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

 

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

~ Winston Churchill ~

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “WHY!?”

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

“Why, Jarrid???”

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

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

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

“Why, Marvin???”

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

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

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

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

“Why, Ethan???”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

These Are Dangerous Times To Be Living Alone. Especially If You've Established A Perceived Anonymity Involving Both The Internet & Sexual Sin.

I love meeting new Samson guys.  Hearing their stories and supporting them therein via my listening ear is what it's all about.  There's no judgement there.  It's all about simply listening, asking questions and listening some more.  Perhaps eventually, they'll be a recommendation or two tossed from my lips, but those are always at a minimum (though I must admit their seeming authoritativeness can be off putting to some) until I feel so moved.    

I'm fortunate to have listened to hundreds upon hundreds of hours - throughout my life - as either a Silas or simply a Samson brother.  If you know Rob at all, you know that I adore men.  Hence, meeting new guys and listening to their stories is an incredibly enriching experience for me.  You'll also know though that I don't miss much whilst listening.  And I'm fairly certain this is tied to how God has tuned me overall towards the same sex.

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Many years ago, I was an avid CNET fan.  This website interested me enough to browse there moreso than occasionally (in spite of the fact that I'm by no means a tech nerd).  I especially enjoyed their weekly (Fridays) wrap up summary video which captured the "tech news" over the past seven days.  The host of this weekly video was comedic, the writing intelligent and the editing was anything but generic.  It was entertaining stuff.  

During one of these weekly wrap-up videos, the host featured the first (supposedly) iteration of webcam roulette URLs.  Essentially, per what the host described; this URL allowed one to play webcam roulette with whomever else was logged in simultaneously (with their webcam turned on).  

And as an aside, the host made it very clear that what she had experienced therein was quite sexually explicit in nature as she "played around" with this new website invention.

Who'd a thunk?  Strangers being sexually explicit online?  Shocking.

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The Internet is all about efficiency, is it not?  Instantaneous satisfaction.  No matter the need.  

Keeping that in mind, webcam roulette URLs most definitely meet a distinct need via the power and anonymity of the Internet.  And the keyword here is anonymity.  

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Somewhere around 2008 or '09, a beloved Aussie friend (who I'd met online via Yahoo! Groups), and I were beginning to establish a webcam routine.  For reference, at the time, my PC barely met the minimum computing requirements for Skype.  Prior to this, my Aussie friend and I emailed each other voraciously (for well over a year).  Like myself, this guy was a writer at heart, but who also happened to be a husband / father who struggled with unwanted same-sex attraction.  

Unfortunately, it didn't take too long for Scott (after we'd established our webcam routine) to decide to expose himself to me unannounced.  From there, during that episode, he began masturbating to climax.  I have to admit, it was initially quite erotic observing him doing this through his laptop's webcam, but it didn't take long for me to feel the ickiness associated with this sort of Internet-centric experience, particularly in contrast to where our friendship had been.  Hence, after that one time, in line with a mutual agreement, he and I both kept our zippers zipped up.  

Not too many months after this eye-opening event, I asked that we take a year-long friendship sabbatical.  He agreed to this with a broken heart.  As you might imagine, our relationship never recovered from that "extended vacation".   

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Let me stop here and define what I mean by ickiness.

Whenever I engage with other men, I feel 110%.  The experience is akin to me walking in their shoes.  It's for sure emotionally exhausting, but as such, me simply being me.

This being my normal, I am deeply fearful of what a sexual experience might look like with said men because of the damage my involvement would bring about.  In other words, think of it as me taking a massive overstep into their lives.  Now, viewing a pixelated video, fed through an anonymous guy's webcam, isn't the same as real, face-to-face sexual experiences or even (as described above) a friend-to-friend webcam one.

All that being said, ickiness feelings are essentially those which alarm me to the fact that I've either entered in or are fast approaching the cesspool of human experience.  The lowest of the low.  Debased.  Repugnant.  To expound on that a bit, I'd put it in the same category as visiting those plywood-assembled "private booths" oftentimes found towards the back of the adult bookstore.  You know the ones.  Where the red and pink incandescent bulbs dangle above your head as you anticipate yet another anonymous hookup.

