The Piano 

 

Disclaimer: All thoughts / ideas / words that appear below are the sole thoughts / writings of the author and were in no way AI generated. Images appearing in this post were created by the author using an AI image generator for the sole purpose of providing illustrations.

Fermata, Legato, Staccato, Slur, Forte, Fortissimo, Pianissimo, Diminished, Whole Note, Quarter Note, ¾ Time…

These were terms I had not heard in over thirty years; in fact, some of them were terms that I had never encountered before. They were all new, yet so familiar. It was a part of me I had never known existed, yet had been there all along. It was a friend waiting in the shadows; it was a connection waiting to be restored. It was a missing puzzle piece; it was a lost part of me. It was like a prodigal returning home. It was my piano.  

I have always thought that my childhood could basically be defined in three stages. Beginning, middle, and end. Because of the nature of my dad’s career(s) while growing up, there was not a lot of continuity or consistency in my childhood at all. 

In some ways, there was consistency, as I had both of my parents as stable figures in my life while growing up. In other ways, the constant moves, changing of schools, leaving friends behind, and learning not to ever get close to people created a huge disconnect in my life. It might not sound like a huge deal to some people, but one of the accomplishments in my adult life that I am the most proud of is that I have been able to obtain stability, to live in one town (nearly 18 years now) for my entire married life. My son has been able to grow up in this town, go to the same church in the same school that he has been in since he was little, and have the same friends all his life.

When I was about seven or eight, my parents wanted me to start playing the piano, so I had a really sweet older lady named Mrs. Barbara who began to teach me piano. I can still faintly remember going out to Mrs. Barbara's house in the country and enduring those weekly lessons. I don't remember much about my practice in those early years, but I do remember that I did not practice that much because my parents were very lackadaisical in making sure that I was consistent in my practice. Those lessons lasted for about a year and a half until we had to move again and I had to leave Mrs. Barbara and my piano behind.

As some of you know, I was diagnosed with a rather severe hearing loss early in my childhood. It stabilized, and the doctors thought that it would remain consistent with the rest of my life. They thought that what I had at that point would be what I continued to have into my adult years. Undetected by my parents, it slowly started to diminish even more after I turned 10 years of age.

When I was nine years old, we moved, and for the next four or five years, life was filled with moves, job inconsistencies on my dad's part, and uncertainty about where we would even live. I always missed the piano, and secretly longed to play it but felt really discouraged and so I never picked it up after leaving Mrs. Barbara behind.

When I was 13, in the summer of 1994, we moved for what would be the last time during my grade and secondary school years. This was a time filled with much angst; in addition to the normal teenage angst, there was the added factor of moving to an entirely new city, nearly 1 ½ hours from where I’d lived for the past 5 years. It was a place where I knew no one, and had no desire to be. I won’t go into much detail about those years in this blog, because that’s not really the point of this post, and it’s still really difficult for me to think about and talk about even 30 years after the fact.

The pianist at our church was an incredibly talented lady named Mrs. Jackie. To this day, I still have not heard anyone that could play with the distinct style and talent that she processed. Sure, I have heard a number of incredibly talented pianists through the years, but Mrs. Jackie’s sound was unique. Just like I can close my eyes and tell you exactly when Floyd Cramer starts playing, I could tell you exactly when “Mama Jackie” (as we called her) would start playing. Her sound was that unique and beautiful. She was incredibly gifted in that she played by ear, but also knew how to sight read music very proficiently. In addition to being a church pianist, she was a banker by day, and a piano teacher by night. When  I was 15, my parents got Mama Jackie to start teaching me on the piano once more. I picked it up very quickly again even though I hadn’t touched the piano in more than 6 years. 

Because I was battling so much inner turmoil as a teenager that I kept hidden until my thirties, I never really took my piano playing seriously (which unfortunately, carried over into lack of desire to practice). When I turned 15, my hearing started rapidly diminishing even though the doctors had, years before, told my parents that it would remain stable. When I was 17, I was facing the inability to hear the notes clearly, so much repressed anger (which led to untreated depression), and yet even more instability in my family. In addition, Mama Jackie was facing some personal challenges in her own family which meant that she had to give up teaching for a spell. All of these things created a perfect storm which meant that I had to give up piano once more. For years after that, every time I saw a piano, I was filled with equal parts remorse, anger, longing, regret, and hopelessness. For me, it wasn’t just a piano. It was a symbol of what I’d lost as a teenager, a symbol of the lost, lonely young man that I felt no one saw or understood. It was a symbol of something I felt I could never achieve. 

During my freshman year of college, my parents moved yet again. This time their move led them out of state. It’s laughably funny, but when you think of kids going off to college, you think of the kids flying the nest and branching out on their own. In my situation, it was quite the opposite. I was already in school and didn’t have it in me to move yet again. I certainly did not want to go to college in Louisiana closer to my folks. So I stayed behind and my family left me. I actually lived with Mama Jackie and her husband for about 6 months until I got my own place and caught my stride. I will forever be grateful to them for that blessing. 

During my senior year of high school, my hearing had nearly completely vanished. That was a scary and frustrating time that I’d rather not remember. When I was a sophomore in college, I had surgery to bring back some of my hearing and the next few years were filled with the challenges of not only completing college, but also simultaneously learning to hear and speak correctly again. During this time, I met my lovely wife, who has been with me ever since (22 years now). In between starting my career after college, moving to Arizona for a stint, then back to Mississippi, getting married, and settling down to raise my son, and going through graduate school not once, but two times, playing the piano was the farthest thing from my mind. Yet, subconsciously, it was the closest thing to my mind the the nearest thing to my heart. Deep down, I always had a longing to play again, but the constant fear of failure kept that from ever becoming a reality. 

A few years ago, I found an older 61 key Yamaha synthesizer from the late 1990’s, and purchased it from an older gentleman simply because it reminded me of the one I played on in my youth. Last year, the music department at the college where I work was liquidating two of their older Roland digital pianos, to replace them with newer models. I bought one for pennies on the dollar and dragged it home in the back of my buddy’s truck, much to the dismay of my wife. I bought it simply because it reminded me of the one Mama Jackie had in her piano studio.

