Weirdo Commitment

The most disappointing Samson "National Retreat" for Rob was one of the first, if not the first, I ever attended.  The year was likely 2017, and it was during the autumn month of November.  The setting was a state park in middle Tennessee (not too far outside of Nashville).  Originally, this "National Retreat" was touted as a "Samson leadership retreat" with the focus being Samson brothers interested in / currently hosting meetings.  

The reason for this was the primary focus of this particular national Samson event was to introduce the notion of launching virtual Samson meetings via Zoom or whatever platform was available back in the day (2018).  

The disappointment came from who I ended up having to room with (we were housed in a motel wing that was attached to the State Park Lodge building).  At the very last minute, a certain in-person Samson brother agreed to attend (at the behest of my Silas), and off the four of us went.  Upon our arrival, I swallowed my anger and compliantly chose to room with this loser.

It's actually quite commendable that I ever returned after this frustrating National Samson Retreat.  Especially considering that everyone else within the local Samson community hung up their hats - mostly for good - pertaining to this annual event.  Which, of course, left me on my own to attend throughout the years going forward.  

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Over the past two years, I've taken control of my roommate situation (I gave up on the bunkhouses in '23), but last year resulted in me quickly realizing that year two would be it for me and a similarly unique (weirdo) Samson brother (from the Deep South) sharing sleeping quarters.

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4-5 years ago, a dear friend (he being more close to me than I to him) from GA drove over to Eva, TN, having agreed to attend that year's National Retreat.  He chose to stay offsite in some sort of state park cabin.  I came to find out later that he spent the majority of his time at the cabin texting / talking to his wife in light of him being far more comfortable with her than (strange, foreign) Samson guys (or really any guys, for that matter).  What a disappointment it was to find that out.

Nonetheless, we remained friends until earlier this year.

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When I was a high school student, I was active in our church's youth ministry.  And I was so because I immediately understood its finite specialness (very, very few adolescents had access to what I was privileged to be a part of).  Therefore, every summer, attending the youth summer trip was nonnegotiable for Rob.  Specifically, I did this because I knew there were only so many opportunities therein.  Because I was such the anomaly within that group (persona, school, demographic), I often ended up assigned to summer trip room with the other freaks.  And I grew to love it.  They were so much fun to bunk with!  Plus, there's simply always been a place in my heart for the inevitable weirdos.

My wife was one of those.  That's one of the many reasons I was attracted to her as both a friend and a lover.  She was just so weird (& thankfully still is).

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At last year's Summit, in light of my then desire to find "a new roommate direction" going forward, I took it upon myself to plan WELL IN ADVANCE of '26 by hastily asking a new friend (who I met during the first day at the NM Summit) about rooming together in '26.  What was hysterical regarding this desperate attempt was my new friend was an exceedingly obvious cool kid (great looking, upper class demographic, straight, etc.) who was not at all comfortable committing as such so far in advance (much less with Rob)!

Thankfully, earlier this year, my (weirdo!) Silas agreed to take this big man on campus' position.  This will amount to such the blessing.  

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I'm excited too about visiting Michigan.  I love and have almost always loved automobiles.  Visiting Motor City will no doubt be a treat in that regard.  Too, traveling through Ann Arbor (home of Car & Driver) will be special and symbolic.  

Attending the Samson Summit this year will represent a true leveling up for Rob.  Partly because Samson is at a juncture that's destined to position itself well for another decade (at least), and having embraced the virtual community to the degree that I have (since December '21), I feel 100% "part of the team" versus the gay guy from Mississippi who's only involved due to his internal dedication / commitment.

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A month or so ago, I had a Samson brother decouple from me as his Silas.  And though that's not unusual / inevitable, due to our VERY short tenure as Silas / Silee, I have to admit that it was jarring.  And especially so from the standpoint that I'd been experiencing (immediately prior to his decoupling) an annual (vocational) stress / shame conundrum (2+2=5).  

This brother was no doubt hiding something to have aborted, but it still felt like a "this is all my fault" gut punch.  Silas / Silee relations need to gestate properly in order for the true benefits / measured latitudes to be reaped.  Nonetheless, between the two of us, that simply wasn't to be. 

Last night, out of the blue, I was asked to be the Silas of a man I haven't spoke with since late summer.  He happened to be part of one of my newcomers meeting "classrooms" earlier this year, and though we'd only had one follow up meeting (at my request due to his unique roots), there was zero commitment going forward.  And this young man is absolutely out of my league, yet due to my sincerity / care, that seems to be of no consequence.  As such, I'm hopeful going forward for connecting with a man who's that much potential truly is breathtaking to think through.

I'm very blessed to be a part of this parachurch ministry.  It's very exhausting but never not worth it.  For me, it truly feels / demands similarly as family does.  

Cruelty Fetish

Back during my architecting (private sector) days (1995-2006), I worked for a midsize firm in Jackson, and it was there where I eventually found myself somewhat under the tutelage of a semi-retired architect who'd been hired as the "quality control" man.  This elder statesman's job originally was to check construction documents for accuracy / coordination issues.  Simple as that.

He seemed kindly and adroit at first glance with his diminutive, pot-belly scale, false teeth & mop of silver hair neatly parted to one side.  Always wearing slacks, a dress shirt & tie, Mr. T, as he was quickly dubbed, had an appearance that did absolutely nothing to antagonize / draw concern.  Instead, he was the type of Medicare man figure who easily could've passed for either a charity hospital baby rocker or perhaps a clean-shaven, pretending-to-be-an-architect Saint Nick.  Approachable to a fault.  Shy, demure.  Meek?  Hardly.

As such, everyone (the vast majority of which were dramatically younger) couldn't help but appreciate him almost immediately.  I mean, what's not to like?