In my opinion, webcam roulette is right there in the thick of those pollutants.  Particularly if you're participating therein as a Christian.

Here's my plea:  Value yourself and the Holy Spirit in such a manner that you're unwilling to stoop to this level.  No matter how lonely you may feel.  Value your witness as a Christian in such a manner that you're unwilling to stoop to this level.  Pray to God that your ickiness barometer stays sensitive and sharp.  Ask him for the self-control to heed its warnings reflexively.

And never forget to pray for those who're submerged in the filth, getting pulled deeper and deeper into the dump.  For ickiness to them is what normal looks like.

Lagniappe

"Pity The Fool" As You Yourself Were Once Pitied. You Just Might Usher Them Into Samson Society As A Result.

As an architect, I'm qualified to design buildings and to review proposed designs in an effort to provide guidance / adherence to a plan's feasibility (both aesthetically & functionally).  In summary, my training puts me in a position of authority regarding building design.  Pure & simple.

Currently, my income doesn't come from architecting, though I am still using my training on a voluntary basis.  Within our Reservoir 'hood, I serve the homeowners' association board as "Architectural Review" committee chairman.  This affords me the privilege of adjudicating R & R and new planned construction (which is rare) within prior to it commencing.

Last year, one such adjudication request came my way.  Hence, my fellow committee members and I paid a visit to the homeowner in order to review, on site, some color samples relative to an ongoing home rebuild (that had sustained fire / smoke damage +/-3 months prior).  After politely scheduling a date / time, it was apparent that the mid-30s man obviously lived alone, having no doubt recently divorced, and as such, was overseeing the reconstruction remotely during the tail end of the pandemic.  He was very cooperative with the review procedures, and thankful even for our time / input (versus seeing it as a burdensome nuisance).

Post adjudication, we turned to leave, and from there, he insisted we circle back once the restoration / renovation was complete in order to have a grand tour of the finished product.

And I made a mental note to do so.

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Yesterday afternoon, (3/27), I knocked on my neighbor's door whilst admiring the gleaming newness of his home's recently renovated exterior.  He answered with a slightly surprised countenance (it had been 6-9 months since our previous juncture).  I told him I'd stopped by a few times before, only to find no one home.  And there was some truth to that.  For I had walked down to his cul-de-sac once, only to see his full-size pickup absent from his driveway.

As I stepped inside, I was not surprised to find that his renovated home was over-the-top Chip and Joanna Gaines' farmhouse chic (as it seems everything within the Southeast is these days).  Hence, it was current to the nth degree, looking perfectly ready for its Magnolia photo shoot.

At the same time though, there was a sadness there.  For he'd made an overabundance of "to hell with it" design moves that were no doubt rebelliously enacted (to the chagrin of Joanna).  Those consisted of both the "Deer head wall mount wall" and the full-size billiards table (where the dining room table should have been).  Not to mention the gargantuan flat screen TV mounted on the rear of the freshly painted garage (it was his extra one!?!).  

I didn't want to linger as he showed me around (I even got to see the massive luxury shower within the master bath).  Overstaying my welcome is one hiccup I work hard to avoid.   

We shook hands, and I headed out for my weekend run, ready to take advantage of the glorious Spring weather.  

As a coda though, I did send him a text message later on that evening, feeling obliged to apologize for not remembering his name during our time together earlier that day.  We both laughed about getting older, etc. before I thanked him again via the magic of my pocket computer.

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As I lay in bed last night, I kept remembering the underlying sadness that I'd surprisingly encountered during my afternoon walkthrough.  That dark emotion that simply hadn't been renovated out of that structure.  

It was a sadness that was rooted in loss and shame.  Regret and defeat.  For this guy was / is military.  Built like a tank.  With the shaved head and everything.  He's exponentially masculine.  Hence, the sadness was no doubt well-hidden underneath his gladiator-ness facade, yet it was definitely there. 

So what do I do in response to my concern?  How might I overcome the intimidation factor long enough to get to know him better (in hopes of becoming / gaining a friend)?  