 

I saw Mama Jackie a few times after moving away from Petal and graduating college. I kept up with her regularly on social media and via text. She was an incredible lady that touched so many lives including mine. Sadly, she experienced a good number of health issues over the last few years, even though she was my dad’s age, 71. This past February, she took a turn for the worse and unexpectedly passed away. I went to her memorial service, which required me to return to a place I said I would never go back to for the rest of my life. Hearing story after story of how Mama Jackie had touched so many lives, and hearing so much piano playing (and singing) in her honor touched something and sparked something inside of me; something that had been long dormant. 

For several years now, I have said I was going to pick up where I left off with piano all those years ago. Every year, I’ve made excuses for why I couldn’t. I’m too old. I’m too busy. I will never be good. I don’t have the time. It’s pointless…and so forth. After bringing the Roland home, I sat down and dabbled a little while playing it. The video I included at the top of this post is just an improvisation piece I recorded one Sunday morning this past February, while thinking about Mama Jackie and what she had meant to me in my life. 

Our church pianist is a retired music professor who is very proficient on the piano and the organ. She is a sweet lady who is very kind and she teaches piano in her studio, the Clinton Music Conservatory. A while back, she added me as a friend on social media, and earlier this summer, she announced that she would be starting summer lessons at her home beginning in June. On a whim, I approached her one Sunday in church and expressed my desire to resume my studies, despite the fact that I had not played the piano or opened up a piano book since Bill Clinton was in office! She agreed to teach me, and thus began the continuation of my journey in June of this year.

Today, I’m nearly 45 years old. I’m not a young man any more, and my memory is not as sharp as it used to be. I don’t have any desire to be a concert pianist, a church pianist, or the next Beethoven. In fact, I know I will never be any of those things. But I am playing again. Not for anyone, but myself. And it makes me happy. It’s my therapy. It’s like coming home. Committing 45 minutes to an hour each day of practice is a daunting task, but this time it’s different…I can’t get enough of it.  Learning piano again is like drinking water from a literal fire hydrant. It’s overwhelming. It’s like continuing to learn a foreign language you gave up speaking when you were still in high school. But it’s exhilarating, it’s invigorating, and it’s challenging me to no end. And this time it’s different. I’m an adult, and I want this like I've wanted few other things in life. I'm doing this for no one but myself. The fire hydrant continues to gush, but I’m thirsty and I’m soaking in as much as I can as fast as I can. Dr. Wilder is a good teacher, and very patient. 

For me, it’s not just a piano, and nor are these just musical notes that I'm playing. It’s the 45 year old me traveling back in time, to a place in life where I can reconnect with the teenage version of me; I needed to find him and tell him it will be OK. It’s not just a piano, it’s re-discovering what was lost. With each chord I learn and play, I'm one step closer to him. It’s reconnecting with a part of me that I have been unable to reach for so long. You’re never too old to learn or to travel back and find the younger version of yourself and learn to love him. As long as you have breath, you’re never too old. 

Today, I challenge you, much as I have challenged myself, to go back and find whatever it is that you lost in your life. To reconnect and rediscover the younger you that was lost, and for the older you to be able to tell him “It’s OK, we will continue this journey together.” I know Mama Jackie is smiling at me. Even if I never play for anyone else, that’s OK. I have all I need right in front me; just me and my piano. 

Just remember that I, oh I am always near,
You just have to reach deep into your heart
But for now, you just dry your tears, don't you ever fear
Just sit awhile and play your song in the night

Come, just sit with me awhile, for I will make you smile
As we play our songs together in the night
You just call out to me and there will be no more tears
We'll just sit here together awhile
Come, let's just sit together awhile…

(excerpt from “Songs in the Night” © Stephen Coleman)

That Hot, Sexy Runner: Reversing The Clock By 20 Years...

Spring has sprung in Mississippi.  

During my drive home yesterday, 3/17 (I was within two miles of the house), I came upon a runner.  And not any runner, mind you.  This early to mid-30s man was at his physical peak.  And shirtless to boot!

The blind (topography) intersection he was running through was decidedly dangerous for both motorists & pedestrians, considering the lack of sidewalks much less curb and gutters.  Nonetheless, he was front and center of those of us behind the wheel as he sashayed his muscular, tanned frame, weaving in & out of the end-of-the-business-day traffic confidently.

I was close enough to deduce that his physique was not unlike any number of Special Forces soldiers (in spite of the 800-mile distance to Fort Bragg from Flowood, MS).  Perhaps, as such, he'd very much lost his way.

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A close Coonass (I love this man) friend of mine made the recent comment that he was in a much better place today than a month ago.  His thoughtful prose is always appreciated.

I have been chewing on that outlook for days now.  For I find it so very insightful as to how we should consider our recovery journey:  on a timeline.

If I were to turn back the clock twenty years, I'd be 32, married for 8 years with one child (toddler).  I'd be floundering (very, very bored with the work) at my first career-building architecture job and deeply, deeply entrenched (numerous hours a day) in gay porn's poison (both at work and at home via the www).  My physical health at this time was a non-priority in my life, and my walk with God also was on autopilot.  My sweet wife, Angie, was home with Babyone and only beginning to find side hustles (executable from home) to supplement her husband's meager income.  And just so you know, I had just relinquished my part-time gig as janitor at the architecture firm that I was employed at full-time.  The shame I felt for having to take on this humiliating (10-month) after hours gig was still - at this time - weighing heavy on my 32-year-old self.

To sum it up, I was in an extremely vulnerable / isolated place during this time of my life.  There was so much negative going on inside my head.  Negative that was terribly sensitive to even the most minute incendiary catalyst.

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Now then.  Let's drop my 32-year-old sorry ass self into the happenstance situation I encountered during my drive home yesterday, (3/17).

First and foremost, I would have instantaneously seen the situation for what it was to me at the time.  An opportunity to exploit.  High-definition mental snapshots of the shirtless stud would have ensued (as I steadied my glare), and from there, I would have had my lust fodder for the following week plus.  

