Honoring A Grieving Samson Brother

Larry Blackman regularly attended the First Baptist Church Jackson Samson Society meetings throughout a number of those initial (outset) years ('14-'16).  He was separated from his wife at the time.  She was in Michigan, and he was here.  They were a childless couple who both loved music.  In fact, from what I vaguely remember, Larry's passion for music served to indirectly promulgate his eventual need (crisis) for Samson Society.

I haven't seen, heard nor thought about Larry 'till earlier today.  Mr. Don Waller was kind enough to loop some of us Metro Jackson Samson "old timer" guys into a depressing update that came from Larry directly to him.

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The thing I remember most about Larry is he was never not smiling.  To the point of being giddy (or high).  Whether we were in a Samson meeting or at an after meeting, he seemed overjoyed to simply be there with us.  The second thing I remember about Larry was his brilliance.  He was an engineer by trade, working at a sizable corporate outfit (branch) here in the Magnolia State.  You could always tell his processor was spinning at a much faster rpm than your typical Mississippi redneck (me).  

Thirdly, Larry was always, always asking questions of whomever was within earshot.  And these weren't overly personal questions like I tend to ask, but questions that were more philosophical in nature (grounded in generalities).  I could never tell if he simply was avoiding being probed (via his provocative chattiness), or if he truly was innately curious as to how others around him might respond to his seemingly endless inquiries.

I can tell you, having known other engineers (from out of state) who landed here as he did, within the butt crack of America, most of those were / are just as uniquely peculiar as Larry.

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My fondest memory of Larry was his presence at the 2015 Samson Society Okatoma rafting trip.  A perfectly scaled group of us Samson guys went down for an overnight (Saturday) trip, enjoying a day of rafting that summer afternoon.  Larry and I were both in one-man kayaks (you can choose either a kayak or canoe) on the river, and this was to our advantage due to the fact that we got caught in a thunderstorm.  He and I raced downstream throughout the squall as all the other boaters (hundreds) took shelter along the banks.  Once we reached the exit point, he and I waited together for quite a while as our crew eventually caught up to us.  By then, the storm had long passed.  I can still remember my being amazed at how much speed this diminutive dude was able to achieve throughout that unexpected drama.  I'm here to tell you, Larry was FAST.   

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So, what prompted Larry to reemerge today, via his digital communication with Mr. Don Waller?  

It was his sweet wife's unexpected death that served to motivate.  Here's what he shared with Don:

Hi Don!  I thought I’d send this obituary to you since you’ve been very important to me and my wife, and your key role in our healing.

I lost my wife last week in an unexpected, but medical way, last week.  It was not the result of her chronic conditions, but is an emotionally wrenching mystery.  I’m just emerging from the shock, and have faced dehydration just from tears alone.  I know God works things in certain ways, but the hurt is now spread over the myriad fragments of my broken heart and the silence where my music once was. 

Thank you for being my inspiration during a difficult period in my life; still, the unimaginable grief I’m in ha [sic] exceeded all of my life’s experience.

I hope that all is going well for you with Samson activities and your family.  Tirzah and I really intended to get our Christmas cards going last week; now there’s just this void; I’m bridging it with keeping busy and talks with friends/ family.  Maybe God is calling me for something, but my tears are obscuring my vision on a regular basis.  Perhaps the music will recover soon ...

Merry Christmas and absolutely sincere regards,

Miss you!

Larry (big ler, Lars)


Don, you can share this with the guys, particularly those who may remember that kayak trip picture you sent back in March.

Sincerely yours,
Larry

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Please remember Larry, through my memories or via your own, and please pray for him as he grieves this terrible loss during the holidays.  (He's the Samson brother wearing the sunglasses in the photos below.)

Tirzah A. Blackman obituary

Pivotal Moments

My current Silas had lunch with me (under the guise of two old friends catching up) back in April and it was timely.  In spite of me having looped him in prior (many years before last April) to what Samson Society was, where it met, etc., he'd made no movement towards; but that all changed last April.  We ate, he confessed (conceptually) to needing what it offered, and the next thing I knew, he'd drank the Samson Kool-Aid (down to the very last drop!).  Today, he feels like my younger brother.  Growing up - so to speak - before my very eyes within the same community I did.  Moment by moment.  Day after day.  Week after week.  Month after month.  My hope is he'll stick with it for as long as it "takes" (for him).  And based on what I'm witnessing so far, that means we're in for a longstanding ride.

Earlier in the year (than April), I attended a regional Samson Society retreat (over the course of one weekend) on the Alabama coast.  I arrived earlier than most of the +/-15 men, and as a result, I was very close to having an exclusive pick of where I wished to bunk.  Not long thereafter, I was given the opportunity to work hard to befriend the second guy who also chose the room I had (he settled into his bunk +/-30 minutes or so after I did).  Today, Ben and I have chatted most weeks - at least twice - at the same time each day, and this agreed upon daily dialogue started soon thereafter said regional Samson retreat (as a result of me agreeing to be his Silas).  At the very beginning of said agreement, I asked that we loop his sweet (second) wife (she's a pastor) in, and he agreed.  I found her to be fully supportive and thoughtful.  Therefore, after that formality, he and I embarked, and we haven't looked back.  

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Samson Society provides fodder for guys like me who live and breathe pivots / pivotal moments.  Finding opportunities to altruistically extract other men's stories whilst intentionally reciprocating my own has been the most effective means for me to work my recovery.  And this is grounded in the notion of interrupting my tendency to stay isolated within my own head. 

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One of the most unassumingly pivotal moments in my childhood occurred during the summer prior to my sixth-grade year.  My best friend, Johnny, and I were latchkey kids at this time.  Specifically, he and I were immensely enjoying his parentless house (I suppose his mom and stepdad were both working during the day) while we were out of school.  I had just turned 12 while Johnny was 13(?).  Us two, combined with his younger brother, (who was around 8-9) prematurely had the place to ourselves.  

