A Beautiful (Relatively Young) Man's Life Completely Derailed. (Shame Management)

Today I had the privilege of lunching with one of the most physically beautiful men I've yet (so far within these 53 years) to have the privilege to befriend.  And, I'm pleased to say as well that his persona came / comes across as quite likable in kind.

When I was in high school, I found myself transfixed by one particular fellow classmate (male).  He was no doubt the most athletic / athletically built young man within our +/-45-member troupe.  Whenever Tom would be within "visual range", I would have to - very intentionally - stop gazing in his general direction.  For everything about this young man simply looked distinctly ideal in regard to Rob's ultimate fantasy man.  

What was ironic regarding these consistently roulette wheel run-ins (our private high school was NOT large) was this very Adonis ended up seated directly across from me within my first college class.  

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Physical beauty can spell trouble for individuals who're prone to exploit the inevitable attention (feed their egos) for their own gain / pleasure.  My former classmate, Tom, may have experienced this (he & I, by no means, stayed in touch), but regarding my new friend from lunch today, there's absolutely no doubt.  And he very humbly admitted to this.

According to my new friend, playing college football brought opportunities to party alongside.  And with partying (at age 20) came boozing.  Boozing that tapped into a genetic predisposition (lengthy ancestral line) to become addicted.  And that addiction almost completely destroyed him and his future.  I knew just enough of this prior to our lunch to be intrigued (which served as a catalyst for organizing our juncture), but I had no idea of the severity therein.  Ultimately, in tandem with him hitting rock bottom, had it not been for the kindness of an aunt, he'd be dead.

Listen to me when I tell you this, dear reader.  If you saw this beautiful man on the street, you'd NEVER SUSPECT him having lived out this wreckage of a life.  Never.  And speaking of the word never...

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I've never had an experience like this.  Sitting there with this incredibly hot guy and hearing the highlights of his derailment tale absolutely shook me to the core.  And let me be blunt, this derailment altered - for the worse - the course of his life forever.  Opportunity(ies) torched.  A future life lived on Easy Street torpedoed.

It's been six years since my new friend has drunk alcohol.  Today, he's married with numerous stepchildren, meekly providing financial support via a below average pay managerial position at a local nonprofit.  

I wept for my - only half-smiled once during our lunch - new friend as I made my way back to my office.  And, man oh man, what a gorgeous smile he has.  

In closing, he shared with me how he and his fam were slated to head out tomorrow, (10/3) for a fall break vaca.  Their destination?  A very isolated, modest beachfront property owned by a hospitable family member.

I couldn't help but wonder if said location wasn't - at least to some degree - selected out of shame management. 

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This world of woe is so very difficult to reckon with, taking stories like his into consideration.  Please pray for me going forward as I rub shoulders with my new friend.  I feel so privileged to know him now as I didn't know him before despite the time it will take for me to process his story.  Here's the lesson:  Over the top physical / sexual attractiveness can no doubt be exploited by our Enemy.  Particularly in a world that celebrates / elevates these to the degree that we do.  Satan's end goal will always be to kill, steal & destroy using first & foremost the status quo against us coupled with our naivety regarding our own vulnerability. 

We are all sheep.  Some of us far more attractive sheep than the rest, but there's no changing the fact that we're still dumbass sheep.  Never forget how vulnerable therein you truly are.

Lagniappe

More Lagniappe

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)

Is A Loved One / Friend / Professional Colleague Attempting To Drive A Wedge Between You & A Third Relational Leg (Parent / Common Friend / Professional Colleague or Bossman)? Read On.

Firstly, what is a relational wedge?  

It's an intentional (tangential) relational sabotaging technique used by individuals who feel a grievance has occurred between them and someone they're close to.  In tandem, these individuals often feel intensely justified to drive said wedge, but more often than not, their justification is only rooted in overwhelming negative feelings towards the griever (inflictor of emotional pain).  

But what's unique about wedges is that by definition, there must be at least three closely relationed individuals involved.

1.  The party who experienced the grievance

2.  The griever

[INSERT (POTENTIAL) WEDGE HERE]

3.  The friend / parent / coworker, etc. of both party 1 & 2. 

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What's unusual about some relational wedges is they're actually driven (attempted) forth between child & parent (via the opposing parent).  Why make the effort to do this?  Especially considering the baked-in longevity (stickiness tied to all familial relations) therein.  Nonetheless, let's say the parents are divorced, and now living separately.  And let's assume the divorce didn't occur amiably (as if any truly do).  Divorcee #1 can undoubtedly feel obliged / justified to drive a wedge between the child(ren) and divorcee #2, but just because it feels correct to follow through doesn't mean it's the smartest move long-term.