But I could smell doo doo even at our first juncture, and it really bothered me that others couldn't.

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I've done my fair share of therapeutic work centered around my parents (who hasn't within the Samson Society community?).  During my young adult years (1994), that was mainly centered around how the dynamics within their marriage / our youthful "triad" (I'm an only child) family impacted my development (or lack thereof) as a masculine man (my focus, back then was primarily internal).  Thankfully though, none of that work detailed one iota of cruel / hateful dealings (towards me nor anyone else).  That simply wasn't nor has ever been baked into my parents' modus operandi.  As such, they're many things but not that.

Nonetheless, my grandmother (on my father's side) could have been the poster child for cruel & hateful (particularly in the '60s), and she felt zero regret therein.  Similarly, my mother-in-law (& to a degree father-in-law) were situated within the same boat.

So what exactly am I referring to when I say cruel and hateful?

These are folks who relish watching others suffer.  Particularly others of their own race / creed / demographic, and suffering of the type that's public / semi-public.  But too, allowing themselves similar "fun" / satisfaction by turning their attention to the marginalized isn't out of the question.  Therefore, gossip, for folks like this, is like fine wine.  Hence, working (corporate / public sector), socializing (Country Club), churching (mega), even watching the nightly news (Cable TV) naturally reap multiple hits:  high earnings, esteem, ticket out of Hell, the latest juicy talk & prepackaged stories of the downtrodden. 

But beyond gossip, there's the cruely-fueled (versus curious) gawking, which typically must be done covertly if one's supposedly a good Christian.

All-in-all, envy may very well be what's motivating this particular dark heartedness but not necessarily.  Instead, perhaps it's simply a sick fetish.  

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What's truly noteworthy is one of Mr. T.'s daughters grew to become a superstar sports architect not too long after starting her own career in the same field (far & away from her humble origins in Mississippi).  Therefore, not only due to her gender but also due to her resilient relevancy within that space, I'm reminded (quite often, in fact) of her legendary ballpark / urban planning creative juices as they continue to further the notion of Americana (the great American pastime) whilst filling the pocketbooks of the team owners from one end of the country to the other. 

Having never had any interest in sports, I could care less about sports venues no matter the nostalgia factor / apple pie historical relevance.  And, arguably, most architects are in agreement with Rob that anything associated with the word "team" is an outright bore.  

But the public disagrees.  For sports arenas are akin to the representative cathedrals of yesteryear.

Nevertheless, just this week, my father slipped a copy of a features piece (that had no doubt come out of some recent periodical) detailing (yet again) Mr. T's infamous superstar sports architect daughter (she's in her mid to late 60s now), surmising the story, yet again, of her humble beginnings + origin story as the de facto baseball arena design consultant go-to on planet Earth.  

And yet again, my thoughts immediately turned back to what I remember of her father.  Vividly remember of her father.  And this is sad to admit to for she actually came to my aforementioned employer (adjacent to an end-of-the-year holiday) and gave a short presentation regarding her current stadium project.  

That's what I'd like to remember for that's what the press' appropriately celebratory work should be doing.

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Mr. T's office was adjacent to the "drafting room" (which is where I had a desk for 3-5 years of my tenure therein) within the firm we both worked for.  The space he'd been given to work wasn't large at all, but it did have enough room (barely) for a standard sized metal desk.  Within just a few years, every inch of said space was filled (including his desktop), almost halfway to the 8'-0" ceiling with "half-size" sets of "in progress" construction documents.  These sets were his to "redline".  This was his way of denoting errors that needed addressing.  

Mr. T's approach to quality control really had nothing to do with whoever's justification it was in hiring him.  Instead, it had everything to do with him justifying his own value as a golden year professional who'd really never made much of any mark on the profession nor the localized built environment (for whatever reason).  This was his private chip.

Architects are trained to be visionaries.  "Master builders" as they say.  Our entire pedagogy is constructed under the guise of enlightening society via our masterful (designed) control of the built environment, Renaissance man flair & (typically) high altitude liberal mindedness.  

Therefore, considering his training, Mr. T, could not help but turn his focus on us as his site / canvas.  I assume this was his attempt at a last hoorah within a perfectly imperfect (remember, we were quite young & inexperienced) petri dish of professionals (interns & otherwise) who were simply attempting to meet deadlines whilst placating clients / contractors along the way.

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And, of course, we're all cruel and hateful at times.  It's baked into our DNA as sinners, but there truly are some human beings that are deeply cruelty-averse.  

One of the favorite aspects of my parents is their revulsion therein.  I have to wonder if seeing my grandmother's ongoing / attituded cruelty somehow served to inoculate them both from her influence.

The Importance Of Putting Church First

If the church doesn't endure, we all suffer, if not completely falter as the human race.  As such, I do not want my (geographic) community to end up churchless for it serves my personal Jerusalem.  That may sound like a silly notion for someone living in central Mississippi, but I'm by no means one to make assumptions / take anything seemingly ubiquitous for granted.  Situations / trends / worldview & priorities therein can change overnight.  Therefore, you're going to find me & my house prioritizing the church - attendance, tithing / giving, volunteering - 'till we're called home to glory.

I'm so grateful Bob & Darlene (my parents) made church attendance a priority early on in their marriage, and they continue to do so to this day (my dad was ordained as a deacon as a very young man).  And this wasn't an arbitrary church selection.  Instead, they considered their needs, background & the resources therein, and I'm convinced as a result of a fantastic church choice, all three of us were better off.  To summarize:  Our involvement therein grew us forward, cementing our love for Christ / the community of believers.

Now, just because that church choice had certain attributes / demographics baked-in doesn't, by any means, imply that it was / would have been the best / most appropriate choice for every family.  Absolutely not.  Bigger doesn't mean anything.  Nor does Southern Baptis.  Instead, families need to find / support / invest in churches that meet them well / where they're at right then.

