometown exists. It exists my in my heart. As Ms. Smith sings:

 

“Through dreams and just pretending

I'm there and I'll be spending

Christmas Eve in my home town”