Simultaneously, tremendous shame regarding my desire for this man would latch onto me as if it had been all along ready and waiting within my passenger seat.  These feelings would belittle and diminish me, no matter how well the hours of the day prior had unfurled.  As a result, a tremendous awareness of my feeling intensely isolated would become my front and center state of mind.    

Having identified an opportunity, I would then utilize my memorized photos / experience therein to cope (via heady sexual fantasy).  That opportunity likely would be after my sweet wife was asleep later on that evening.  The fantasies I would concoct would harken back to the very same ones from my adolescence (stitched together neatly through time).  All of those involved me being platonically pursued by masculine, athletically built men under the guise of sexual attraction / lust.

And this, my friends, is voyeurism.  And voyeurism is sin.

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The most noteworthy aspect of my 20-year-younger self - in regard to this spontaneous encounter - would be how specifically captivated he'd be.  It would be as if he were nothing but a void or black hole.  A void / black hole constantly seeking to be filled up via the attention / desire of other, only viewed from a distance, men.  

This was my life back then.  I managed it the best I knew how, but frankly, it was my chronic isolation that left me stuck therein.  

Yet, throughout, I had no idea how not to be isolated nor what it might look like were I not.  For this was and always had been my normal.  Especially from the standpoint of being whipsawed in and out of my routine relative to who / whom I might encounter circumstantially.

Certain men were in complete control of Rob.  And I knew of no other way to exist.  It truly sucked.

Thanks be to God that I'm in a much better place today than I was twenty years ago.

Utilizing Unresolved Familial Baggage To Perpetuate / Justify A Rudderless Life / Existence (With Much Rubble By The Wayside). Recognizing How Easy It Is To Establish An Identity For Identity's Sake.

Growing up Southern Baptist, I recall vividly (as a teen) one particular pastor chiding us parishioners (First Baptist Church Jackson) from the pulpit with, "Do you know that you know that you know?" 

He was referring / speaking to what he considered to be the Christian imposters, sitting there amongst the throngs (or perhaps the Christian amnesiacs?).

It was a question that was laser-focused on his listeners' personal profession of faith, but via wordy distortion, it instead landed underneath the umbrella of emotional petulance (angst).  And as a result, most every mature adult (had they been honest) simply wished to stand up and walk out due to how patronizing (& cultish) it sounded. 

I believe it's important to note that this nagging orator not at all looked the part of Southern Baptist pastor.  And I recall distinctly that his voice was incredibly baritone and therefore rich (& chocolatey)-sounding.  Perhaps that was what served to soft-land his stupid pitch?  For this repetitive verbiage was his mantra.  No matter the sermon, it would be repeated ad nauseum (mostly at the tail end prior to the altar call). 

In a nutshell, whilst looking back, this pastor had a distinctly inaccurate view of our Heavenly Father that he'd perpetuated in line with his own identity.  In short, I have to assume that he felt that it suited him specifically, therefore he allowed its credence to shape / instruct / inform who he was outright as a preacher man.  As a result, this distortion resulted in his reliably odorous pulpit delivery.

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Anyone who has common sense will remember that the bewilderments of the eye are of two kinds, and arise from two causes, either from coming out of the light or from going into the light, which is true of the mind's eye, quite as much as of the bodily eye.

There are a lot of low intelligence individuals in Mississippi.  I've said this before.  

Here's the sad truth:

Low intelligence folks are hard pressed to live their lives beneath the banner of delayed gratification.  This combined with the inability to analyze their familial history / narrative constructively (if at all), leaves them like cultural "sitting ducks".

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Okay, having written those two sections, I'm going to attempt to tie all this in a neat bow by focusing on the sometimes-difficult coupling between both of these: delayed gratification and analytical skills (assuming moderate to above-average intelligence).  From there, I want to explain what I sometime see happening when we allow our fundamental desire for a stark / distinct / foundational identity to take precedent over process.

If you're a southern boy in lieu of a Midwesterner or out-westerner, community standards aren't going to scream ONLY EXCELLENCE RESIDES HERE.  That "low bar" combined with haphazardly "knowing" how to analyze versus taking the needed time to do so (well / thoroughly), can result in an identity that's an identity for identity's sake.  As a result, I would argue, individuals end up much worse off - in the long run - cross eyed.  

And this is because those identities are false.  And yes, even if they're off by just one degree, they're still false.

The preacher / evangelist I cited earlier had an identity rooted in a Jesus that simply wasn't the Jesus of Scripture.  Yet, he pressed on with his dumbass message in light of the obvious, all the while confusing / frustrating the masses every time he opened his big mouth (in spite of that rich voice).  

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There are plenty of teens who stay frustrated with their family of origin.  And oftentimes, this frustration is justifiable.  Families aren't perfect.  They disappoint.  They fall short.  Sometimes they do terrible things that result in tremendous hurt to the everyone (w/ the concentrated hurt falling on the children).  

And none of this should be ignored.

But if an adult child has the intelligence to respectfully / historically analyze (perhaps with some therapeutic assist), having lived through it, I would argue that in due time (sometimes taking FAR LONGER than one cares to commit to), clarity can be had.  

Answers to questions such as:

-  Who exactly are my individual family members?

-  Who were those who influenced them?

-  What role did I play within the family dynamic?

-  How will the answers to the first three questions within this list play a role in my own identity?

-  How do I see myself, going forward, as I continue to mature forward into adulthood?

-  What can my family look like in spite of my upbringing?

These are a great analytical jumping off point.    

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I look at friends of mine who've established a false identity (for identity's sake), and I so often cringe at the informalness (not at all striving for excellence) approach to living out (a portion of, if not most of) their lives.  

And this approach can, depending on the individual, perhaps only "infect" certain areas of their identity.  Maybe it's their job or their relationship with their spouse that's at the mercy of this biased (false identity) approach. 

Speaking personally, I believe I've been able to spot this approach with ease due to a deceased uncle's tragic legacy within my own family.    

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How do you know if you fall into this camp (harboring an identity for identity's sake)?

I have to believe that (taking into account those of us who're blessed with ample grey matter) it's not genuinely satisfying to live a life that's half baked.  Just as it's never going to be permanently affecting preaching a gospel that's distorted and pushy. 