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My first Silas was the Youth Pastor at our family's church (Lakeside Pres).  The year was 2009.  Chris came to me, describing himself unabashedly as a "porn addict".  I'd never heard that phrase, but he was serious as a heart attack.  3-4 months later, Christ was officially on probation with our church's elders (though NOT as a direct result of his "extracurricular sexual sin activity").  Having a wife + three beautiful children to support financially, he quickly circled back to Rob, doubling down on his outcry for help.

Why me?  What could I do to help?  (I too was using my fair share of Internet porn at the time, which I admitted to.)

In the end, I came away a changed man after walking intentionally with Chris for well over 18 - 24 months.  Every aspect of my life felt reinforced in light of the relational accountability found within that friendship.  Plus, there was simply the deep-seated love that developed between the two of us.  It truly was fantastic!  

Now, let me declare the exclamation point portion of this short-lived, intensely bright friendship that forced me to adjudicate the role I believed Christ's church must (continue to) play within my (& my family's) life.

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My local (outside of Samson Society) best friend came into my life 3-4 years ago.  He's a lumberjack of a man with a heart of gold.  The gateway for this unlikely friendship to blossom / cultivate was Lakeside Pres.  To be more specific, it was truly hinged on ushering in his oldest daughter / making her comfortable therein (church attendance), and I did this with a reliable ace up my sleeve.

My youngest daughter (who's about my friend's oldest daughter's age).

These two girls couldn't be more different in terms of personality.  As such, I was pleased to see them become fast friends, and from there, my friend's daughter quickly warmed up to not only attending church but specifically, youth activities.

Until she wasn't.

For time has passed and this now 15-year-old girl is far more reticent / outspoken than her former 13-year-old self.

And to top that off, it's not only the daughter that's turned her nose up to attending our church.  My friend's wife is right there with her. 

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Chris and I wrestled (almost literally) over his vocational future (IN or OUT of the church?) after he was given notice (January 31, 2012 - which happened to be his b'day) of his pending termination date (August 1, 2012) from our church, though finally, he and I agreed that it would be best for him to at least acknowledge his "porn addiction" to his supervisor (Assistant Pastor).

In other words, let the cat out of the bag in hopes of finding help / healing / learning to actually be truthful versus a sexual deviant.

But at the last minute, he changed his mind to make that confession.

Therefore, I went alone and did it for him.

As you might imagine, it torpedoed our friendship, but I had no regrets for that action / choice aligned with my love for the church.  Chris was beginning to receive pity endorsements from his supervisors, none of which would have happened had they known the truth about him.

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Tomorrow is death day for my local BFF.  I call it that because it's the date his father unexpectedly passed away a few years prior to me having the good fortune to meet him.  I'll reach out as a courtesy, letting him know I'm praying for he and his during this difficult time.

He'll likely be spending the day (as well as the majority of the weekend) back home in rural MS in honor of his late father.  His widowed mother is still living there along with his two siblings.

Of note is the fact that this week the '26 Lakeside Pres youth trip is ongoing.  As was expected, my friend's daughter chose not to attend.  

If my friend doesn't make it back to the Jackson Metro in time on Sunday morning (to rally the familial troops), none of them will make an appearance at our church.  Instead, they'll simply sit and home and doom scroll social media.  

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How do you rank church?  Is it a high priority for you and yours?  Do you hang with folks who're similarly outlooked regarding the body of Christ?  I thought so.

So do I / we.    

Being A Contrarian

Years ago, I lead a Samson Society National Retreat workshop that centered around same-sex attraction.  I was generously given a lot of content leeway therein.  I decided fairly quickly that the workshop should center around attributes of Rob that were somehow related to my stance / position regarding my SSA.  One of those was me being a contrarian.  Also, I made it very clear - right at the outset of my presentation - that I was representing no one but myself / my own opinion / choices.

Fast forward...

The attribute that I've come back to again and again for analysis is contrarianism.  Hence, my decision to postulate a bit here. 

But before I do, let me be clear.  Contrarianism, for me, is tied directly to an attitude / outlook, and that attitude is a combination of "Fuck you!" and flippant (the percentage of each depends on the day of the week you ask me).

Now, back to my postulating. 

This contrarian attribute may very well have grown out of me being an only child.  Obviously, there were no siblings to imitate / shadow, therefore I had the privilege of being the oldest, middle and youngest child simultaneously within my family.  In line with that was being an unplanned only child (my 'rents were 18 & 19 when they had me).  That distinction made the family unit I was reared in feel understandably less stable / surefooted (though, I believe, perhaps only to me).  And this feeling I only truly took note of when I was in the presence of other families outside of my own (extended & otherwise).  For example, families at our church. 

Regarding my extended family (Turner side of the house), my grandfather had long since died (he died of lung cancer in his early 40s) when the Turners (my dad had three brothers & they all married multiple times / had multiple children of their own) gathered in the MS Delta for holiday gatherings.  As such, his widowed wife (my grandmother) had also remarried / divorced by this point in time.  Maurine lived alone in a large, very posh home in small town (Delta) Mississippi that existed solely to intimidate / impress.

As such, that sense of firsthand family (my parents & I) instability / vulnerability definitely existed too "within the same key" whilst participating in those larger Turner settings.

Therefore, my concept of family represented a whole lot of me myself (independent from everyone around me) in light of not feeling much of any sure-footedness / longstanding emotional / relational stability with those folks.

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I believe the very first contrarian decision I gravitated towards - consistently - had to do with how I viewed females versus males (& I couldn't help but include myself as one of the latter).