During one of these days whilst playing there at his abode, I jokingly commented to Johnny that he smelled bad.  And more than likely, I'd made this observation while he and I were grossly engaged in some massive Legos build (he and I were Lego fanatics).  Whatever the activity, it had to have put us within close enough proximity for me to get a heady sniff of my friend's boystench.

You'll recall that Johnny was at least one year older than I.  Hence, he was moving headlong into puberty whereas I was on the leading edge.  Plus, Johnny was athletic (track, soccer, golf) which gave him an excuse to be out of doors / physically active often.  Perhaps these things - combined - naturally rendered him odorous on this laidback summer morning.

In response to my candor, Johnny immediately decided to bathe.  I knew this because he went straight to the hall loo and began running a bath.  I remember thinking this a tad extreme at the time, but having no adult supervision whatsoever, the possibilities seemed almost limitless as to how we spent our time.  Coupled with that was Johnny's independence.  I'd known for a while that his household wasn't structured like mine.  Johnny did and subsequently was capable of handling any and all household duties on his own (cooking, cleaning) far more readily than I could even imagine doing at this time in my life.  All because he was expected to (& because he did them quite well).

Not much time had passed before I heard Johnny call out to me.  This I found odd, but he was my best friend, therefore I went to the door and answered him.  He instructed me to open it.  I did and found him standing up naked in the tub.  Foams of soap suds were dripping off of his muscular frame as he inquired curtly about how he smelled now.  

As you might imagine, this made for an awkward moment.  For I wasn't completely sure what was going on to motivate him as such.

In response, I rolled my eyes before quickly shut the door and returning to whatever I was playing before, trying all the while to reset my brain relative to what had just occurred.

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What did occur during that pivotal event that's now comprehendible?  

Whilst looking back, I came to realize that Johnny had something I did not, and that was security in his own boyhood masculinity.  And this had less to do with his physical build (which I clearly was exposed to as described), though that did attribute to it somewhat.  In essence, it was his willingness to nonchalantly expose his naked body to me - as his best friend - in jest.  This clearly demonstrated a vast difference between the two of us.

Keyword being nonchalantly.  

Another descriptor could be confidently.

Johnny confidently went through with this without batting an eye.  And it wasn't to prove himself / show off.  No, he was simply behaving with no regard to him being judged through anyone else's eyes other than someone WHO he believed wholeheartedly WAS IDENTICAL TO HIM (another boy who was a close, safe friend).

But what he didn't realize (or did he?) was that was simply not the case.  For I had none of the peace of mind that he so smoothly displayed relative to my own boyhood masculinity.

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As a boy, I had not one iota of satisfaction relative to my masculinity.  At this time, it wasn't as if I felt feminine or wanted to be feminine.  No.  Instead of this, I was simply nothing except Rob.  

I wasn't arrogant enough to look down on other boys who were no doubt marinating normally in their masculinity, but I did find them secretly intimidating.  Johnny was different in this regard.  For he'd lost his biological father to a tragic boating accident years prior to our latchkey summer.  As a result, he'd been held back in school.  His hard luck resulted in my good fortune as we became fast friends almost at day one of my / our third-grade year.  

I knew at the time of this bathroom incident that I was heading towards adolescence, and I dreaded it.  Besides, Johnny, the closest childhood family friend I'd had was a cousin who lived in the MS Delta.  She and I had been close throughout my elementary school years 'till she became a teen (she was four years older).  From there, everything changed for the worse as she shunned me outright seemingly overnight.  Deep down, I sensed that this too may very well happen between Johnny and I.

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Let me fast forward to an episode in high school involving Johnny that I'm now convinced was also just as pivotal; for it served to validate Rob's masculinity in a way that I simply did not see coming.  This event was borne out of convenience and necessity.  Two motivators that, I believe, play a sizable role in pivotal moments within many men's lives.

Not long after the latchkey summer that I described above, Johnny's family moved away.  Their house was only one suburban block from our home; therefore I was constantly reminded of his absence as we drove by.  I did visit him on one occasion within their new digs (during our sixth-grade year), but otherwise, we'd no contact going forward.  The experience wasn't noteworthy whatsoever for it was clear that Johnny had settled in nicely to his new (now mobile home) paradigm sans Rob.

Once adolescence reared its head for me, I expectantly protested silently.  I can remember shaving my chest hair off of my sternum religiously every week whilst repeatedly failing to come to grips with how worthless I felt all around as a teenage boy.  Looking back now on this period of my life, it was apparent that I'd absolutely missed out on my aforementioned validation.  As a result, I simply attempted to keep to myself and survive in lieu of seek it out of my own accord.

One thing that brought immeasurable joy to me as a teenager was music.  Whether I was listening, singing or dancing to it, I found a means to escape reality whilst emoting fully.  Music could transport me to another place instantaneously, and I loved that.  As a result of listening to so much music, I became a self-taught amateur vocalist.  Eventually, opportunities arrived for me to use this skillset within our church's youth choir.  And this is where yet another isolated juncture with Johnny gained too pivotal significance for such a time as that.

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After coolly trying out for a key role in the youth choir musical (at our megachurch, First Baptist Church Jackson) during the fall of '89, it became apparent that I was the shoe in as one of the leads.  

As part of my costume for this musical, I needed to wear a letter jacket (as did most everyone else).  

Who could I borrow a letter jacket from?

You must know that by this time, Johnny and his family had moved back into their abode that they'd left behind (& subsequently rented out) during our elementary school years.  And though Johnny was now attending a separate school than I was, he and I had spoken briefly, exchanging formalities only, not long after I became aware of his return.

As you might imagine, he'd continued to excel athletically throughout high school, playing a number of varsity sports, but primarily his focus was track and field.  As such, this is what he lettered in.  

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I remember, like it was yesterday, the experience of trying on his letter jacket there out on the driveway of his home.  For I'd ridden my motor scooter down to his house in order to retrieve it.  The weightiness of it was surprising as I pulled it over my shoulders; for it blanketed me perfectly.  

From there, after coaxing his younger brother off of my Honda Elite, I rode home wearing it on that cool autumn evening.  