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A quick (decades old) story:

My first (large-scale, by MS standards) architecture firm job saw me hired on in '96 (by one of the four owners) who just happened to have - somewhat recently - remarried (to one of his employees / my now colleague).  His new honey was almost a decade older than he, and this woman (also a divorcee) had quite the chip on her shoulder (woman scorned...).  And to top that off, she was simply intimidating to boot (physically large / virago - professionally & otherwise).  

This woman is who first introduced me to the "art of driving wedges" within a vocational setting.  As such, as I became more comfortable with my role as an intern, she actively sought to weaken my professional / personal relationship with her husband via wedge driving.  Some of this was subtle but as my tenure increased, it only became more pronounced, especially considering how willing her husband (my boss) was to entertain her drivel.  Nonetheless, I lost more and more respect for both parties as the expected emotional exhaustion mounted.

As I'm sure you realize, I had no clue what I would be stepping into when I took this internship position.  All I knew was I needed employment (to serve as advancement towards eventually sitting for the Architectural Registration Exam).  But, man oh man, did I ever experience so much more.  All thanks to my boss's bed partner.  It was truly soap opera-like.  Yet, I'm so thankful to have walked through this young man experience.  Trial by fire, if you know what I mean.

A quick (much more recent) story (that went down a few years prior to the COVID-19 pandemic):

After coming alongside a newcomer (in-person Samson meeting attendee) that had been ushered / invited in by an old friend, this clinically depressed young man did such the unexpected by effectively driving a wedge between me and two other Samson brothers (+/-18 months into our friendship).  Keep in mind that I was considerably older than these guys.  Hence, their stage of life was so very different than my own.  But too, #1 wasn't from Mississippi, and as such, made it very clear how loathed he was as a "temporary resident".  

As such, I believe I became (to him) sort of a harbinger of all things Mississippi (immediately following my perceived grievance towards him).  As such, I believe, this further motivated him to drive that wedge as deep as he possibly could.

And as a result, just a short year later, that wedge had successfully metastasized into deep seated paranoia regarding Rob.  From there, the other longstanding Samson friendship imploded unexpectedly (yet spectacularly). 

Who would have imagined something like this happening within the auspices of Samson Society? 

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Once wedges are driven / established and the emotional / relational fallout occurs (as a result), you have a choice to make.

A.  Fight for the relationship's (between all THREE parties) "recalibration" ("equalization").  

B.  Politely walk away from the other two parties (as if no such wedge driving had occurred).

If you choose A, you're going to have to successfully bring all everyone together in order for you to insist on a "clearing of the air".  Sometimes this is impossible.  But, if it is, and you're successful in doing so, this can become a heated / passionate discussion that's likely going to deeply impact the standing (future trustworthiness) of #1 (the wedge driver) in light of the relationship's future.  Nevertheless, reconciliation is always a possibility, but especially so within Christian circles.

If you choose B, you're going to need to forgive these folks quickly, completely and quietly whilst moving on.  Why?  There's a good chance you'll bump into these (it's a small world) down the road.  In other words, cut your losses and exit stage left.  

Personally, I've done both and each is hard.  Mostly because you're the victim, therefore not only are you hurting as such but from there, you're saddled with following through with one of these two not at all easy relational choices (which only adds to the pain).

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Lastly, if you dear reader are or have found yourself as a #1 (wedge driver), give yourself some slack.  Relationships are filled with heady emotions.  Plus, talk is cheap.  Those two combined with our baked-in sin nature can make wedge driving (at times) almost impossible to revengefully / deceitfully resist.  Believe me, I speak from experience.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Consider this memory of note:

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

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

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

Or this one:

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

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

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

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

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

Or this one:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And finally, this one:

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

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

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

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

My reaction therein was blunt.

Needless to say, he was deeply offended.

And that was the end of that.  

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

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

Why pray this prayer?

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

Plus, he knows my name.

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

Lagniappe

More lagniappe

Even more lagniappe

Do You Advocate For Your Children / Grandchildren, Or Are You A Militant Asshole / Absentee Father? Or, Is It Somewhere In Between?