And I realize that some individuals simply refuse to fully process the tremendous hurt they experienced as children, therefore they rebelliously build their identity on that shaky void.

Nonetheless, it's foolish for anyone with half a brain (& an assumed healthy mental state) to buy into this half-assed, discounted settling.  For it's a settling that perpetuates generational failing forward.  

Remember, you can't hide true intelligence.  Therefore, if you're a Christian as well, and fall into this camp, I would argue that in many ways, you're actually worshiping an internal idol.  An idol of false identity that likely moved in during a season of your development (adolescence?) where it's tangibleness seemed to do far more regarding your need to heal than it actually was / ever could.  

Be encouraged to evict it today and seek out the help you need to do the necessary analytical work to find your true identity (in Christ).  And please, for goodness' sake, be patient with the process.  

You will get there eventually.  And perhaps Samson Society can help.

Lagniappe

Once More, A Boiled Toad

Being same-sex attracted has always been my sexual norm.  I've never known anything different.  When I began dating my future wife (mid-'90s), I was far more attracted to her holistically than likely other potential suitors might have been.  And this springboarded off of our childhood friendship which became far more important than either of us realized 'till we began dating.  Angie was tender.  Her touch was soft and consistent.  Plus, she was loyal to a fault.  I could go on, but my point here is I had the benefit of being able to easily look beyond the sole opportunity to lay with her (intercourse), as her husband, in regard to potentially marrying.

Another norm for me is the Deep South culture.  A big portion of which basks in college football competition / rivalries.  This one too is experienced by Rob in ways that don't necessarily fit the typical Mississippi redneck.

It's important to know that Mississippi is all I know relative to a home.  As such, it's a hotbed of football-loving and has been for as long as I've known it.  My dad, Robert, Sr., grew up immersed in this Southeastern Conference culture.  As such, it's as definitive as the very blood type that circulates through his veins.

I joined the marching band (clarinet / drum major) in middle school out of curiosity (& as an escape route from PE class) more than anything else.  As such, Friday nights during each of my subsequent fall semesters were mostly spent back on the private academy's grounds - at each and every football game. 

From there, I segued into my college's marching band where again, I spent every fall weekend (along with three bowl games!) supporting the team, but this time, I was wearing a maroon & white band uniform.  At the conclusion of 1994, my tenure as a Maroon Band member bittersweetly came to a close.

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Whilst looking back, regarding football, I really was like a submerged frog in a pot of gradually heated water.  Yet, there were two confounding constants:  1) how undecipherable the game was to me as a teen & subsequently 2) the reality that every matchup occurred under the cover of darkness.  

For I'd certainly never played the game.  Therefore, having only very rarely tossed a pigskin with my father, I found myself sitting in those rickety wooden stands feeling more like a comatose queue (on standby to march during halftime) than an actual spectator.     

But now, as a 51-year-old, I can comprehend the game well enough to follow the action.  Nonetheless, even if I squint my eyes closed, I have the ability to keep up with the plays with relative ease.  

And this leads me to the following realization:  Football players, after all these years, are now becoming recognizable as individuals.  And not just for their specific assigned positions on the field.  Their names on the back of their jerseys, specifically, are beginning to register within my brain, proving to me that these are real men.

Some of which are very physically attractive men.

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Today (specifically regarding the past three seasons), I've interloped yet again into the routine of supporting football games.  And this is in line with my oldest daughter being a pep squad member at her collegiate institution of choice with me (& Angie) being the supportive parent(s).   

Disappointingly, her college's football team hasn't performed well during the majority of these seasons, therefore it's been absolutely no fun to attend the games - from that perspective.  

Hence, I have found myself, throughout these 4+ tedious hours, doing everything in my power to simply endure the mercilessly horrific gameplay.

As such, this has led me to take note of one player in particular, who just happens to station himself almost directly in front of our seats.  And all I know to say about that is, thanks be to God for beautiful men.

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At this stage in my recovery, I don't consume gay porn in order to lust.  Why?  I simply see that approach as past tense for Rob.  Nonetheless, when I do choose to delve into it, it's in pursuit of two things:  1) videos / photos of guys who fit my masculine archetype being sexual - to some degree or another, and 2) these same guys displaying acts of physical tenderness towards each other.

There's not a lot of porn out there that fits this bill because...

A sizable number of porn models who participate onscreen in homosexual sex aren't actually same-sex attracted.  The vast majority are simply guys who're enduring, not unlike I tend to be whilst attending the aforementioned culturally ubiquitous college football games.  Many of these models certainly have a track record within the gay porn industry, but it's exclusively that reputation that they build their simulated performances on as they contractually agree to collaborate within countless (sometimes hundreds, if not thousands) mechanizable features. 

I too have a football game track record that (either as a pep squad / band member or spectator), for me, now spans decades of my life, but it doesn't mean I have today or will ever have in the future any real interest in football.  

The big money for attractive, muscular, masculine (straight-acting) porn models is within the production of gay porn.  Why?  A lot of folks (particularly same-sex attracted folks) consume it very, very regularly.  And yes, that includes women who're completely uninterested in seeing women within their porn palette.  

But the quagmire here is can these straight, college / pro football player-like men display genuine tenderness - towards each other - within this genre?  Especially considering the fact that tenderness is absolutely uncalled for within heterosexual porn features.

Mostly no.  Thankfully no.  & most of the time, if they make the attempt, it looks incredibly forced.

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I'm fortunate to only have one additional year of college football spectatorship that I must endure (my pep squad daughter will be a senior next year!).  From there, my plan is to never attend another college football game unless someone leads me into one at gunpoint.  For I have truly had my fill of it for a lifetime.

And thanks be to God that there's so little online - today - relative to gay porn that captures my interest.  I suppose I've literally become, yet again, a boiled toad in this regard as well.  

Let's Not Forget To Consider The Unlevel Playing Field

Adam Young was our keynote speaker during the 2023 National Samson Society Retreat.  I did not attend either of his sessions (I continued to man the registration table during Friday evening's session), but I did slip in at the tail end of the second one (Saturday morning).  During those few minutes, a Q & A session was underway within the packed auditorium, and Adam was navigating those queries with answers that landed beautifully each and every time.  Also, he was really humorous with many of his answers as he sveltely circled back to accentuate previous bullet points that were no doubt key to his talk.