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During the February regional Samson Society retreat, every man shared prepared-in-advance stories of both harm and blessing.  The latter for me was centered on a cherished experience I had in high school.  Afterwards, my old friend & former Silas, made a statement that is still resonating with Rob.  And that statement was centered on how he truly saw me versus how I saw myself (the void).  As a result, I felt like I'd been hit by a bolt of lightning in spite of the insulating factors brought on by the group setting (+/-15 men in the room).  

Essentially, he directly affirmed my masculinity via his understanding of who I am / have always been within his eyes.

Even as I write this, I can easily circuit into that emotional surge, still lingering within my psyche.  

What a blessing via the influence of old, old friendships!

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Here's to my attempts to circle back successfully - one more time - in order to minister to a neighbor that I'm assuming is in need of friendship.

Man, I hope my pool-playing skills quickly resurface.  For as you all know, deer hunting is most definitely not my thing.

 

Bridges, Part Two – The Disconnected Bridge

 

Author’s note: I had fully intended to write and publish this blog entry a week after my first entry in the series. Unfortunately, life got in the way and I have really been struggling with some things lately. Perhaps I will be able to share those struggles in greater detail in an upcoming blog. – Stephen

 

May 2005

It was a warm summery day in early May 2005. The windows were rolled down in my old blue Dodge sedan, and the faded blue headliner, barely held up by safety pins, flapped noisily as the humid summer wind buffeted through the car. I was a man on a mission. As a teenager growing up in the mid-1990s, I remembered reading (along with the rest of my community) with absolute horror of the story of a young couple in their early 20s. This couple had met an untimely demise while stargazing on a rickety old bridge late one summery evening. This couple had become the victims of an evil family who lived in the woods nearby. All these years later, I do not remember the motive, but I do remember the story quite vividly. I remember reading about how the couple had been abducted at gunpoint and taken from the bridge to another location where they were murdered in a double homicide then buried in the backyard. It was such a horrible tragedy that it shook every community within a 60-mile radius of the bridge and as a teenager, it truly opened my eyes for the first time to the evil that humans were capable of. However, that warm summer day, my goal was not to think about the grisly murders, nor was it to visit the site of a crime so grisly that it should have appeared on the “48 Hours” television show. No, my goal was simply to find the remnant of the beautiful old wrought-iron bridge that I had remembered seeing in the newspapers 11 years prior.

Back in those days, Google maps was not even a blip on the radar; in fact, Google was not even a name in the .com industry. These days, one only must type in a landmark, or a place of interest and Google will lead them right to it. Back in those days, we had “MapQuest” and a LaserJet printer that printed pages. So off I set, printed maps in hand, to find the massive old iron structure. Even though MapQuest claimed that the bridge was located less than an hour’s drive from where I lived, I must confess that I made many wrong turns on that day and spent well over an hour just trying to locate the bridge. Finally, I arrived at the bridge and received the shock of my life.

You must understand, the abduction and subsequent murders had taken place 11 years prior to the day that I visited the bridge. The local community was devastated by the sequence of events and had subsequently done everything possible to erase the bridge from their collective memories. At the time that the murders took place, the bridge was still very much open to the public and the country folk who lived in the sparsely populated rule area used the bridge to cross from one side of the river to the other as they traveled between their communities. Following the homicides in the mid-1990s, the road was barricaded to the public, the bridge was condemned, and all the wooden decking except what for remained in the very center of the bridge had been removed.

As my noisy, ever-clattering old Dodge sedan stopped at the barricaded road, I pulled over and ensured that my car was well off the road in a grassy parking area. As I walked down the barricaded road on foot, camera in hand, I was taken by the fact that I was so incredibly isolated. There was literally nothing on that abandoned road aside from the dense forest that bordered both sides of the road. I was truly alone. In some ways, walking down that road alone was symbolic of the way that much of my life had been up until that point. The deafening silence was broken only by the crunch of my shoes as I walked across the disintegrating asphalt. The occasional bird song emitting from the forest served to somewhat lighten up the melancholy and slightly sinister atmosphere. I remember feeling extremely nervous on that day, but I wanted to capture a photograph of the bridge. I was determined not to leave until I had my photographs. Suddenly the abandoned roadway gave way to a sheer drop off, and there it stood before me. It was a magnificent two-span wrought-iron bridge from the turn of the 20^th century. It truly looked like something out of a Gothic horror novel, as vines and kudzu had taken over everything alongside the bridge and had started to take over the structure itself. I got as close as I could and took quite a few photographs that day using the zoom lens on my newly purchased SLR camera.