I must have held on to his jacket for at least a month since I needed it each time we executed dress rehearsals or performed (there were multiple performances at various churches throughout the Jackson Metro).  As a result, it didn't take long for the mystique of Johnny's jacket to wear off somewhat, but what didn't subside was my memory of those initial few fortuitous minutes out on his driveway.  For it was those moments where something special had occurred. 

There was something divine about being given Johnny's letter jacket, but especially so by Johnny himself.  All the while whilst out on the driveway of that same nondescript ranch house in Madison, Mississippi.  Accompanying that transfer was me trying on the garment and recognizing how it too fit Rob well.  Even though I wasn't Johnny nor had Johnny's athletic attributes to any degree (I was the drum major in the marching band and a soloist in the church youth choir, for pete's sake).  

It's also important to note that I was keenly aware of Johnny's trusting me with his jacket being hinged on our childhood friendship and the experiences we both remembered so fondly (yet never had actually acknowledged / spoken about since).  For had those never occurred, there would have been no relational foundation between us to build upon all those years later.  

In essence, Johnny's masculine validation was surefooted / substantial enough for the both of us, and, I believe, he ALWAYS KNEW THAT about himself.  That's the lesson here.  As a result, he felt so moved - opportunistically - to share it with Rob when I took the opportunity / made the move to receive it. 

And oh my goodness, did it ever make an impact on me subconsciously.  Like an armor it became.  An armor that's never left me.  

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Sex between men, for Rob, has always been about validating masculinity within an extremely perverted, sinful way.  Many men who struggle with unwanted same-sex attraction haven't been properly validated.  That's me for sure.  Therefore, this became the root of my inability to see any innate masculine value. 

But as you've read here, there have been pivotal moments where enough of this has occurred indirectly to undergird me in ways that truly were / have been life changing.  Forcing me to look at myself differently.  Encouraging hope and fortitude that simply never would have been there before. 

Lagniappe

Cruelty In Samson Society (There Are No Referees)

If you've been engaged within Samson Society for any length of time, you've likely been the victim of some cruelty.  And on the flip side of that, you've likely instigated some regretful words / actions you yourself onto your Samson brothers.  

I can recall the first time this happened to me.  I'd attended a funeral - out of town - with a Samson guy who also knew my parents (Bob & Darlene).  As we were driving back to Jackson, he asked me a rhetorical question that was so heartless to receive.  I remember simply sitting there within the passenger seat of his SUV stunned speechless.  

And unfortunately, it changed my mindset regarding this trusted Samson guy forever.  For I knew exactly where his pointed question had originated:  envy / mistrust and cruelty.  

And it hurt intensely to be his vulnerable target on that day.

But cruelty is fun.  You have to admit to it.  Especially when you're tired or bored or simply becoming annoyed of someone's mundanity / quirks.  And I believe that's what happened in this case.  For my Samson brother was / is from a big bio family (brothers galore) where the expected posturing was no doubt prevalent.  I'm from a tiny family (only child), and I loathe / condone posturing of any ilk.

Have I forgiven this man?  Absolutely.  Yet, I won't (& haven't) be spending much (extended) one-on-one time with him ever again (unless absolutely necessary).  For I feel so moved to protect myself from his cruel interrogation bent.

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Thanks to Samson Society, I quickly befriended a young Alabamian who'd been transferred (with his young family) to the Jackson Metro due to this vocation.  This young AL Samson guy was initially invited to the Lakeside Pres Samson Society meeting (which I was facilitating) and chose to attend.

With just a handful of Samson Society meetings under his belt, it became apparent to me that he'd became mesmerized by Rob.  And when I say mesmerized, I'm talking he put me on a pedestal that was stratospheric.  

Yet, he loathed Mississippi(ans), his work in Mississippi, the church they (he & his wife & child) were attending, and he'd no real interest anymore in his faith (in spite of the fact that he was a homeschooled pastor's son).  

But there was one thing that he could not stop ruminating on:  the exceedingly sexy Human Resources Officer at his work who he'd slyly befriended.  For this intoxicating relationship was unlike any he'd ever experienced.

I can remember reaching out to one of the Elders of our church in order to schedule times to pray specifically for this young Alabamian.  I also prayed with my mother (this was a first) in the same vein.  For my young Samson friend's marriage was in tatters due to this "emotional affair", and he was so incredibly despondent / conflicted overall.  Yet, throughout, he was unusually bright and articulate.  Funny and kindhearted.  All of which drew me to him.

And then further down the road he admitted to being clinically depressed.  Or so he thought.

I concurred, strongly urging him to seek therapeutic help.  At this point, I was exhausted as his friend.  The constant negativity / hypercriticality was overwhelming to bear.  "GET PROFESSIONAL HELP!"  "GET PROFESSIONAL HELP!"  "GET PROFESSIONAL HELP!"

As a result, all regularly scheduled communication ceased.  No more emails.  No more meetings (draft beer drinking) in my garage.  Eventually, he took the opportunity to benignly chew my ass out relative to his now shunning prerogative (to protect himself from demon Rob?).  He even went so far as to tell me he'd be happy to meet with me further, at any point in the future, so long as it wasn't one-on-one.  WTF?

Now, keep in mind, he did thank me respectfully for my time / effort invested whilst making it clear that my platonic services were no longer needed.  Thank you very much.

You're welcome?!?  Good riddance.

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Seething within Samson guys is often hard to continually stomach.  Particularly when it's aimed upwards.  A lot of guys have such a difficult time resisting the temptation to rank themselves against each other (out of anger).  Especially if their past travails are far darker (within their own eyes) than your own.  Pettiness can grow out of this imbalance therein.  And it can metastasize slowly over the years.  I've had to decouple myself from Samson men as a result.  Men who'd become childish with their quips and petty overcorrections.  Thanks be to God for the ability to block contacts on smartphones.  It's the Steve Jobs' equivalent of a discreet exit.  