During those final minutes, I felt he was summarizing much of what he'd shared earlier on.  For he was emphasizing the importance of approaching loved ones who'd done the traumatizing with the request to bequeath them (opportunistically) with how they'd actually been hurtful.  For example, if a parent had said something traumatizing in the past, Adam urged audience members to timely return to that parent before asking respectfully if they might "revisit" the lingual trauma (what they'd actually said / tone, etc.) in detail (with the ultimate hopeful outcome being to receive healing via enlightening the ignorant traumatizer and thereby granting a sincere, sympathetic acknowledgement / apology).

And then Adam brilliantly stated this (paraphrase):  "You're going to get either one of two reactions (from the traumatizer) when you attempt this.  And via those, you'll know immediately if you're dealing with an outright wicked individual or a garden-variety Christian".

What he was implying there was that wicked people react harshly / survivor's instinctively by deflecting their responsibility whilst garden-variety Christian's react (even to the smallest degree) sympathetically / towards reconciliation once they've clued into what's being asked of them and their supposed part in it.  

And that made a lot of sense except Adam missed an obvious third traumatizer category outright. And this surprised me.  But, Adam probably has never been to Mississippi.

That third category is the low intelligence traumatizer.

Therefore, let's review.

1.  Wicked traumatizer (self-centered / self-absorbed asshole)

2.  Garden-variety Christian traumatizer (genuinely caring, sympathetic / biased towards reconciliation)

3.  Low intelligence traumatizer (emotional / intellectual retard)

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A level playing field between communicators can only exist when intelligence between those involved is closely matched.  Intelligence (more or less than) drives an individual's ability to utilize / interpret all manner of language (& arguably emotion) to express themselves with accuracy (whether they're being truthful or not).  

Arguably, it's not fair to expect a low intelligence traumatizer to be able to either react firstly (to the offer from you to bequeath) nor hear secondly (that which you've said, felt, experienced) with any degree of accuracy.  And that's where the problem lies.  For if you don't take the traumatizer's intelligence into account, you're likely going to unfairly categorize them (wicked?).  When, in actuality, they're simply a dumbass. 

And, oh my goodness, there're so many dumbasses in this world of woe. 

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This unlevel (intelligence) playing field can surely manifest itself as a dumpster fire within familial relationships if individuals aren't careful.  For there's a baked-in expectation / hope that SURELY THIS WOULD NEVER BE amongst kinfolk.  But it does occur at times.  And as such, there's one of two ways to manage it.

1.  Prioritize humility relative to the asymmetry.*

2.  Begrudge your situation in order to consistently maintain / be reminded of your superiority.

*whilst giving yourself full permission to see / acknowledge the humor within the sad situation.

The first option takes an almost superChristian outlook.  An outlook, I would argue, that's only achievable via hard, hard personal work that's centered on the harsh reality of the situation.  And this work likely could take a lifetime to wrestle through, coinciding with various stages of maturation between the two parties involved (parent / child, etc.).

For no one truly wants to face up to the reality that their loved one is an imbecile.  It's just so fatalistic to consider.  It's a tough, tough reality for those who're living it.  For most who've endured close-knit relational trauma would gladly take a wicked perpetrator over a dunce.  For there's simply so little hope for reconciliation / proper acknowledgement via the latter.

Hamstring Yourself (For Your Own Good) While You're (Still) Young. This Will Best Prepare You To Re-Prioritize Entertainment Tech Well Into Middle-Age.

I broke my Californian Morman Silee's heart last night by bearing down on him for recently snapping up the latest & greatest pocket computer.

He couldn't answer logically why he'd justified the purchase.  Instead, he just laughed nervously as I continued to interrogate.  

So, why exactly should he be scorned for owning the latest, most advanced smartphone?

To make him think.  So few people actually do this anymore.

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This is why I'm a card-carrying Samson guy:

There is nothing on Earth I enjoy more than watching videos of gorgeous, hot guys having sex with each other.  Particularly hot guys who are really into each other's bodies.  All along, giving the impression, to the audience (me!), that they have a love for each other that's being expressed sexually.  Too, it's icing on the cake if these videos are well lit ("high" production values), and the set (where the sex is taking place) is seemingly well designed.  

To take it a step further, I like following certain gay porn models by watching video after video of them having sex with various other men or mens (or just themselves).  It's a way for me to privately "get to know" / form a "relationship" these men who're dedicated to their field.  Especially from the standpoint of how they specifically engage with their onscreen lovers.  

In all honesty, watching these muscled, hairy studs orgasm is the zenith of pleasurable experiences for Rob.  Seeing this is like winning the lottery!  Especially when the camera captures their countenance as they're climaxing.  Seeing their eyes roll back into their skulls as they hold their breath / moan in ecstasy...losing all semblance of respectable cool.  This is what I (my flesh) live to see!

And as you know, dear reader, the Internet is / was designed for PORN!

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The absolute first line of defense that I have against satiating my fleshly craving to consume videos of men having sex is to pull back far enough to attack the problem via access.

You cannot run if you're crippled.  It's as simple as that.

Hence, in order to properly advocate for myself, I had to willingly hamstring relative to tech.  And this approach has served me incredibly well.

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So, who am I exactly relative to tech?

The Turners don't own a television other than a 27" Sony CRT that I purchased back in 2000 ($549.99 at Best Buy) when I passed the Architectural Registration Exam.  It's in an entertainment cabinet at the foot of our bed in the master bedroom.  It isn't tied to CATV or an Internet streaming service.  All this behemoth is capable of doing is playing DVD video at 480i resolution (it does have a 16:9 widescreen viewing mode).

My wife, Angie, bought an Internet tablet years ago, but I don't have the passcode to unlock.  We do not subscribe to any Internet streaming service nor are we a member of Amazon Prime.

My smartphone is so antiquated that it's really only suited for calls, texting, and navigation.  It will take photos / videos, but it has so little memory that it won't hold too many.  I am not engaged in social media at all.  The notion of using my pocket computer to make video / photo selfies sounds about as interesting (& productive) as watching (or starring in) episodes of Teletubbies.  