Taking both of my parents into consideration, my mother's experience carrying / birthing / VERY YOUNG mothering had a profound impact on her (as it should have, but keep in mind that she was a teen mother).  As such, she chose to nurture me to the best of her ability despite her too only being a child.  My dad, due to him simply being the teenage sperm donor, experienced much less maturational (patriarchal) impact for such a time as that.  But also, to his credit, he was doing his part to provide for his dependents, and this involved obtaining higher ed whilst working part-time to win the bread (that rhymes!).

I feel certain this parental role asymmetry (MOM / dad) impacted me greatly as a small child.  As such, though I was no doubt male, I chose to reject the masculine (as it was presented to me by my father) in light of the straightforwardness in emulating this man as it pertained to his personality, character, likes / dislikes.  

And I was somewhat consciously aware of how much of a backassward modus operandi this was, yet I was content with my contrary.  

What became of me as a result of this?  Also, how did it affect my dad?

As a child, I gravitated towards having / making friends much more easily with girls than with boys.  That being said, I did have numerous friends who were male, cherishing those relations along the way.  Also, I was transfixed by female entertainers.  Especially female vocalists.  Therein, I grew up during the '80s (the MTV era).  Therefore, all these beautiful female vocalists were also just as visually elevated / celebrated so long as they had the physical goods to match.

Ultimately, as a result of all this female emulation / worship, I became deeply uncomfortable sexualizing the opposite sex (believe me, I tried).  For I felt this to be in contradiction to who I'd somewhat secretly sworn emotional allegiance to as a boy / chosen moreso to identify with.   

Regarding my dad, as a result of his rejection from me, he slowly took the same approach in kind, for there was no other child but Rob (he really got the short end of the stick) to role model manhood for.  I'll write more about this within an forthcoming post.

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Contrarianism eventually morphed into a survival technique for adolescent (ages 13-18) Rob (as you can imagine, I was the very definition of outcast) even to the point of determining who my friends would become.  

And this wasn't necessarily a liability for me.  So many of my immediate peers (particularly at school) were extremely rebellious / unruly / secular to a fault.  As such, I reflexively chose to move in the opposing direction despite this leaving me isolated.  

But here's where the lines get blurred regarding this season of my life.

Immediately prior to me entering middle school, I was unexpectedly lassoed in by the gospel, therefore I became deeply convicted to follow the teachings / example of Jesus Christ (as recorded within the New Testament gospels).  As every Christian knows, Jesus was the ultimate contrarian, and man oh man, could I ever relate!

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Choosing to pursue a degree in architecture was also fueled via my contrarianism.  Particularly growing up in the "economic butt crack" (Mississippi), architecture made little sense, but that nonsensicalness (contrarian!) combined with my above average skillset as an illustrator propelled me forward and forward and forward.

But let me insert here too that there was one additional - below the surface - motivator herein.  And that was to prove my mettle (to myself).  And architecture school very much became that personal proving ground.

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When I began dating my wife (fifth year of architecture school), a friendship was rekindled with someone of deep, steadfast faith.  What she didn't realize was she too was a contrarian (& she's still not completely convinced of this).  But her faith, and I cannot emphasize this enough, was magnanimous.  Again, I point to Jesus' example.  Need I say more?

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In closing, I have to admit that I hope to ultimately rear a brood of adult contrarians, but only in and through modeling contrarianism as a powerful means to live a life out-of-line with the mainstream / in line with the gospel.  

As you've read here, contrarianism sort of gobbled me up as a child in response to a very 

unplanned

singular

immaturishly unstable (emotional)

upbringing. 

As such, I really wouldn't change a thing, though it required me to take my need for being fathered into my own hands.

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)

Experiencing Matriarchal Disrespect? Consider Sending A Measured Response (& Don't Back Down)

When my oldest daughter was an infant (she's 22 now), I wrote a letter to my mother letting her know how disrespected (by her) I'd felt as a new dad.  There'd been an incident at my parents' abode.  My wife and I had brought my parents first grandchild (my now 22-year-old) over for a visit, and it was during this after church lunch that a statement was made (by my mom, directed at me).  Her off-the-cuff adjudication was way out of line and therefore pissed me off to no end.

I had never experienced disrespect as an adult - to this degree - from my mother (I was 30 years old at the time).  Her words cut like a knife into my heart, especially so knowing they were said amongst the entire fam.

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I vividly remember how terrified I was to confront my mom regarding this.  For I knew her well enough to know that she would refuse to concede, and thereby quickly (& very easily) pull my father into the mix (posturing).  And from what I recall, that did occur.  I heard from him not long after the letter was mailed in an attempt to convince me that I'd stepped way out of line by sending it. 

Whilst looking back, I'm so glad I chose to put my thoughts & feelings in writing to her versus attempting to '"talk it out".  For neither of my parents (back then) were at all experienced listeners (able to listen sans becoming emotionally charged).

As punishment for speaking up / standing my ground, my mother shunned me for 3-4 months.  She refused to look at me or even acknowledge my presence whilst in the same room.  Oftentimes, when we were within close proximity (sitting adjacent to each other in church, etc.), she'd quietly weep.

As this ridiculously juvenile behavior of Her's drug on, I became more and more certain that I'd done the right thing.

Eventually, she apologized (in writing) to me for what she'd said to me months prior.  

From what I recall, she dropped a letter off at the architecture firm I was employed at.  This was a pleasant surprise.  From there, she returned to behaving normally around me.

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There's nothing more important to men than respect, but it's especially important therein when new territory is being charted (life circumstances).  

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Ever since late 2013, I've been working alongside my parents within their small business.  In fact, a few years back, I actually purchased said business from them (they still work most days within our shared office space).  As such, my relationship with my mom has flourished due to the fact that we work really, really well together both respecting each other equally.