I realize that may sound cruel on its own accord, but keep in mind that I gave these Samson men years and years of rope to either hang themselves with or build a bridge (between us).  Per my experience, anger bequeaths the former almost every time.  It is a tough, tough emotion to bear within friendship.

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The wives of local Samson guys can torpedo friendships within the Samson community.  Especially if they found themselves responsible for steering the familial ship during their Samson husband's "acting out" (neglectful) years (decades?).  

Suggest to that Samson husband (as his Silas) his need to NOW (accounting for his active recovery efforts) take the reins relative to shoring up marginalized areas of his clan (sans the wife's blessing), and she may very well demonize you in an effort to fortify her comfortable leadership perch.

And this being no matter how much time / effort / resolve you've poured into her man.  Her control (or sense thereof) may very well take precedent (out of fear).

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And finally, there're simply bad days for every Samson guy.  Days where fatigue and emotional exhaustion are too much.  Align those conditions with two (or more) Samson guys who've known (& trusted) each other for many years, and you can potentially have a recipe for relational fallout (of the most intense sort) in just a matter of minutes.  For the tongue is full of poison.  

I had this happen to me at the last in-person Jackson, Mississippi Samson Society meeting I attended (October '21).  In fact, the situation escalated so quickly that my heart absolutely breaks whilst thinking back on it.  

So many painful words.  So much rubble left behind relative to that / those friendship(s).  

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During the live podcast recording at the 2022 National Samson Society Retreat last weekend, one of the Jackson, Mississippi Samson guys who attended cited (in general terms) his own hurtful experiences within the local Samson Society here within the Jackson Metro area.  In doing so, (I believe) he'd hoped forlornly (from Mr. Nate Larkin & Mr. Aaron Porter) for some antidote to these horrible relational failures which cause such tremendous pain / disappointment.     

I silently appreciated (I was in the audience) this young man's courage to bring this to our fearless Samson Society leaders.  For it's what instigated me to finally write this post.  

Genuine Samson Society relationships are hard.  That's why most men aren't interested therein.  There're no guardrails.  There're no referees.  In fact, the Samson Society charter doesn't address any sort of "Code of Conduct" for a Samson guy.  And that's intentional, for sure.  

As Christians, we're called to put others before ourselves.  Yet, even within scripture, we can see friendships between Bible characters pivot or sour altogether (sometimes violently).  

What I've found is God uses these developments too.  For I've never become bitter, only further hopeful, motivating me to anticipate what's next relative to platonic connection and love within this ministry.   

Be forewarned.  Don't adjudicate the ministry of Samson Society itself solely through the lens of your inevitable Samson guys' relational heartache.  Jesus' disciples fought / loved hard, yet they never lost sight of their purpose in following their Lord together.   

This photo was taken during last weekend's 2022 National Samson Society Retreat.  It represents the current lineup of Samson guys who attend "Make Thursdays Great Again" on Thursday nights at 7 PM CST (virtual Samson Society meeting).  As you can see, our virtual Samson group was well represented amongst the 150+ Samson guys who attended this wonderful retreat. 

Lagniappe

Heart Attacker - The Death Of A "Good Man"

I've written extensively about the emotional trauma / fallout I endured via my termination from Delta State University in September of 2013.  Therein I experienced more pain / suffering than I ever thought imaginable.  All at the hands of an MBA / CPA who I greatly admired as my boss (in spite of his short 7-week up-to-that-point-in-time tenure as such).

Last night, I was aghast whilst stumbling across his online obituary.  It detailed his rich work life, love of the outdoors and the unsettling reality of a surprise heart attack which killed him on the spot a few years back (at his Delta hunting camp).  

Obviously, it had been a long time since I'd taken any time to do any online research on this man's whereabouts / status, and as such, this left me all the more flabbergasted relative to his sudden demise.  For he was only 64, and overall, in good health (he was an avid cyclist).  

Today, my emotions are all over the place regarding this revelation.  For I was expecting to find some mundane press release touting his continued commitment to university administrative work either in Arkansas or Mississippi.  Instead, I come across this unsettling truth.

The man's dead and has been dead for close to two years.

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I was pleased to see Steve's obituary nailing it by paying homage to exactly who I remember him to be.  Towards the end it summarizes by stating that he was the embodiment of a "good man".  I couldn't agree more.

Yet, what of my trauma?  Trauma that manifested itself as a result of this "good man's" words.  Trauma that no one else truly can understand except me and God.  Trauma that brought me closer to suicide than I ever imagined experiencing.

All I know to do with that is write this post in an attempt to begin untying the emotional knot in my chest.  

In closing, Steve took a lot of time with me.  So much so that I could tell he genuinely enjoyed my company.  I vividly remember leaving his office exhausted after one (of many) of our "information transfer" meetings.  We talked about the Delta State University Physical Plant, campus projects in planning and construction as well as my vision for the campuses' future.  

I was amazed at how intentional he was about listening to what I had to say.  Especially as it pertained to him reciprocating with pertinent / insightful questions.  As a result, I became more and more confident in myself each time we met.  In fact, he elevated me to a place of vocational inner resolve / confidence that I'd in no way achieved up to that point (over the course of my prior year as Campus Architect).  

Yet, all of that building up (whether intentional or not) came crashing down via his momentous final adjudication (after extensively researching what entailed of me breaking the institution's IT policy).

"We don't want people like you here."  

Both Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde are gone and have been gone for a while.  Damn.  I'm speechless.

Could I be experiencing a version of Stockholm Syndrome as a means to continue to cope with my trauma?  

Do I have a trauma bond with a corpse?  If so, how do I break it?

Re-Do This For Me, My Brother, & Let Not My (Or Your) Experience Be Anything Other Than My (Your) Very Own

 

Prior to Rob becoming involved in Samson Society, I had a brief stint with another, wholly localized men's ministry.  That ministry was BPO (Business & Professional Outreach) International (Phil Hardin, Director) headquartered (at the time) here in central MS.