Within the city of Jackson, Mississippi (Mississippi's capital), there resides three urban universities and one seminary (I believe I'm correct in my count).  One of these universities is public while the other two are private.  Understandably, the public university is much larger overall (more affordable tuition).  

My two oldest daughters are university students within the largest south Mississippi city, Hattiesburg.  There're two urban collegiate institutions there, one public and one private, the former of which is very close to the same size as the aforementioned public university in Jackson.  Hattiesburg, MS is overall safe and thriving economically.  It has a distinct character and strong sense of place.

This aforementioned public (& again, by far largest) university within the city of Jackson resides within the most unsafe / economically depressed region of the city.  The institution itself is not walled off (security fencing) from the city as one of the two private institutions are, therefore like a traditional urban college, I'm fairly certain that it resides seamlessly within the urban fabric of the capital city of Mississippi.  A city that's overall unsafe and floundering economically (Jackson is losing populace faster than any other city in America).  This, in recent years, has led to an overall depressing character and undeniably hopeless sense of place relative to how the city of Jackson is perceived as a whole (think third world country).

My wife, Angie, graduated from Baylor University back in the early '90s.  Baylor resides in Waco, TX.  It's a city that, per my wife's commentary, combined with my own short stints visiting, is overall safe and thriving economically.  It too had / has a distinct character and strong sense of place.

Taking all of that into consideration, under no circumstances would I allow a child of mine (no matter the gender) to enroll at the public university (the largest of the three institutions) within the city of Jackson.  No.  Matter.  What.

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As a parent, seeing a child off - college bound - takes breathtaking courage.  But it also requires parental guidance.    

I can remember reading years ago of a Baylor University student who was killed via a hit & run there in Waco.  He was riding his bike (alongside another student) after dark when it happened.  The boy was a musician from the Midwest who'd chosen to attend Baylor in spite of no previous familial connection therein.  

As you can imagine, the university was heartbroken, and the parents were devastated.  Eventually, the driver was located and charged.  From what I recall, the manslaughterer was a middle-aged white woman (educator within the local K-12 public school system) who was driving drunk.  

This was tremendously out of character tragedy for the city of Waco, home to Baylor University.

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College students are within that "in-between" stage of life.  No longer children but too, not exactly adults either.  College provides a great petri dish experience for this age group to establish some independent work ethic via a semi-controlled environment.  

This past week, a university student (from out of state) at the aforementioned public university in Jackson was murdered on campus (at a university-owned apartment complex).  The suspects in this murder are also college students, but from other institutions outside of central MS.

What would you do / how would you react if your college student son / daughter was murdered on their college campus?  Especially considering your child's supposed stellar track record as a student / human being.  

Would you question the role that you played relative to agreeing to support your child's enrollment within that institution?   Ultimately, how would you manage the emotional aftermath of seeing your child murdered not only during his most springboard season of life but at the very institution / within the very city where that springboarding was supposed to occur? 

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This hits home with Rob.   

As Dr. Dobson says, parenting isn't for cowards but simultaneously, parenting isn't rocket science.  

God help this family, and God help the city of Jackson and all who reside within it.  

For those of you Samson men who are parents / grandparents, be forewarned.  The effectiveness (performance) of your role as a parent / grandparent is in direct proportion to the seriousness of / commitment to your recovery.  Your dependents' lives may very well depend on it.

Lagniappe

Heart Attacker - The Death Of A "Good Man"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I cannot emphasize this enough.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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"Help me, Lord Jesus!"  

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

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

Never had I experienced anything like this cruel accuser. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

RIDE ON!

Lagniappe  

More lagniappe

Even more lagniappe

Denying Yourself & Making Faithfulness (To Christ) Your Highest Priority

Losing my campus architect job from Delta State University proved devastating to me emotionally.  For it was an environment I found challenging, energetic and perfectly suited for someone of my professional skillset (plus it was my dad's alma mater).  I cannot overstate here how satisfied I was with this administrative position.  It was September of 2013 when the termination occurred, right around this time of year (late summer transitioning into early fall).  Though I'd only been employed there for one year, I'd spent countless hours of overtime (mostly weekends) shoring up the position of Campus Architect (at the expense of my family / personal life), all of which had resulted in some needed stability / restored confidence within the Physical Plant. 