Nonetheless, a few weeks back, I once again found myself having to stand up for myself / my family, and yet again, it ultimately had to do with her disrespecting / mistreating me with her words.  But this time, she wasn't unfairly judging / shaming me as a father.  Instead, she was overstepping by sharing intimate details regarding her ongoing tumultuous relationship with her oldest brother (who's my 93-year-old grandmother's primary caregiver).  

As such, this ultimately led to me demanding some physical distance between my uncle and my family (wife / daughters) versus simply continuing forward with the status quo (as if nothing physically threatening had ever happened between him & my mom).    

Disappointedly, my mother (& father) is using the exact same reactionary techniques as she did 22 years ago when I stood my ground then.  It's like déjà vu.    

What's sad to me - primarily - this time around is the fact that these folks are in their early 70s.  As such, time is of essence (precious), taking their ages into consideration.

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Have you heard the adage, "When momma's not happy, nobody's happy?"  It's sort of a cutesy saying 'till you've lived it.    

That First Foray Into The Notion Of The Supernatural

This post is going to address the specific entertainment culture of the '70s by allowing my memories (& amateur commentary) regarding television to narrate therein.   

If you were to turn back the clock to 1980, I would be 7 - 8 years old.  At that time, there were three broadcast TV networks.  CATV was just beginning to gain traction, but it wouldn't be 'till 4-6 years later that it became the de facto means to receive TV programming within the home (& thereby immediately expanding the number of / clarity therein of available channels).  Hence, over-the-air ABC, NBC & CBS (along with PBS) served up the American people with the only TV programming available, all of which was clearly time-slotted via age-propriety (& interestingly enough, there was typically no programming broadcast at all from midnight to 5 AM).  

Revenue garnered to these three networks was dependent on viewership.  How?  The higher the viewership, the more the networks could charge for advertising time (TV commercials).  Blue chip companies, in particular, relied on TV advertising's powerful influence on the American consumer to drive revenue. 

Keep in mind that EVERYONE watched TV during this era.  Especially primetime TV broadcasting.  Why?  The broadcast content was very entertaining (mostly via novelty), and it was "free".  Whether it was comedy, drama (soaps), sports or news, broadcast TV was the GO-TO solution.

As such, networks knew a lot of $$$ could be made not only from (qualified) high viewership numbers, but too, the demographic the TV programming was aimed towards (preferably white people with disposable incomes).  Combined, these two guaranteed advertising "real estate" that was priced at a premium.    

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The 1970s ushered in the era of supernatural horror, and this coalescence with pop culture paralleled our taste for music (heavy metal) as well as the slow embrace of / interest in all things pagan. 

As such, the '70s landed such film spectacles as The Exorcist and The Amityville Horror.  Even The Omen experienced deep seated cultural traction (that's still intact) as Americans tepidly (but reverently) filled the cinema seats en masse (from one end of the country to the other).  Young Americans, in particular, dominated ticket sales.  For these films (regarding their subject matter) were considered spectacle events and therefore were MUST SEE.  

The producers / directors / screenwriters of these supernatural horror classics were very rare finds.  To be adept at capturing the tone needed to terrify audiences took precise skill.  Otherwise, missing the mark by simply one degree may very well relegate a huge studio investment as derivative camp.  Therefore, despite the seismic cultural / monetary impact, sequels / franchise continuity were almost always massive failures.  Studios therefore eventually turned to new, more novel material.  And none other than a young, myopic fiction author, Stephen King (he was around 33-years old at the time), caught the attention of many a network executive.  

At this time, King's fanbase was blossoming despite the fact that his books were very lengthy.  This meant his stories played out slowly, allowing suspense, creepiness & dread to build chapter by chapter.  Plus, in order to enjoy his stories, you ACTUALLY HAD TO READ THEM.  Therefore, a certain level of intelligence / education was required of his audience.

Also, his horror stories were centered more on mood / tone and therefore tension versus standard tropes such as brutal murder / Satan's playground - ramped up exponentially for maximum shock value.

Besides, once the three aforementioned films were released, they instantly became milestones within our then cultural zeitgeist, and as you know, milestones are often touted - out of respect - but rarely truly lovingly revisited (thanks to their spent ambitions).

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Enter 'Salem's Lot.  This was King's second novel.  And it was perfectly written in light of TV's reach and ritual respect - at the time - within the American household.

'Salem's Lot did have one direct connection to the three aforementioned '70s horror milestones, and that was its focus on victimizing children.  Whether they were teens or elementary age, child characters were integral to the story.  Hence, whilst screening the 2-part TV movie version therein, viewers of all ages (late November of 1980) were horror-mesmerized by the shattered innocence integrated throughout the gratuitous content.  

In summary, the story of 'Salem's Lot is one of covert exploitation via an unassumingly viral-like exchange, leaving its assaulted victims enslaved to the MO of the initial host / infector (a small-town interloper).  That antagonist isn't revealed but for a very short stint (90-seconds total within the tail end of the TV movie), but alas, this / these brief scenes gave the audience sufficient shock to involuntarily empty their bladders with.

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Now let me remind you, once again, that I was around 7-years old in late November 1980 when 'Salem's Lot was broadcast (Saturday at 8 PM CST).  Because it was two parts, the network used two subsequent weekend time slots to cash in.  

I wasn't reared by parents who were all that more mature than your average teenager.  And this was due to their youth (they were in their late teens when they had Rob).  Plus, they'd both been reared in rural MS (my mother grew up impoverished).  Finally, neither had any real understanding of Scripture (my mother could barely read at this point).  And as a result, neither did I.

As such, watching network TV was THE ABSOLUTE Turner afternoon / evening centerpiece - no matter what day / night of the week it was.  I can remember vividly the "TV Guide" magazine always being prominently displayed on top of the stained walnut coffee table in our den.  But I digress...