Back in February of 2014, I attended a Deer Camp men's retreat (the flagship experience of BPO) in rural Holmes County at the behest of Phil.  I'd attended a couple of therapy sessions with him at his Clinton, MS home (where he also had his office), and he strongly recommended I come to the forthcoming February retreat.

I became familiar with Hardin in early 2012.  At that time, he was leading a very unique Bible-study / encouragement / commentary session(s) at a Fondren coffee shop on Friday mornings.  After being invited to this gathering (and attending on-&-off regularly for a few months), I was impressed by Phil's immense confidence and swagger.  Considering that, what was unusual about this weekly meeting was how out-of-place I sensed I was.  And this was seemingly due to me not having had a "Deer Camp" weekend retreat experience to filter these (what were intended to be follow-up) gatherings through.

As a sidenote, Phil has always reminded me of Deep South version of Howard Stern, and as such, I could immediately understand why so many men flocked to his teaching / encouragement.  The genuine comfort-level he displayed with himself and his own story, combined with his intelligence / presentation skills, was so unusual to come across here in Mississippi.  All in all, there was no denying his counseling skillset combined with a deep-seated passion for reaching / ministering to men in crisis.

It's important to note too that Rob's Deer Camp weekend was pro bono.  Phil gifted this to me out of pity relative to my monetary situation (I had just started working for my 'rents, drawing a minimal salary) at the time.  Hence, I had no billfold skin in the game.

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The Deer Camp facility in rural Holmes County has been upgraded considerably since I was there in 2014.  I'd heard of these upgrades and received confirmation therein via some photos I saw last weekend. 

Those photos were taken by a "Make Thursdays Great Again" Samson guy who posted them via Slack.  He was there, along with +/-10 other Samson guys, for a "Samson Society Men's Intensive" hosted by Mr. Roane Hunter and his son.  

Mr. Roane Hunter is a close friend of Phil Hardin (who lead the Deer Camp retreat I attended in 2014).  In fact, Roane was present at the retreat I attended 8.5 years ago, though more of a therapeutic background figure throughout.  Roane's persona is much more pastoral than Phil's.  He comes across like a big, all-smiles Mississippi teddy bear that's "simply here to help / provide encouragement".  

As a sidenote, I listened to his son on the latest "Pirate Monk Podcast", and immediately could hear the genuinely nice guy similarities between his mid-30s self and his dad.

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It's important to note that my Silas attended last weekend's "Samson Society Men's Intensive" hosted by Roane Hunter and his son there in rural Holmes County (same facility I was at).  As such, his experience I'm anticipating hearing about.  For now, though, I'm going to spend some time relaying my own tale, as best as I can remember it from 2014.  And the reason I'm chronicling this here is to drive home the point that timing is critical whilst involving oneself in endeavors like what I'm about to describe.  Therefore, allow my experience (hinged directly on my then freshly traumatized state of mind) to serve as food for thought for you.    

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Some of the worst experiences of my life have been ones where I was "publicly" humiliated (by people I genuinely admired / looked up to).  As a textbook introvert, I'm especially sensitive to receiving criticism in a group setting (opposed to one-on-one).  As a sidenote, this constitutes the very antithesis of Samson Society.  

Four months prior to the 2014 Deer Camp men's retreat that I gained the privilege to attend, I'd been fired from Delta State University by my boss, the university's CFO.  There with us during that vitriol evisceration was the university's female Human Resources VP (as a party to the termination).  

Had the HR VP not been present, the degree of trauma received likely would have been far less for Rob (particularly considering the termination subject matter - gay porn - indirectly discussed).  Nonetheless, much of what was said, how it was said and the setting upon which it was said left Rob in a crumbling heap of traumatization.     

The best way to describe what I experienced emotionally is as follows:  It was as if my (fairly new) boss (who I highly respected - moreso than any boss I'd worked for prior) removed my heart and submerged it in acid via the accusatory tone / diction he harnessed during that fifteen-minute meeting.  I'd not experienced such direct demonization - to this degree - prior to this.  It was a truly horrifying experience, particularly coming from the hands of a CPA / MBA.

Throughout the course of the following 30 days (post-termination), I lost fourteen pounds due to my loss of appetite.  I also didn't sleep during that time period for more than 3-4 hours a night.  By the time February of 2014 (the month of the aforementioned Deer Camp men's retreat) arrived, I was in the throes of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.  Overall, my bout with PTSD lasted for (+/-18) months with my final flashback occurring in March of 2015. 

PTSD is something I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy.  It was hell on Earth to walk through.

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ROB WAS IN NO MENTAL / EMOTIONAL SHAPE TO BE BLINDLY ATTENDING A WEEKEND-LONG MEN'S RETREAT (WITH STRANGERS) IN RURAL HOLMES COUNTY, MS IN FEBRUARY OF 2014.  

I cannot emphasize this enough.  

The emotional trauma I was just beginning to nurse / work through made me EXTREMELY EMOTIONALLY VULNERABLE to negative feedback / criticism / feelings of rejection.  Under normal circumstances, that wouldn't have been the case, but my situation was not at all normal.

At this time, I was desperate to seek out help combined with no real clue as to where or how to find it.  But, as you'll recall me mentioning, I had been privy to Hardin's BPO ministry - on the surface - prior to me taking the Campus Architect position at Delta State University in late 2012 (via the Friday coffee shop Bible Study meetings that I'd been invited to attend).

Nonetheless, the secretive nature of what actually would occur at "Deer Camp" gave me no means to properly adjudicate the relevancy (for such as time as that) of this weekend.

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Here's some commentary on that specific Deer Camp weekend that I experienced:

I vividly remember working hard, throughout the weekend, to listen in earnest.  Starting Friday night, immediately following a screening of '97's Affliction, we listened to men share story after story after story.  This went on well into the evening, only to begin again, in earnest, on Saturday morning (after hearing Hardin's own harrowing story).  By this point, I was completely oversaturated, but we weren't even halfway through with the weekend.  

I think you get the point relative to what was being asked of everyone involved.  This was one of those boots-on-the-ground experiences that demanded full attention of one's synapses throughout.