I do not and would not ever own a computer watch.  

The laptop I have at home (to engage in the virtual Samson Society group, "Brain Changers", on Sunday afternoons) is a dinosaur.  Surfing the Internet is possible, but it's very laborious.  I often get the "High Memory Usage!" warning whilst having multiple tabs open within the browser.  

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I came to adjudicate early on as a young man (pre-Internet) that it would greatly benefit me to become a contrarian to westerner's passionate pursuit of media consumption if I wanted to live any form of a fulfilling, Christ-centric life.  Having been reared within a household where television broadcasting (CATV) was consumed nightly (weekdays & weekends), it didn't take me long to wake up to how much precious time I'd wasted staring at my parents' 20" Toshiba CRT television.  

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Be smart, dear reader.  If you enjoy lust as much as Rob does (& are as convicted as I am relative to its spiritual toxicity), put yourself on a very short (hardware / software) leash today.  It's your first line of defense against being normal.  

From there, use your time to read or write a book / poetry, play or compose a song on a musical instrument, exercise, volunteer, visit a friend, plant / tend to a garden, etc.

Anything is more respectable than staring at a screen, consuming mind-rotting content that will do you no good down the road.  

Lagniappe

It's Endearing Providing Matrimonial Security (After All These 27 Years) Whilst Horizontal

I mentioned (within a previous post) our recent sleep divorce.  This was something facilitated by our middle daughter (also) leaving for college this fall.  In anticipation of this, over the course of this past summer, the "big girls" room was transformed - via new twin beds / mattresses - from child's room to extra bedroom.

Throughout, my wife was (somewhat privately) repositioning all of this on her own behalf.  Particularly when it came to the mattress purchases (they were quite luxuriously expensive).

My wife's "stroke arm" (her left arm) is often (most comfortable) extended perpendicular to her body whilst she snoozes.  Hence, our queen bed doesn't necessitate this well, particularly with her 200lb husband (me) adjacent.  

Hence, about a month ago (in tandem with daughter #2 leaving for college), the sleep divorce was finalized.  It took me absolutely no time to adjust accordingly, though there were a few nights of eeriness as I began to imagine that Angie had stroked out for a second time and had died. 

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Earlier this week, Angie announced that the sleep divorce was over.  She was ready to sleep re-marry.  

Why?

At first, she was sharing the room with our youngest daughter (8th grader) who was sleeping within the adjacent twin bed.  But that didn't last (her snoring quickly shut this Jill & Jill setup down).  

It was the aloneness that got to her.  Being there within that tiny bedroom by herself.

I'm wondering, though I haven't mentioned it, if it harkened back to her weeklong May 2020 hospital stay post-stroke.  Being ushered in and out of ICU a handful of times throughout that week, and being there alone (I was only allowed to visit for one hour midday, each day, due to pandemic restrictions), made a distinct impression.  

So now she's back in bed with her husband.  And, according to her, she's sleeping soundly.  

It feels nice to provide that security to her via exceedingly close proximity.

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My oldest friend's (college) somewhat recently widowed mom began sleeping with a call-in radio broadcast playing from the adjacent pillow.  She did this to honor her deceased husband's presence enough to replicate that deeply longed for feeling of husband security (her husband died in his early 90s).

Now she's found herself alone in the single-family home that they'd owned together for decades.  

Women crave security.  Men crave respect.    

Angie feels secure.  Rob feels respected.  Win-win.

Is There Any More Hellacious Location To Consume Porn / Masturbate Than A Port-O-Potty In The Desert Sands Of The Middle East?

I can't think of any.

Every day at 5 PM CST, like clockwork, I hear from a young Samson guy who's been in deep seated bondage to lust for most of his life.  He and I have been chatting (telephone calls) for +/-1 year now.  And interestingly enough, we've only spent a handful of hours together face-to-face throughout that same period of time.  

We came to know each other via "Make Thursdays Great Again" which is the Price Is Right of virtual Samson Society meetings.  As such, like the TV show, not only is it high energy but it's easy to sit back and simply spectate (with a big grin on your face) amongst the throngs.

I moved away from that virtual group and haven't looked back, but my hope is he'll soon be reengaging therein (schedule permitting).  It's a perfectly comfortable landing spot for him for such a time as this.

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When he and I chat daily, we understandably never talk for too long.  His schedule is tight.  Plus, when you're as faithful as he is relative to communication (and twelve months has passed), an efficient routine / pattern develops.  

In this young man's past is active military duty.  Specifically, years spent deployed to the Middle East where he risked life and limb for not only our country but for those where he was stationed.  Since I've no experience as a soldier, I'm always fascinated to learn of his own (when he's comfortable divulging).  

A question arose yesterday, (7/26) regarding where exactly he chronically consumed porn whilst deployed in the Middle East, and he blithely stated, "in the port-o-potties".  

This admission gripped me as I tried to imagine doing this day after day there within that already bleak environment.

He went on to say that every soldier knew that the port-o-potties existed for such uses.  

!?!?!?

My head spun around five or six times when he divulged this to me, and in many ways, it's still spinning.

I cannot think of a more pathetic, hellacious location to consume porn / masturbate than a port-o-potty located within the god forsaken desert sands of the Middle East.  Yet, this was his everyday routine.  Particularly as it related to managing the emotional stress of being barely an adult combined with all the responsibilities of soldiering there within that complicated conflict.  

My young Samson friend lost his best friend within that environment too.  He rarely speaks of it, yet I know it haunts him and will likely do so throughout the remainder of his life.

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I mentioned in my previous post that bathroom stalls were my go-to in high school / college relative to masturbation.  I cannot over emphasize the amount of shame this routine imbued me with.  For is there anywhere on planet Earth more CLINICAL and more IMPERSONAL than a commercial bathroom stall?

There is.  It's a freestanding port-o-potty.

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As young men, my Samson brother and I chose to strip any semblance of dignity from our souls by taking part in this public restroom routine.  I clearly see / am reminded of that now.