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I've always been a highly visual male.  It's one of the primary motivators for me pursuing the career of architecture.  As such, certain TV / film programming, especially during my childhood, had a profound impact on my developing brain.

'Salem's Lot's narrative firmly planted the idea of being cursed and therefore recognizing one's inability to escape a certain dark fate, and in turn, sympathizing with the horror of watching those you care / love haplessly perish.  If you've ever read Poe's The Masque of the Red Death, you see the exact same theme except there it plays out within distinct waves.  

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When I look back on my life, I credit the gospel firstly with upending my cursed outlook, and from there, it was my wife.

Now, let me expound on the former.

When I reference the gospel, I'm referring mostly to the gospel lived out.  Demonstrated.  And mostly, of course, in and through adults that were either paid to or genuinely (or some combination of the two) cared for Rob.  If I were forced to list those, it would take pages and pages.  This is my good fortune.  I saw Christ in these supporting characters, and this powerfully drew me in.

My wife though is a whole different story.  For she willingly loved / loves me.  And this truly detonated a path forward for me that dismantled completely any musty misgivings of cursed(ness).  I could never disavow / discount owning her gaze and allegiance and perpetual trust.  This served as a powerful reminder of God's love for me.

For I'm telling you, I knew even as a small child that Satan was real and that he was intent on taking me down.  How did I know this?  Mostly through dreams but also via what always felt like the makeshiftedness of my 3-person family.  A family that put so much of its faith (like so many others of this era) in the ongoing cultural novelty of the status quo.  For I knew that video entertainment wasn't anything more than such, but it was its influence (on my young brain) that was lost on me as to how best to manage.  

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So here we are.  Fall of 2024.  A lot of time has passed since 1980.  

'Salem's Lot will very soon be released as a feature film.  On TV, no doubt.  I've watched the trailer dozens of times and even gone back to YouTube to watch fanatical pieces pertaining to the original 1980 TV production.  

As a result, my 7-year-old self has been stirring deep within the recesses of my grey matter.

And it's been so very emotive and opportunistic in terms of truly sitting with my boyhood self.  

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A few weeks back, I screened a horror film with my middle school daughter (who also is a highly visual person).  And just so you know, the film is a courtroom drama firstly (this child has a noteworthy interest in the practice of law).  Hence, my justification.  

But it is a very disturbing film (as all great horror films are).

So disturbing in fact that she slept with me afterwards (& we only screened the first 50 minutes).  

But, as you know, there's a big difference in age 7 and 14.  Nonetheless, we spent (& have continued to spend) mucho time discussing said film (at least the portion we've watched) in anticipation of finishing it off.  

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Evil exists.  Humanity truly is cursed.  Our comprehension of secure shelter for ourselves is misguided.  This world of woe is overseen by Lucifer.  Those are genuinely frightening truths.  Especially to helpless children.

But...

There's an assemblage of humanity that's been predestined to survive this wretched curse.  But not by our wits or sacrifice or resistance.  By favor.

For though evil is manifest, God is ineffable, and his propinquity is not unlike the very air we breathe.  

In closing, as young King David boasted about in 1 Samuel, our God is living.  

Vampires, in so many ways, depict Satan almost too well.  As the undead who feast on the hapless living for survival, their very existence is cursed.  

There's one misgiving though regarding this analogy.  Children get a pass 'till they're mature enough to be considered accountable to an understanding of the gospel.  Picture a lei of garlic cloves hanging 'round their necks as a sign of their judgement day immaturity.  Perhaps that's why these tales are all that more harrowing.       

Most Of My Hair Is Silver Now

The house I grew up in in Madison, back in the '80s, was a typical ranch house.  After my parents had a small addition constructed (FL / sunroom), it amounted to +/-1,800 sf.  A quirk of this house was that the garage flooded (even with the garage door closed) during a deluge.  I remember having to "sweep out the garage" immediately following these rainstorms.  There was always either a push or corn broom on hand for this task.  But even then, the concrete garage floor would remain saturated / puddled, thereby making traversing throughout a slippery affair.  And if it was mild weather, this dampness would remain for days. 

When my parents sold this house (1990 - my freshman year at MSU) in order to move into a rental ('till their newly constructed home was finished), I wonder if they disclosed this quirk.  For they never made any effort to remedy it.  It was just one of those nuisances that we lived with throughout our time there.

Today, when you attempt to sell a home, disclosures are expected.  For every house has its quirks.  I remember populating my mother-in-law's disclosure statement for the home she sold a few years back.  It was multiple pages of Q & A with sizable legal warnings throughout threatening legal action if the document wasn't ENTIRELY FORTHCOMING.

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My oldest friend's wife is morbidly obese.  She's always been overweight, but over the past 3-4 years, she's gained more and more pounds.  Now it's to the point (for those of us who've known her for decades) of the inevitable shock (especially considering their Xmas photo card).   

She's also a heavy, heavy social media user (political commentary).

When I last spoke to my friend, his wife was unemployed, having been laid off from her job.  He mentioned a job prospect she was pursuing that would title her "Admin Assistant" for a consulting engineering firm.  This position was in line with much of her resume.

I asked him to let me know if she received an expected offer.

I haven't heard back from him since then.

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I was convicted early on within my life that "letting one's hair down" always came with a cost (physical appearance / words).  And most of the time that cost (for me at least) was risking offense and, in turn, the due penalty (some semblance of rejection).  Therefore, I'm constantly weighing risk versus reward herein.  And, I believe, that's a worthwhile exercise to be tasked with.  It strengthens emotional muscle which promotes / endorses maturity.  

It's one of the main reasons I enjoy writing publicly on this blog as well as my former blog.

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Earlier this week, I had an opportunity to say "hello" to a cousin whilst meeting with a longstanding business owner client (my cousin happens to work there).  He was shocked to see me.  This made the rendezvous all that more special.