Exceedingly late into Saturday evening, God called up Rob's number, and I was given the floor.  And man, oh man, did I ever take advantage of my share time.  Once I concluded my 20-minute tale, I sat down and braced myself with what little emotional armor I had left (by this point, it was close to midnight and freezing cold out there in the open air).   

I won't repeat what sort of feedback I received because it doesn't matter.  My point is I wasn't prepared for any of it.  The timing was wrong.  Satan had used my desperate, vulnerable, shamed state of mind to seek out an IMMEDIATE / QUICK-FIX healing / help against me.  As such, once again, I found myself subject to his direct attacks (as I'd been at Delta State University) by individuals I barely knew (yet who spoke with tremendous authority) but had chosen to trust.  This made me feel quite asinine.

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"Help me, Lord Jesus!"  

I was fit to be tied.  And what I mean by that is Satan brought upon me - within just a few additional months (post Deer Camp retreat) of 2014 - a malicious spirit that chided me constantly with the question:

"WHY DON'T YOU KILL YOURSELF?  WHY DON'T YOU KILL YOURSELF?  WHY DON'T YOU..."

Never had I experienced anything like this cruel accuser. 

At first, I chalked it up to how physiologically disrupting the job-loss demonization had been.  But, when the voice continued to taunt me day after day (especially whilst being alone with my thoughts), I knew I needed someone to confide in regarding this curse.     

Thanks be to God for my sweet wife.  At first, I'm not so sure she believed me, but within a few days, after being given the opportunity to size-up my situation more holistically, she urged me to talk to my father about my suicidal thoughts.  Once I had that emotionally harrowing exchange, he reached out to Mr. Don Waller, the facilitator of the First Baptist Church Jackson Samson Society group, on my behalf.  

By this time, it was August of 2014, therefore the misery I'd been experiencing via PTSD had been ongoing now for (+/-6) months.  

Thanks be to God for Don and for Samson Society.  Every week since then, I've attended at least one meeting (either face-to-face or virtual).  Being able to provide commentary therein sans any feedback / crosstalk has made a world of difference within my life.  Not to mention the relationships I've developed with so many Samson guys through the years (Silases and otherwise).

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Be mindful of where you're at emotionally before stepping into circumstances where you'll be challenged to defend (either internally or otherwise) yourself / your own story.  Therapists like Phil Hardin, because they're so immeasurably comfortable within their own skin, rarely pull punches whilst providing feedback.  Recognize that before situating yourself under their guise.

And if you attend an outdoor / semi-outdoor men's retreat in February, pack a pair of jeans.  It can get chilly in Mississippi (especially after dark) in February.

RIDE ON!

Lagniappe  

More lagniappe

Even more lagniappe

(Still Wondering...) "WHY???" Feat. Long Long Journey

 

Never give in. Never give in. Never, never, never, never--in nothing, great or small, large or petty--never give in, except to convictions of honour and good sense. Never yield to force. Never yield to the apparently overwhelming might of the enemy. 

~ Winston Churchill ~

     Approximately eleven months ago, I originally published this blog entry titled "Why???" At the time I published it, I was still reeling from the devastating news that a young man that I'd previously mentored, Ethan, had recently committed suicide. My emotions were still pretty raw and all over the place when I originally wrote this. Even to this day (nearly a year later), I continue to wrestle with the question "WHY." Hence, the post title (Still Wondering...) "WHY???"

    The three question marks at the end of the question why represent the three men I referenced in my post. Jarrid took his life in September 2019. Ethan in October 2021. Marvin in October or November 2011. 

    September marks National Suicide Prevention month in the United States. Always remember this: you are not alone. Reach out...to anyone. You are loved. You are worth living. Your life means something to someone. Don't loose hope. And as Churchill said, "...never yield to the apparently overwhelming might of the enemy."

 

I am currently in the midst of one of the greatest challenges that I have ever experienced during my 41-year-old life. This challenge has presented itself in the form of raising my seven, soon to be an eight-year-old son. My son’s brain constantly moves at warp speed. He is brilliant. No, I don’t say that simply because he is my son and I am a proud father (even though it is true, I am a proud dad). I say that in a matter-of-fact way because there are simply no other words to describe him. And since my son was adopted, there is no way on God’s green earth that he got it from me.

         All my son’s older brothers have been blessed in that they are exceptionally intellectually gifted. We had the boy who is next oldest to my son for about a year before they removed him and sent him back home. That is a story for another day and was a heartache that we three have still not recovered from. During the year that we had my son’s brother, he was in first grade, and it quickly became evident that he was extremely intelligent and academically gifted. At that time, my son was four and still in preschool. My wife and I often wondered whether he would follow, academically, in the footsteps of his older brother. My mom (a teacher for 30+ years) once gave us a wise piece of advice when she told us  “not compare him to any of his brothers, and to simply let him be the child that he was going to be in his own way.” Well, the proverbial apple did not fall far from the family tree. Despite his rough start in life, my son is simply brilliant. His little mind is growing and churning out new ideas and moving 1,000,000 miles a minute every single day. It is sometimes exhausting for this old dad to keep up with him. I pray for his teacher every single day. As you can imagine, this presents some serious challenges for mom and dad. Even though he is not quite yet eight, my son possesses a large and in charge type A personality. He is a natural-born leader, and he has never been a follower. I am afraid that he will never be a follower (except for, hopefully, a follower of Christ!).

            This little eight-year-old blessing is something that my wife and I deal with every day, as we try to constructively guide him through life while also encouraging him to be a fiercely independent problem solver. My kid is so analytical; this is evidenced in that he loves to argue about anything. I have always joked that he is going to make an excellent defense attorney one day because he can argue his way out of anything (and does so quite convincingly). Another challenge that comes along with raising my son is answering the million “why” questions that he fields my way every single day. “Why does this happen, daddy” or “why does this work this way, daddy” or “what makes X equal Y” and on and on and on. Now, although it may seem like I am griping a tad bit here, that is not the case. From the moment he first started talking, I have always encouraged my son to ask me all the questions he wishes to ask. I tell my son the same thing that I always told my students when I was teaching: “there are no dumb questions.” So, I am happy that my son is asking questions even though it does sometimes get old trying to come up with the answers to some of his questions!