Disconnected Bridge

With the decking removed, there was no way to walk to the middle of the bridge, as the approaches from either side were totally inaccessible. From what I understood from reading the reports in the newspaper and talking to local people, this had been done to not only prevent vehicular traffic from crossing the bridge but to also strongly discourage any pedestrians from ever walking out on the bridge. The superstructure of the bridge was intact. The amazing ornate ironwork was there. The decking on the middle span of the bridge directly over the river was there. But there was no way to cross the bridge. You were truly disconnected from one side of the river to the other. Unlike the bridge in my first blog post in this series where only my fear kept me from crossing, a lack of physical flooring would keep me from crossing this bridge. This was a much larger bridge. The bridge of my first blog post was a single span camelback through-truss iron bridge as opposed to the bridge in this blog post which was a magnificent two-span through truss bridge. Although humans may have built the bridge many years ago, their abandonment had caused nature to slowly begin the process of reclaiming the bridge for its very own. Indeed, it was not that hard even back in 2005 for one to imagine that nature would completely obliterate the bridge from view within a few years.

Have you ever felt disconnected in a way that made absolutely no sense to you? I felt that way for so many years. My life was disconnected for many years prior to my discovery of Samson. I would dare say that it was even disconnected for my first few years of Samson, as I was not walking the path as I should have been. I am realizing that trauma is a real thing, and so is PTSD. Even if we have endured a lifetime of being told that we are not to feel any emotion nor show any emotion, that emotion is there – within us – swelling to the point where it will someday boil over like an unwatched pot on the stove. Sometimes we don’t even recognize traumatic things in life as being such, but they nonetheless are. Sometimes we have spent so much of our lives being so disconnected, that we are left with no way to truly understand how to begin to bridge that gap – to rebuild the decking of that disconnected bridge.

I remember vividly having a conversation with another Samson guy several years ago. During the course of that conversation, he point-blank told me that he believed I had missed a critical step in childhood while growing up and until I went back and identified and made attempts to recover that critical step, I would never be able to move forward with my life on this side of heaven. A number of years ago, my wife and I were going down to Florida to visit her family one summer. We had stopped to grab a bite to eat, and upon getting back on the interstate, I took the wrong exit ramp. A few minutes into the trip, I started telling my wife that “I believe we have passed these towns before.” She said, “no, I think you’re going the right way.” Now, at that time, I don’t believe that I owned a cell phone that had navigation capabilities as I do these days. Since we had previously made the trip before, we had not felt the need to use a GPS system. But the further that I went, the greater my unease grew. Finally, I pulled over on the side of the highway and grabbed my Garmin GPS out of the glovebox. I powered it on and programmed it with the destination that we were headed to. Sure enough, the Garmin came up and told me to take the next possible U-turn and start going the opposite direction on the interstate. By that time, we had wasted about 40 minutes of our trip, and I remember driving a little faster at that point to make up for the lost time. My wife and I still laugh about that to this day.

Sadly, the critical step that I missed in my own life while growing up cost me far more than a mere 40 minutes. No, that missed step cost me about 25 or 30 years of my life. These past few years have been years of intense self-examination and exploration with the help of my Silas and trying to figure out exactly where I went wrong and where the disconnect in my own life started. It was hard, but I finally over these past few months, wrapped up that self-examination and had my aha moment. I spent much of the years between 2017 and late 2019 unpacking boxes that I had long packed away in the attic of my brain. This was stuff that I did not want to see and stuff that had not seen the light of day for near 30 years. I was left with all of these pieces that I had unpacked; they were lying in front of me and I was in the process of trying to figure out what I needed to do with them and how to reassemble those broken pieces. Then 2020 hit. I know that 2020 was a rough year for every single person alive. For me, it provided the perfect excuse to pack up those pieces and not have to look at them anymore and isolate and withdraw from all in-person meetings. I cannot tell you how damaging that was to all of the hard work I had accomplished over the past few years or what it did to me mentally. Things recently came to a head towards the end of January and I knew that I had to pull those storage boxes back down and begin the process of going through the pieces once more. This time, I was more familiar with the pieces and could identify them more clearly. That is why I was able to have my aha moment recently. I discovered the missing piece of the puzzle from my past, and I knew exactly what damage this missing piece had caused me.