My personal blog, "The Architect's Garage", that was deleted in September of '13, was a combination of video / text posts that spanned +/-5 years.  There was a naivety there.  I'd go so far as to say an emotional immaturity.  I posted thoughts and feelings that were deeply revealing within that blog.  Especially as it pertained to my dad / our relationship when I was a child.  As such, it reflected exactly where I was for such a time as that.

This aforementioned cousin was offended enough by those posts to alert his father (my dad's youngest brother, who he loved dearly).  And though the blog had long since been deleted when I came to be made aware of this squeal, I felt something that I'd never felt before as it pertained to my family.

Seen and somewhat known.  It represented an incredible leveling up for me.  For it was the first time someone (within my Turner extended family) actually had the opportunity to pay attention to the Rob that I truly was / had been.

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There are folks who live to be spotlit.  I believe my friend's wife falls into that category.  Her physical self is a mirror to her online one.  

There are others who are required (at times) to be in the spotlight.  For it's the only way they can make sense of the world they're faced with.  Especially regarding those who just might take the time to read the entire disclosure.  

I am so looking forward to seeing my cousin again soon. 

Time's Up

I believe it's important to address my marriage within my writings, but over the years, I've admittedly gone back and deleted numerous posts related to the familial struggles (her family) my sweet wife (& I) has had to endure throughout the course of our 28-year betrothal.  These struggles I've observed mostly as an onlooker, and though my relationship with my parents has certainly not been ideal (whose is?), their overall mental health / stability has been such the positive contrast to what my in-laws brought to the table.  These aforementioned (long since deleted) posts of mine were driven by heady emotion.  Feelings of betrayal and mistrust, disingenuousness and spite were the absolute catalyst behind those writings.  Thankfully, it didn't take me long to realize the inappropriateness of positioning / publishing them here.

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Before the end of August 2024, my mother-in-law will be institutionalized. She's been living in a super deluxe congregate housing for the elderly (2-bedroom apartment) for the past two years, but now she's become unable to care for herself.  This course of action is inevitable as it pertains to how she's envisioned herself (& subsequently planned for) at this stage of her life.

"Assisted living", as it's dubbed, is within the same complex where she presently resides, therefore logistically, this move will be a cinch.

But my mother-in-law knows that she'll lose her independence the moment she's admitted, and from there, will never regain it.  And primarily, this has to do with her medicated state.  For one of the primary identifiers of "assisted living", first and foremost, has to do with the administering of meds (many of which are psychotropic) via 24/7 nursing staff.  

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Angie's dad has been dead for +/-6 years.  The last few decades of his life were very low quality due to his chronic health issues.  As such, throughout the majority of our 28 years of marriage, he was disabled to the degree that he was unable to drive a car.  This combined with mental health issues (general anxiety disorder / depression) crippled an already diminishing individual.

Angie's parents, like mine, are within the Jackson Metro, therefore we have, over the years, engaged regularly with them, though looking back, it was mostly in light of their (primarily Angie's dad) desire to see their grandchildren (our three daughters).  Now that two of these are college-age, and Bob is long since dead, any engagement with Angie's mother is out of pure Christian benevolence, and man oh man, has my sweet wife doled out some kind of pure Christian benevolence.

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Prior to Angie's mother moving into her apartment, her abode of 40+ years had to be prepared for sale.  Angie and I stepped up and saw that entire 1.5-year process through to the end.

Now, here we are.  Time's up.  Independence is slip, slip, slipping away by the minute.  Congregate housing for the elderly is going by the wayside.

What's sad is how there's been no attempt on my mother-in-law's part to ask forgiveness for all the pain she's inflicted on Angie throughout her life.  Nor has she thanked her daughter for her resolve in consistently caring for her mom.

As such, very soon, with the degree of meds that'll be needed to emotionally lobotomize her (in light of her being forced into "assisted living"), Edie will be no more.  For her mind will be mush in preparation for her Final Destination.

Time's up.

Lagniappe

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

Resist Being Relationally Territorial Within Samson Society. Remember, You're Only "Brothers" In Concept Alone. Nonetheless, Never Stop Considering The Relational "What If?"

Being an only child helps me in this regard.  I've no siblings to mar my relational outlook.  

What I mean by that is, (as a child) I always had to placate myself to the expectation that any and all friendships would be unpredictable / nonpermanent.  This point of view allowed me to stay hopeful, putting more energy towards the "What If?" versus the "Please don't leave me!".

(For I desperately needed friends.)

How did I do this?

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My favorite rock band throughout my childhood was Heart.  Had the two female band members not been sisters, I doubt the allure would have been nearly as strong.  Through Ann and Nancy, I vicariously enjoyed having / observing a sibling(s).  

What was so obvious to me about these two was the "order of operation" baked into the relationship.  Now, for those of you who know Heart well, you're privy to the fact that Ann wasn't the oldest child within the family.  There was an older sister still who just happened to not be a musician.  But if you know anything about these two rock 'n roll superstars, there's a definitive hierarchy combined with a steadfast, implicit value anchorage.  

In essence, Ann Wilson was the lead, and both sisters recognized the fact that they were far more valuable as a pairing than individually.

Both Ann and Nancy Wilson have recorded solo work.  In fact, Ann did so firstly by agreeing to perform within a rock duet (movie soundtrack from the mid '80s).  Eventually, Nancy did the same, though her efforts felt much more unsyncopated (in spite of the song's airplay) / unnecessary.    

When both sisters partner as song composers, they credit a pseudonym, "Connie" within the liner notes.  I've always like this.  It implies the seamlessness between the two, both carrying equal weight.  And that's cool.

In the not-too-distant past, Ann and Nancy Wilson had a public falling out.  This resulted in both women rocking (recording / touring) separately for a season.  Now they've made up and are once again together as if it never occurred.  