            “WHY???” I would dare say that no other three-letter word in the English language contains the power packed into this small, unassuming word. “Why” is a word that invites questioning, and self-examination within oneself. Indeed, it demands introspection and invites conversation in general. “Why” is a word that can be both simultaneously maddening and enlightening.

            When we ask “why” and the person of whom we are asking the question delivers a satisfactory answer, the word grants us immediate gratification and resolution. We get an answer to the question “why.” However, the same word can also be maddening at times. When something befalls us or we are forced to go through something that we feel like we should not have gone through, our human nature is to question God “why?” Of course, during those instances, the use of the word looks more akin to this: “WHY???!!!”

I learned many years ago, as a youth, to never put anyone on a pedestal. As I discovered in my youth, if you put someone on a pedestal, they will eventually fall off the pedestal and then the weight of them crashing down will seriously wound you. When I was in high school, I had a youth pastor that I was very close to and really loved. I think that he was the first person that I ever put on a pedestal in a church situation. As a youth, I was not as strong in my faith, and I was a lot more vulnerable. One day, I watched my youth pastor fall off the pedestal during a church camp one summer. I was absolutely crushed. I was devastated. I never looked at him the same again. From that moment on, I made a deal with God: I would never put any fallible human on a pedestal ever again. No, that did not mean that I would not love people or even try to trust them, it just meant that I would not hold them to such a high standard that it would eventually set them up for failure.

            I am not big on social media at all. I just don’t really see the purpose of it (other than occasionally keeping up with old friends that live many states away). Real-life happens right in front of you – it happens in the muddy trenches when you are barely surviving, and it happens on top of the mountains; regardless, it happens with the people that you love who are actively a part of your life, in real life. Real-life means that you can reach out and actively touch a person such as giving them a hug in church, or having a cup of coffee with them. You can’t do that via social media. But there was a time in my life about six or seven years ago when I was pretty involved with Twitter. I never posted much of anything on Twitter, but I followed a number of motivational accounts from which I drew great encouragement. I found encouragement through the devotionals and motivational thoughts shared by pastors and other motivational speakers.

            There was a young man named Jarrid that I started following on Twitter. Jarrid was an up-and-coming young pastor who was on staff at a large church in California. For some reason, the words that Jarrid shared on Twitter and on his personal blog resonated deeply with me and spoke to me. I was going through a bad bout of depression in my life during that time, and even though Jarrid seemed to have it all together (he was a pastor) and had a beautiful family who loved him, Jarrid also suffered greatly from depression. Everything that Jarrid spoke about related to depression and suicide prevention came from the trenches of his own experience and it really resonated with me; I knew at the time that it was God giving me messages of hope through this young man. I never did put Jarrid on a pedestal (I learned my lesson, remember), but I did hold his words in high esteem, and I sincerely looked forward to every new thought that he shared on Twitter and every new devotional that he published on his blog. Even though I never met him in person, I felt such a strong connection with him and it was almost like we were kindred spirits fighting our way through the darkness of depression and trying to find the light of life once again.

            I’ll never forget one of the last things that Jarrid posted. It was around National Suicide Prevention Day back in 2019. Jarrid spoke of how life was so precious, and he encouraged anyone fighting the darkness to reach out to him or to anyone else who could hold out a hand to grab onto. And then his words stopped. There were no more tweets, no more blog posts, no more anything. And then I found out. This young pastor, this man of God, this kindred spirit who had touched my life, was dead by his own hand. A mere few hours after his son’s ballgame, he ended his own life. He killed himself right after he wrote what he did for National Suicide Prevention Day. Even though I had never met Jarrid in person, my heart was truly broken and I asked God:

 “WHY!?”

 Jarrid left behind a lovely wife and a beautiful family. All I could think of was that it was such a waste of a good life and that there were so many more lives he could’ve touched. Truly, there was so much more that God could have used him to accomplish. I felt cheated, I felt robbed, and I felt so heartbroken for his family.

“Why, Jarrid???”

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            One of my dad’s good friends from his years of living in Meridian was a man named Marvin. Marvin was a good guy, and he was a very strong believer as well. He and my parents went to church together in Meridian. Marvin and my dad would go hunting together, and they always enjoyed getting together to shoot the breeze. When my dad left Meridian, Marvin was one of the few people that he kept in contact with. After my dad moved from Meridian, Marvin’s health started failing him in several ways. My dad went back to Meridian a couple of times to visit Marvin, to check up on him, and just to spend time with him because Marvin was lonely. But life goes on, and time and distance have a way of interfering with relationships.

I remember one of the last phone conversations that my dad had with Marvin. Marvin told my dad that he was going through a rough patch and really needed to see him. My dad talked with Marvin for a while and assured him that he would make the trip to Meridian the next week to see him, but that he had a lot going on during the current week. My dad thought he could wait a week to go see Marvin.

A few days later, Marvin’s neighbor texted my dad. My dad said that it was probably the worst text he has ever received. The neighbor’s text was to inform my dad that Marvin had gone into the woods behind his cabin where he proceeded to shoot himself in the head. I don’t think that I have ever seen my dad quite as emotional except during his mother’s (my late grandmother’s) funeral. That was an incredibly tough blow for my dad, and he questioned God for months afterward. “Why did you let Marvin take his own life.” “Why did I not take the time to go to Meridian on the day that Marvin called me and needed me?” I don’t believe I have ever seen my dad quite so mentally anguished before. He felt so incredibly guilty for a long time after that, but he eventually came to terms with the fact he most likely could not have saved Marvin no matter what.

“Why, Marvin???”