Both my wife and my Silas claim that I spend way too much time living in the past. And they are probably right. Each day, I must wake up and remind myself to count my blessings and to remember that the past doesn’t exist anymore; I live in the here and now, in this very moment. And then I am reminded of how incredibly blessed I am. My Silas told me a few years back after a particularly rough venting session “Stephen, you know how much I love you and I say this in love, but sometimes I wish I could just beat the snot out of you.” Once I had recovered my initial shock, I asked him why in the world he would want to do that. He said, “for one thing, you would be in so much pain in the present that you would forget to remember the past!” When I later told my wife what he had said, she told me “good, I have often wanted to do the same myself!” I suppose that those two were on to something.

Connections are so important in life. They give us cause to live, and they provide a bridge that allows us to move from one area of life to another. Like a solid bridge, they support us as we go over the murky waters of life, giving us a safe passage and allowing us to have a sense of peace. Nearly 30 years later, after discovering Samson and beginning the self-examination process in my own life, I discovered the missing pieces needed to repair the decking of my own derelict bridge. My bridge is a work in progress. Some days are a lot harder than others, and I feel like I am getting nowhere. But other days, I feel like I am so much closer to the other side of that bridge; that, more than anything, gives me hope to continue moving forward. My wife, my friends, my son, my Silas, and my heavenly father are waiting for me on the other side of that lonely bridge, cheering me on and awaiting that day when I can fully bridge the disconnect in my own life. I would love for anyone who wishes to join me on my journey for a while.

One of the recent joys in my life has been to introduce my son to movies that I loved growing up. Last year, we found Benji, you know, the lovable mutt from the 70's and 80's. One night, we were watching a Benji movie from the 80's, and it was one that I don't remember seeing as a kid. The introduction began with a song that nearly moved me to tears, so I looked it up and found it. It goes like this:

So many yesterdays...

haunting my soul today...

Now time is standing still, 

in the tears and the rain

I'll find another spring,

No doubt the birds will sing,

But will never shine, so very bright again...

I had so many yesterdays that haunted me for many years. Maybe you can relate? In a way, I think that we all can. For years, I thought I had missed my chance to shine so very bright. Perhaps I will never shine in the same way I would have once in another lifetime. But there is another spring, and we can find it on the other side of that bridge once it is rebuilt. Someone recently told me that if I hadn't gone through all that I had, I would not be where I am at today. I have to remember that. Everything I went through prepared me for this moment in time to live in the here and the now and to be there for my family in only the way that I can be.

Having taken all of the photographs that I wanted to on that warm summery day in May, I once again climbed into my old trusty blue steed and made a U-turn on the overgrown road that nature was slowly reclaiming. As I slowly drove away, the warm wind hitting my face, I looked into the rearview mirror and bid the bridge goodbye. I have never returned. Unlike other bridges featured in this blog series, that was a place that I never wanted to return to or experience again. Unlike my own bridge in life, that one would never be repaired.

~ S

Bridges - Moving ahead....

 

    Good afternoon, everyone. Stephen here. 

    I realize that I have been missing in action for a while now.  Some seasons of life are just busier than others and navigating the waters of being a husband, father, working full time, and finishing up the last semester of my second Master's Degree has taken a toll on me... in some ways not so good. I have been asked to step up this coming week and post more content, so I would like to invite you to come alongside me for this next stretch of the road during this next week while I share more content on this blog.

    In January, I began a new series titled "Bridges" in which I interweave my love of old historic wrought iron bridges with experiences I've had in life. I meant to continue this series, but as usual, life caught up with me and threw me a curveball. 

    Tomorrow, I look forward to sharing with you, the next entry in the series: "Bridges, Part Two – The Disconnected Bridge"

    Be looking for this next entry tomorrow! Hey, if I say here that I'm going to share it, I actually have to follow through and publish it, right? I need some accountability here!

    In the meantime, I've posted the link for Part One below in case you missed out on reading it the first time.

Bridges - Part One - The Lost Bridge 

See you soon. 

~S