Post termination (the following day), I immediately took the necessary steps to become an employee of my parents' Jackson, Mississippi business.  The work I'd be doing there wasn't at all of interest to me nor was I trained therein (I pursued a degree in architecture in college in order to eventually become registered as such).  Too, I knew going in that working for them would result in me feeling washed up, settled, and emasculated (which it did).  Spelled out as F-A-I-L-U-R-E.  

The devastation was centered on how obvious it quickly became that I was not at all well-suited working on a college campus, particularly within a Physical Plant setting.  Why?  As an intensely (at the time) same-sex attracted 40-year-old man, I was overwhelmed with the testosterone / muscled masculinity that was constantly on display for me to interact with.  And, to make matters that much more challenging, all these men wore athletically cut, short-sleeved uniforms that accentuated these glorious physical attributes.  And I cannot underestimate that word:  glorious.  Damn, it was fucking glorious.  Not unlike working on a gay porn film set each and every day.  

Yet, in the midst of all this, I had zero support relative to my story.  Even though I'd shared it in so many words with our pastor / associate pastor (whilst also pointing them to my personal blog).  They proved to be no help at all to me personally.  And I did even reach a point of directly asking for help.  

Taking all this into account, it was no doubt an unworkable situation.  Rob was completely isolated and far from home.  All the while, feeling SO MUCH shame relative to his sexual orientation.

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Imagine being Samus Aran but not fitting at all comfortably (due to the size of your frame) into your varia suit.  No matter how hard you'd tried.  Therefore, you attempt to bounty hunt sans suit, but you keep getting your ass kicked.  Plus, you're unable to morph into that cool morph ball which therefore limits your mobility.  

As such, you're disqualified.  No more bounty hunting.  Not without the varia suit.  It is an integral part of your work.

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At age thirteen, whilst being lassoed in by the gospel, I knew denial of myself would be an absolute.  And at this age, I actually gravitated towards this mindset for I found zero value within Rob.  Not to mention I was scared shitless of landing in hell for my propensity (even at this tender age) to lust. Immediately, Jesus made sense as both a savior and guide, and I understood my need for both.  

There was no one to confide in during my teen years relative to my sexuality.  In tandem with that was how emotionally starved I was both at home and platonically.  Therefore, "rescue" came via lustful sexual fantasies, all of which were homosexual in nature.  Often, these fantasies involved men / older boys that were within my sphere of influence (school / work / church).  They pursued Rob with a vengeance within these fantasies, and in many ways, it served as a temporary suave to my hurting / lonely heart (which was always left behind with biting guilt).  

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One thing I'm most proud of relative to my position at Delta State University was my choosing to not entertain sexual fantasies around any of the hot men that worked under me.  As such, this put me in quite the private pressure-valve situation.  For I didn't want to use them, but at the same time, I was exceedingly sexual attracted to a number of them. 

And this is where oversharing on my personal blog came in handy along with consuming gay porn (all executed on my work desktop PC, thereby breaking the university's IT policy).  For it provided some temporary emotional relief.

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After my initial +/-3 years of being involved in the Jackson, Mississippi Samson Society group (August 2014 - May 2017), the Holy Spirit clearly punctuated my love for men by dubbing me a "men's minister".  This happened immediately following a retreat that Mr. Don Waller had organized for our (then singular) group in beautiful Highlands, NC.  I'll likely never forget the day this occurred.  It was a rainy weekday afternoon while both of my 'rents were out of the office.

This title wasn't something that felt earned.  Instead, it seemed (at the time) so much more prophetic in nature than anything else.  And it truly was, though even today, all these years later, I in no way feel I've "risen" to that mantel.  

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My experience at Delta State University was perfectly orchestrated by God to prepare me for what's been set within my line of sight today as a "men's minister" (whatever that means).  For I know firsthand what it is to experience devastation via the realization that you're not qualified to pursue what, by the numbers / book, looks to be a perfect fit for you (taking your credentials, experience, availability into account).  

Being a same-sex attracted man has crippled me.  There's no doubt about it.  It has, in many ways, robbed me of (vocational) glory I've longed to be identified by.  But, none of this is overly surprising to Rob, especially whilst looking back.

What is mind-blowing is how tenderly God's nurtured me through all this fallout.  He's been consistent in his love as each month propels me further and further away from what went down in September 2013.