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            In my late 20s and in my early 30s, I was involved with an international prison ministry that had a local chapter in one of our state prisons. It was something that I never desired to get involved with nor did I want anything to do with. But God had other plans. Out of that initial prison ministry, I later branched into other areas such as mentoring juvenile offenders and mentoring older guys who were within a year of being released. Back in 2012 and 2013, I was a part of the collaborative reentry program that was started by Stuart Kellogg of Jackson Mississippi, and I had the opportunity to mentor three men through that program. The last young man that I ever mentored as part of that program was a young fella named Ethan. Ethan had a sad story, and he had found himself locked in prison at the ripe young age of 20 due to a tragedy that he had been involved in. Another guy named Mickey and I were assigned to Ethan to become his mentor. Twice a month for the next year, we went into prison and mentored Ethan one on one through sharing personal testimonies and a Bible study. Those were some of the sweetest times that I have ever been privileged to be a part of.

Ethan possessed such a gentle soul; he was kind, he was humble, he was eager to learn, and he loved the Lord. Ethan was a gifted writer and a great wordsmith; his grandmother owned a small weekly newspaper in Alabama, and Ethan had the unique opportunity to write weekly articles of encouragement for the newspaper. His column was titled “Penned behind Bars.” Ethan was a very unique writer; I can unabashedly say that having read hundreds of great (and not so great) essays written by students over the years. A talent like Ethan possessed can only be a gift from God. As an English teacher and fellow writer, it was my pleasure to both mentor and encourage Ethan as he grew in his writing ability.

After he got out of prison, Ethan briefly attended USM in Hattiesburg before moving to Alabama to take over as the assistant editor of his grandmother’s weekly newspaper. I kept up with Ethan via text message and through social media, but I eventually got busy raising my own son. I never forgot Ethan, and never forgot those special moments that we three shared behind the walls of a prison. Ethan had his ups and downs, and I knew that he went through a couple of rough patches over the past few years. But he seemed to have leveled out over the last year or so, and was very successful in his endeavors. He was an award-winning writer and journalist. I did not really talk to Ethan much lately, but I had kept up with him.

             Three weeks ago, I received word from Ethan’s mother. He had shot himself, and she found him lying on the floor of the newspaper office in Alabama. Words just simply don’t exist that could ever describe how heartbroken I was. I was absolutely crushed, sick to my stomach, devastated, and absolutely torn apart. I still am some days. Ethan was 30 years old, and he had his whole life ahead of him. I experienced an entire gamut of emotions on the day that I found out; they ranged from extreme anger at Ethan’s selfishness to extreme sadness for his family’s loss and everything in between. Ethan was a strong believer; I made sure of that. If there is any consolation I have, it is that I know for a fact that Ethan was a child of God.

“Why, Ethan???”

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In each of these instances, I have raised the question “why?” Why did these three individuals (all strong believers of God) commit the ultimate act of selfishness? But you know something? As I asked myself “why” during each of these three times, a little voice in the back of my head whispered, “you know why, Stephen….” And, I, unfortunately, do know why.

I know why because I have been in the place that Jarrid, Marvin, and Ethan have been in. The only difference between my situation and theirs is that when they reached the door at the end of that long, dark, tunnel, they stepped through it and closed the door behind them. I have been to that place. I have been to the end of that tunnel, and I have opened, then peeked through that door. I have seen the freedom from pain, and the new and glorious morning that lies on the other side of that door. But each time, I heard God say “no, not yet.”

That long, dark, tunnel is a very scary place to be. You can’t see anything. There’s nothing above you, nothing below you, and nothing on either side of you. There is just blackness. At the far end of the tunnel, you can see the light shining under the door, a small sliver of hope that mysteriously beckons you toward it.

But to open that door and to step through would cause those left behind on earth to endure immeasurable pain. It pains me to say this, but there was a time several years ago when I came so very close. I had a plan, and it was a great plan. But I heard God saying “no, not yet.” And so, I fought, with everything that I had inside of me. I clawed my way back to the other side of that tunnel, and I eventually found the light of this world again.

That is my story. I cannot speak for Jarrid, Marvin, or Ethan. I cannot tell you what went through their minds during their final moments or what caused them to commit the ultimate act of selfishness. But I can speak for myself. And I would almost be willing to bet that their thoughts in their final moments were very similar to mine. I am a natural loner. I love to isolate. And that is a very dangerous thing for me. 2020 was a dangerous year for me. There have been other times of darkness since that moment I experienced in the tunnel a few years ago, but they have not been nearly as bad. I have caught myself passing by the tunnel on occasion, and for a brief moment and I found myself just wanting to jump into the darkness again and head towards that light peeking under the door. But I knew that I could not do that. And so, with God’s help, I have been able to drag myself away from the tunnel each time.

I will always miss Jarrid even though I never met him. And I will most definitely always miss Ethan. I loved Ethan, and I was so proud of who he had become. My dad still to this day misses Marvin. There are some pastors out there who made the argument that if a believer commits suicide, it is an automatic ticket to hell. I have heard that said before. I was talking to my own pastor earlier this year because he had a good friend on staff at his previous church who committed suicide a few years back. It was something that really tore him up for a long time. He and I had a long and fruitful discussion, and I told him about my journey through the tunnel. He assured me that even though he believes that it is the ultimate act of selfishness, he also firmly believes that believers who have chosen to end their lives early are in the arms of Jesus. I have no doubt that Jarrid, Marvin, and Ethan are resting in the arms of Jesus and that their pain is finally healed. And you know, there are some days that I am jealous. I am jealous that they got to see Jesus and I’m not able to yet. They got the ultimate remedy. But each time I feel that jealously coming on, I hear God whisper “I am not done with you.” And so, I wait.

I love answering the questions that my son throws at me each day. I often tell him that I don’t know the answer to every question, but that I can certainly try to find out the answer to why. I don’t want my wife to ever have to ask the question “Why, Stephen???” or my son to have to ask the question “Why, daddy???” So I continue to hold on. And even in those moments when I feel like I can’t hold on anymore, I know that God will never let go of me and he will continue to hold on to me. "Why he let go of me" is a question that I’ll never have to ask!