What self-destructive, hyper-pathetic traps we so easily fall into within our youth, particularly as it related to our sexuality / libido / managing emotional pain.  Patterns that laid the groundwork for potentially so much more emotional anguish / regret to come (as we aged forward).

It is no wonder how easily deceived (internally / privately) we young men can become regarding the very expression of our sexual selves as males.  All due to the fact that this hugely important part of our lives - as young men / teenagers - may very well become relegated to settings designed for nothing more than filthiness and refuse.  

Desperation breeds ingenuity, yet ingenuity / creativity can at times be its own long-term undoing (just because you can doesn't mean you should).

Please pray for me as I continue to walk with this dear Samson brother, learning about myself (as much as he himself) along the way.  Eyes peeled.

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.

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.

Wrestling Away Control / Rob Can't Be Trusted

I obtained a new desktop PC at work, and taking into consideration how well things are going as of late - in general - I'm prone to celebrate by consuming some gay Internet porn.

Yet, my newly appointed Covenant Eyes Ally has been informed (by me) of the arrival of this new desktop PC.  Plus, I assured him that I'd install Covenant Eyes soon thereafter (which I have).  

But, oh my goodness, how I wanted to take a half hour or so (or more) and see what might pop up if I searched for "Hairy muscle men gay porn", utilizing this zippy, brand-spanking new processor.  

Yesterday, I had one of our vehicles serviced, and regrettably, I chose to wait for the service to be completed (it took MUCH LONGER than anticipated).  After lunch, one of the young mechanics moseyed into the waiting room to refill his Yeti (I was close to being comatose on the cheap leather sofa), and I immediately became enthralled by his physical beauty.  I'd brought my Bible, and had been reading it on and off throughout my moratorium, but the text was no match for this Adonis.  All in all, it was quite a gift to have a few moments with this young man.

Hence, I could have - today - searched for "Hot mechanic gay porn" as well in order to have the Internet fully exploit (take advantage of?) my memorable encounter.  But, I chose not to, knowing all along that, thanks to Covenant Eyes, I'm not isolated / alone with my thoughts on my new desktop PC.

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I spoke to one of my Silees at length yesterday, (7/6) morning whilst waiting on my vehicle, and he was telling me of an encounter he had with multiple beautiful women who were grocery shopping in string bikinis (with thong bottoms) where he & his wife live on the East Coast.  

This guy admires hot women as much as I do hot guys.  And thanks to the Internet, as a follow-up to his encounter, he could just as easily have searched for "Hot MILF string bikini grocery shopping", and the Internet would oblige - no questions asked.

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Thanks be to God for Covenant Eyes.  Otherwise, I'd be screwed.  For I do not need to be consuming gay Internet porn.  Even for +/-30 minutes to "christen" my new PC.

How Best To Disrespect That Important Man In Your Life

At the outset of the church service on Easter Sunday morning, a concerned mom reflexively approached me about her adult son.  In doing so, she asked me to reach out to him in spite of the fact that I'd already done so prior (this guy's about my age & visited our church - a few times - with his fiancé last spring).  Per his mother, the son had remarried (wife #2) last summer, and as a result, his ex-wife was not / had not (quite understandably) responded well (as the mother of his only child).  Therefore, her son was in an emotional pickle for such a time as this and had been for some time.

Combined with that, her son recently applied for Social Security Disability as he's no longer able to work due to a chronic medical condition. 

I did my darndest to be sympathetic to this mother's pain, but I made it clear that I had no intentions of pursuing her son at her bequest - no matter how much she pressed me to do so. 

Why?

It would be disrespectful to him.  And friendship certainly cannot grow forth from disrespect.  

What I did do is give her my card, urging her to pass it along to him whilst reminding her that I'd given the same - directly to him - last spring.  I continued on by reminding her that by doing so, I did look straight at him, extending a(n) (still unmoved) hand of friendship.

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I'm serving as a Silas to a GA man (he's my age and of the same race as I) that I met at the February '22 regional Samson Society retreat.  He's married to wife #2 (white woman), and she has refused to decouple herself from two very close black male friendships that existed well in advance (by ten years) of her meeting my Silee.  My Silee feels marginalized as such and rightly so.   

These two friends engage with my Silee's wife most days, mainly via text message, and his wife justifies fostering these ongoing relations due to their pre-existence to her relations with him (4-year marriage).

Men want one primary thing from women:  R-E-S-P-E-C-T.

My Silee's wife is disrespecting him by engaging with these other men on a platonic level.  The three of them should have brought their friendship to a decided close on the eve of her wedding to my Silee four years ago.  Instead, they continued forward, and as such, my Silee (& their marriage) has suffered.

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What is respect?

How do you give respect to a man?  (Especially if you're a woman.)

Men, by definition, are capable providers.  Mostly, that provision is in the form of security.  Physical security firstly with emotional security being a close second (often as a result of the physical security).

This provisional man modus operandi that I'm speaking of is internally realized before it can manifest itself outwardly.  Once it's established / recognized therein, women who love these men should celebrate it via their respect towards them.

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One last story:

A fellow MSU architecture student (that also graduated in '95) bumped into me yesterday at a local restaurant.  This guy is a few years older than I, gregarious and - as can be expected of an architect - a bit eccentric.

The last time he and I chatted was back in 2006 when we were colleagues at the same architecture firm here in Jackson.  

Today, this architect is a well-adjusted state government employee on the East Coast.  (This put a smile on my face.)

Before we parted ways, I asked him to introduce me to his wife (who was seated on the opposite side of the restaurant's dining room).  I vaguely remembered him getting married prior to our last juncture, but I didn't remember ever formally meeting his new bride (though I vaguely remembered what she looked like).  

Now, there's something you need to know about this architect.  He's keenly interested in keeping current on everyone's social standing / rank - where they're working, who they're in relations with, and so forth.  And reciprocally, he's more than willing to divulge as much of his same story in kind - so long as someone's willing to listen...to all the sordid details.

Hence, he's one of those guys that typically comes across as being slightly socially awkward, yet he typically makes up for it with his generous smile and honest assessment of his own shortcomings.  And I admire this.   

When he lead me over to the booth his wife was seated at, I immediately extended a hand with a big smile on my face.  