Why?

Because they're family.  As such, there's simply too much historical alikeness / sensibilities to not effectively keep them together.  

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I'm leery of friendships within this community that feel contrived.  I've been down that road with Samson brothers who're interested in befriending me, having received no indicators that I feel the same.  

Taking risks for Rob = feeling masculine.

This is my / many men's secret sauce pertaining to acting on the "What if?".

Personally, I especially like strong intelligence, but the rarefied attraction between two potential brothers involves identifying and acknowledging (being sympathetic to) his zone.  And doing so in a way that solidifies his trust in you / your trust in him.  This acknowledging will undoubtedly take creativity and a whole lot of deliberateness.

His / your zone = Whatever keeps a man up at night

Maybe it's work or children or his / your health (recovery?).  Whatever it is, if you / he can find a means to support him / you therein, doing so creatively and very intentionally, he's / you're demonstrating two things.

Firstly, your understanding of who you are / he is.  Secondly, your / his willingness to do the work needed to be "brotherly" in that regard.  

Ann Wilson loved music well before starting her band.  Not long after, Nancy joined too, bringing her guitar-playing skillset, songwriting ability, but mostly, she brought her willingness to support sis within an endeavor / "zone" that was no doubt her first love.  

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In closing, Heart's success as a rock band went into stratosphere during the MTV era of the 1980s.  And much of that had to do with the production team they agreed to work with.  A team that understood the era / cultural impact of music video production and how integral it was becoming to influence fandom (drive record sales / airplay).

Putting the dolled-up sisters on display, never too far from one another onscreen, did wonders to intrigue audiences (me).  For not only did they look similar, but there was simply a sibling rapport that was unmistakable.  Not to mention the fact that they were a lot easier on the eyes than Eddie & Alex or Chris & Rich.

Decades of time together, supporting / showing love whilst making entertaining music for all of us to enjoy = success all around. 

Your close brotherly friendships within Samson Society should be just as celebrated.  For they're no doubt similarly influential / entertaining to observe (despite the differences in last names).

Either Remove Yourself From The "Handful" Or HOLD ON 'Till Opportunity Presents Itself To

 

This thought-provoking illustration could easily be a reference piece of an imaginative Hollywood screenwriter.  Perhaps he / she's dreaming up yet another misunderstood villain (antihero?) for us his purported audience to love / hate.  

Think of the Beth Dutton, JR Ewing, Brenda Walshes specifically, and you'll understand where I'm coming from.

They're a lot more interesting to watch than Fred Rogers, aren't they?

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Television characters must exist on a disproportioned spectrum of reality.  This is an outgrowth of theater where everything must be larger-than-life to truly be entertaining / keep the audience's attention.

But what gives when you find yourself living alongside one (or more) of these?  Where do you go from there?

You know the answer to that one.  Get the hell out of dodge.

Let's discuss the harder part of this equation.  Preparing yourself to face these folks.  Identification is key.

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My closest female friend in high school, Shannon, was one year my senior.  She was very mature for her age and quite the contrarian when it came to both her style and interests.  Shannon came from an upper-class family whereas I was very much middle-class.  Her (Golden State) mother had remarried her attorney (Magnolia State) father after losing her first husband (Navy sailor) in a tragic submarine vanish.  Both Shannon and her younger brother came from that second betrothal.  This now blended family (her mother had birthed two daughters from her first husband) was one I always found intriguing to hang with as a teen for they were SO VERY unlike any other family I was close to.  

And that unlikeness was spearheaded by Shannon's mom.  A typical Mississippi suburban mom of the 1980s she was most definitely not.  It was always a bit intimidating engaging with Jolene, even in passing (& I was by no means a shy teen).  She was so intelligent, opinionated and articulate.  The complete opposite of the familiar folksy, sweet and cornpone.

But I digress...

Shannon had an admirer who was two (or maybe three) years her junior at our small private academy.  This younger girl was also in the marching band with Shannon (& I) even though she was only in middle school at the time.  

It became immediately apparent to everyone that this young admirer was not at all well as it pertained to her admiration (obsession) of Shannon.  For her behavior towards herself, Shannon and everyone else became unusually out of character for a middle-school girl.  

How Shannon coolly handled this younger girl was absolutely empowering to witness.  It was as if my friend literally had been born to navigate the relational dangers / complexities she'd found herself now saddled with.  

I still look back on that with intrigue (as well as heartache).  In the end, the younger girl was removed from school and institutionalized.  Post release, she thankfully didn't return ot our small school.  Nevertheless, I admired Shannon that much more for what she'd endured and modeled with such civility / compassion towards this junior (high) admirer.  

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Shannon immediately identified her relationship with this younger girl as problematic.  Especially so considering her somewhat "forced proximity" to her (fellow schoolmate / marching band member).  From there, she did everything she could to shield herself from the girl.  Much of her strategy consisted of fencing herself in via healthy, supportive friends.  

But firstly, the miracle herein was her deep-seated sense of self protection versus what you might typically see from a female teen (manipulation, harassment, pandering, entitlement) who was the subject of said emotional (& eventually physical) stalking.  

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Your well-being matters firstly.  Even when you're tempted to compromise that in return for some prospective future reward / promotion / solidification / gratification.  It's important to remember that.  No matter the "rank" / position of family / friends / employers / leaders within your sphere of influence (or theirs), the most important consideration is your health firstly.  For you cannot walk back stupid.  For stupid is a past tense verb. 

In closing, if it's not feasible to physically fence yourself in with healthier relations in light of the unhealthy influence, take the time to do so with God's spirit BEFORE engaging with the "handful".  You most certainly can figuratively get the hell out of dodge via the Lord blanketing you throughout.  Bank on that, don't lose hope.