Thanks be to God for his goodness and mercy, and thanks too for the Jackson Mississippi Samson Society and its role in launching me into this community of men.   

Let's Talk Samson - "Hyper-Independence"

Note from Stephen: Over the next few weeks, I will be sharing some short posts titled "Let's Talk Samson..." The following post below originated from the Samson Society Facebook page. Specific permission was obtained from the Samson Society in order for the Jackson Mississippi Samson Society blog to re-post and share the contents. The ideas and thoughts presented here originated via the Samson Society's Facebook Page, and permission has been granted to share both ideas and images via this blog. At the end, I will add my own personal commentary and reflection; these will be presented in bold, italic lettering to designate my personal views as they pertain to the original posting. ~ Stephen

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Children who experience emotional or physical neglect learn to replace the deep craving for connection with "not needing anyone."

It's an instinct to self-protect and is an effective coping tool to survive an unsafe and/or painful environment.

Hyper-independence numbs the deep craving for love and connection. It takes the pain of rejection, abandonment, sadness, and grief, and transforms it into a perceived self-confidence:

▪ "I don't need anyone."

▪ "I can do this on my own."

▪ "Why let you in? Everyone eventually leaves."

When we’re used, betrayed, or disrespected, it’s easy for us to create the belief that we can’t rely on anybody else. We don’t want to feel that pain ever again, so we protect ourselves by believing we can walk on this world without the help of others.

This mindset leads to:

▪ taking on too much

▪ saying no to help

▪ having trouble with delegating tasks

We may think being on our own is much better than letting people in, but what we’re really doing is closing ourself off to life.

This is why community, such as the brotherhood of Samson, is vital to our journey of recovery, healing, and just "doing life."

 

Stephen's Commentary:

I am not a fan of social media and partake of it sparingly. I am a very private person, and I thank the good Lord every day that I grew up in a day and age when social media wasn't even a word that existed in the vernacular of Americans. Still, social media does have its moments and it also has certain areas in which it demonstrates usefulness. One particular way that I have found social media to be useful is via the Samson Facebook page. A few weeks ago, I came across a post that stopped me dead in my tracks. Quite literally, it stopped me dead in my tracks and caused me to have to sit down and pause for a few moments. Very few things that I have ever read online have pulled a sucker punch on me like this post did. Many thoughts raced through my mind at once: "This is me...this is who I am...Whoever wrote this looked right through my hardened veneer into the depths of my soul...They get it...they understand...maybe there are others out there like me..."

I have always been a "hyper-independent" person. Until I read this Facebook post, I didn't realize that there was even such a term to describe someone such as myself. Through the work I've done over the past 6 years via Samson, I have been able to re-trace the steps back through my life to see exactly when and where I started down the path of becoming "hyper-independent." Prior to Samson, I didn't know how to begin this process, nor would I have even cared to! Being a "hyper-independent" introverted person is very painful at times. Even though I can be an extroverted-introvert (ambivert) at times, the "hyper-independence" within me still reigns strong. "Hyper-independent" is perhaps the strongest over-arching character trait that is present in my life.

Being "hyper-independent" is DANGEROUS. Being such a person usually means keeping everyone at arm's length. As a husband and father, "hyper-independence" still, at times, causes me to be withdrawn and emotionally unavailable to those who need me the most...my family.

Being "hyper-independent" is EXHAUSTING. Being a chameleon in order to demonstrate a wonderful "outward" appearance while often struggling internally is both mentally and emotionally exhausting. 

Being "hyper-independent" is extremely LONELY. A few weeks ago, my son was very sick, and was hospitalized for a week in the local children's hospital. My wife never left his side and spent the week in the hospital with him. My days consisted of working half days and running back and forth to the hospital during the remaining time to take care of my family. At night, I was at home caring for my three dogs. Aside from a few people we told, I did not reach out to anyone. Even though I was mentally exhausted and emotionally drained by the end of the day, my "hyper-independence" caused me to not reach out to anyone and struggle alone with my fears and my thoughts. It was a rough week.

Being "hyper-independent" is not who I want to be. Above, I have included a screenshot of the original post. The words I have highlighted in yellow describe me. That is Stephen. And I need help moving past that. But my "hyper-independence" assures me that I do not. I need people who will continue to convince me of the need to abandon my desire for "hyper-independence." ~Stephen