Now, before I go any farther, it's hopefully apparent that this guy isn't (nor has ever been) one to meet a stranger.  Therefore, I've no doubt that his sweet wife has been introduced to countless former colleagues (like myself) within similar settings.

Her reaction amounted to her appearing to be infringed upon as she chomped on her lunch.  Now, perhaps she was having a rough day, or maybe she'd just started an intermittent fasting program, and this was her first solid meal in quite some time.

Anything's possible.

I can tell you that my sweet wife, Angie, becomes seriously disgruntled when I choose to not introduce her to my friends / peers (within public settings like this).  She says it makes her feel invisible, and she absolutely loathes that feeling.  

Regarding this, I feared that my old friend might have come away as such, and that worried me.  For invisibility certainly doesn't equate with respect.

Tough As Snails

"It's like I'm married to a man!  She's almost identical to her own father who was tough as nails."

This was a comment made to me by a long-time Samson friend, describing the relational / emotional tenacity of his wife.  Her resolve to endure their decades-long marriage woes had (at least partially) resulted in her becoming callous and essentially cut off - from him - emotionally.  As a result, their sexual relationship had unfortunately dried up.  This combined with her pointed criticism towards his appointed role as a spiritual leader (within their church, in particular) had seeded substantial doubt in his mind that she would actually stay married to him once they'd successfully reared (& seen moved onward) one of their daughter's children (they had legal custody).

This couple has been married since they were +/-16 years of age, having become pregnant unexpectedly as sexually active teens, therefore I felt shocked & numbed by his update, considering their marital tenure.

Essentially, this looked on the surface to be a wife who was characteristically protecting herself from future wounding (via unfettered sharp criticism / keeping him physically at arm's length) whilst hanging with the marriage out of obligation to her beloved grandson.

I recommended to my friend that he encourage his spouse to get involved in The Sarah Society ASAP in order to find support therein.  

Upon updating me a few weeks later, he'd received no indication from her that she'd follow through with my (& eventually his) recommendation.  Before we parted ways, he rationalized her decision out loud by telling me that she's never been interested in letting her guard down around other women, and this of course, harkened back to her intrinsic (patriarchal - "It's like being married to a man!") character as an individual.

I believe today that she'll likely never divorce my friend, but not because she's destined to make peace with his offenses.  Instead, she'll stay with him to-death-do-us-part in order to effectually justify her pedigreed emotional approach to life itself.

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What is it like to be married to a wife who's disabled?  My wife, in particular.  

"It's like I'm married to a man!  She's almost identical to her own father who was as sublime and hyper-conscientious an individual as I've ever met."

Moral excellence is a rare goal today.  Especially regarding an individual's sexuality (including thought life).  My wife as well as my wife's father made this a priority.  At the same time, there's this humility versus a haughtiness therein.  And this makes for a really pious individual.  Like Mother Theresa-grade pious.

Well, as we all know, Mother Theresa didn't have a husband.  But what if she had?

Hence, on the opposing side to that, there's a massive interpersonal intimidation factor.  So much so, that had I not respectfully befriended Angie during my teen years, I would NEVER have considered pursuing her as my wife in my early 20s.  Bizarrely, she and I hit it off (platonically) almost immediately when we were in high school.  Looking back, I'm convinced this had to do with both of us being hardcore freaks / geeks, both attending separate private academies here in the Jackson Metro.

But this only addresses one side of the coin.

The flip side is her bizarre (to me) hyper-conscientiousness.  And this was also the case for her now deceased father.  

Angie is so self-conscience that circumstantially, she's almost always aware of her pulse / blood pressure.  She's also laser tuned to her emotional state.  So much so that it can at times overwhelm her rationale mind.  

As a middle-schooler, she experienced a massive amount of emotional trauma brought on by her parents.  And this went on for a number of years prior to settling down (somewhat) during her high school years.  Hence, she grew into a very anxious individual by default, although thanks to therapy (and a few meds - on occasion) she's far more well equipped today to manage these unwanted feelings than she was when we first married.

Therein though is her physiological vulnerability.  Studies have shown that anxious individuals are far more likely to have strokes.  And a stroke is what she had back in May of 2020.

And that sums up what it's like to be married to Angie.

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I had lunch this week with one of my heroes, though he didn't know it (of his heroism) 'till we executed this initial juncture.  In the past, he was an elder at our church, and vocationally, his reputation was (he's retired) spotless.  Plus, he's a Bible scholar with so much compassion towards the lost (& downtrodden).  I guess you could say I've always been a secret fan.

He & I talked about conflict during lunch; in particular, conflict between friends / family.  For I wanted to know specifically how he'd fared therein, but especially as it related to some "high profile / public" individuals he'd befriended (who were either deceased or had moved away) over the years.  For I'd been wondering - for quite some time - from afar, how he'd managed these very difficult situations with his smile (& sanity) still intact.

But that overarching "lesson" wasn't what he shared with me.  Instead, he felt compelled to narrate a good portion (gory details) of the relational trauma itself directly to me.  Me.  A nobody who just happened to attend church with him.  

It was such an honor.

In a nutshell, I was given an awful lot, via his story, to chew on relative to relational dynamics.  And I'm going to be chewing for some time.

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Circling back to Angie...  My wife's (just as any wife is) extremely vulnerable to both Rob's (her husband's) sin and Rob's (her husband's) opportunity to / penchant for sin.  Take, for example, the vast online opportunities for me (all husbands) to find individuals to have illicit sexual relationships with.  Whether they're hetero / homo or something in between.  Not to mention Samson Society itself and perhaps using it as my illustrious web-like playground.  Catch & release?

Overall, as time marches on, our culture degrades further and further morally.  Therefore, in theory, Angie obtains a bigger and bigger target on her back.

But, that's only taking one side of the equation into consideration.

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Speaking personally, I find myself quite intrigued at how influential relationships are.  The specifics relative to how those dynamics work is fascinating to me.

And here's a statement that you might not have expected from me, but it's the truth.

The more vulnerable Angie becomes as my wife, the less likely I am to cheat.

Living with her, serving her, is exhausting at times.  But, it drives home the reality of her needing me to stay in our present reality.