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

 

Heart Of Man

For the second time (last night), I screened this powerful allegory (w/ my virtual Samson Society group).  

The most convicting / provoking aspects within is the commentary provided.  Commentary given by men and women seizing the opportunity / utilizing their (no doubt earned) authority (based on experience) to speak with such conviction.  If you haven't taken the time to screen this film, do yourself a favor.  It is one of a kind.

Unpack It & Grieve (If Appropriate)

Compartmentalization is the process of capturing and subsequently locking away pain.  That container is constructed of a series of emotionally reinforced mental partitions, often hastily and no doubt in reaction to the intensity of the (oft unexpected) situation.  

For experience (life) is like a river that carries you along.  Especially during childhood.  But when you find yourself unexpectedly dejected (or otherwise) like I wrote about a few posts back (Wednesday, 1/5), the most viable reaction at the time may very well be compartmentalization.  For emotional overload is just that.  Overload. 

Please consider this post as a "Part 2".  I'm going to detail how I successfully unpacked my aforementioned childhood swimming pool physical assault experience - over the course of our end-of-2021 vacation week - prior to discussing what I've determined to be the next step (within an inevitable "Part 3" post).

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Unpacking takes strength and visibility of oneself (whilst in relation to what was compartmentalized) relative to both the why and what is compartmentalized.  The strength is what powers the workload, and the visibility of oneself acknowledges your ownership ("You did this.") of what actually got packed away.

What's lovely about the strength component is, as I've found personally, there are opportunities where within certain circumstances, other men can indirectly assist.

And this is where I'm going to descend (go deeper personally).  I'll do my best not to confuse you.

My defectiveness (see "Part 1" post) is centered on me having such a weak, if not completely absent sense of masculinity, therefore whilst relating to certain other guys, I do find myself, at times, leaning into theirs.  But only if I sense that they're respectfully relating to Rob.  

And when I say respectfully, I'm not referring to mannerisms.  That's not it at all.  I'm referring to the root word:  respect. 

Respect:  a feeling of deep admiration for someone or something elicited by their abilities, qualities, or achievements.

Too often, this respect is hinged on their seeing me as a mentor-type friend, but I digress.  It's the respect portion of the relationship that's critical for me to slip past my shame long enough to do some covertly coupled (to them & the situation) internal work.  

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We all have our childhood selves living inside.  In spite of our physical age, they're there.  I believe they can be especially present (during adulthood) as it pertains to a traumatizing childhood event(s).  For Rob, that subconscious boy is who's appeased / entertained when I choose to look at gay porn.  It's his eyes who're satiated with imagery that harken back to teenage lust-filled fantasies.  

Realizing this truth, I have found that one of the best questions to ask of that inner child is "What do you really want?"  

Mine inevitably answers "I want to be pursued by my masculine archetype in order to receive the affirmation that was held back from / escaped me when you (adult Rob) were my age."

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Whilst vacationing last week in Sandestin, I spent a good bit of time in the resort Fitness Center either alone or with the girls.  On the third day of me going about my routine there, there was an older white male patron who was being quite the prick.  His MO (hopefully only during that particular day) was to obnoxiously chide others over his insistence that equipment be thoroughly wiped down (after usage).  He'd stationed himself right in the center of the space, moving back and forth between two benches, all the while eyeing everyone with eagerness as he anticipated antagonistically barking their way.

I remember taking note of a few of the younger clientele simply aborting their workouts in response to his noisy outbursts, though most chose to ignore him (as I did).

This man was well into his 70s or perhaps 80s, and he was going at it like quite the stallion there on the floor.  The decidedly heavy dumbbell free weights, incline barbell machine, and one end of the cable weight rack were his mainstays.  

I stationed myself directly in front of him on an adjustable bench well before even sardonically considering leaning in.  As such, I was simply determined to outlast this geezer, but my cockiness eventually segued to respect.  From there, I found myself pumping iron for far longer than I'd normally commit to.

And yes, after I finally concluded my ad Hoc routine there under his cantankerous eye, I took a moist towelette and did the right thing.  That was my way of subtlety thanking him for garnering my inner boy's respect.

After the fact, I could not remember a time when I'd worked out for as long and with as much fortitude.  In spite of this, I felt renewed and energized.

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The photograph of the two boys wrestling at the bottom of "Part 1" of that post isn't an arbitrary image.  The boy facing the camera is the Minnesotan (older of the two brothers).

From what my inner boy Rob recalls, this athletically built teen looks very similar to and has the same masculine swagger of the teen who physically assaulted him / me as a child.  Yet, other than that, the similarities drop off.  

As you might imagine, it took a number of evenings last week to finally coax my inner boy to come around, but once he did, he leaned into this kindhearted jock no holds barred.  And you should know that I believe wholeheartedly that the nighttime swimming pool setting was God breathed for this opportunity to present itself.  

And oh my goodness, it was such a healing experience for boy Rob / me.  

So what do I mean exactly by leaning in?  Respectfully acknowledging (cross pollination) the attention / respect.  That's the first step.  From there, it's observing very closely who the individual is / how they're engaging - WITH ADULT (IN RECOVERY) ROB EYES.  And that's super important.  Because the last thing I want to happen is to fall back into juvenile lust.

As I'm sure you've figured out, this respectful observational process is where the unpacking occurs.  For as I'm annotating / updating my childhood experiences with these new experiences, I can't help but see my boyhood self gleefully taking part whilst using my adult Rob strength to pull it off.  And no, this doesn't change or blot out my childhood trauma, but I can now at least sit with it out of the box.

  

Throughout all the years that I've had the privilege of being involved in Samson Society, there's been no better lesson learned than how to do this.  For if you could quantify the amount of compartmentalizing I've accomplished, it would amount to the contents of an entire set of 1980s Encyclopedia Britannica's.  Hence, there's a boatload to unpack.  Thanks be to God for the men who've come in and out of my life, who've allowed me to lean in for such a time as that.  I'm no doubt a better, more settled man for it.  

Just Listen to Me, Man!

 Just listen to me, man!

When it comes to my wife’s perception of me as an engaged listener, she often tells me that I do not do a good job of listening to her. I suppose that there might be some truth to that matter. While I feel that I do a decent job of listening to her for the most part, I will admit that there are other times when she’s trying to get my attention in passing and what she is saying to me goes in one ear and out the other. This October marked our 18th year together, and this December will see us arrive at our 14th wedding anniversary. You would think that after all those years that I would have mastered the art of listening well to a woman, but what can I say? I am a work in progress!

My generation has the unique distinction of having grown up in both an analog and digital world. As a child growing up in the 80s, we did not have nearly the number of distractions that today’s children are faced with. There were no iPads, iPods, cell phones, headphones connected to Netflix, or any other number of distractions that demand the attention of today’s children. No, the world was a simpler place, and I am grateful to have grown up in a world that was more analog than it was digital.

Unlike my brother, who buys the latest and greatest iPhone every year, I have never been one to put much stock in buying a fancy, high-priced "fruit flavored" electronic device. No, I typically buy a cheap, carrier unlocked cell phone off Amazon and rock it for two or three years until it either A.) becomes too obsolete to use, B.) the battery dies, or C.) I inadvertently end up breaking it. When I arrive at A, B, or C, I simply get on Amazon and order another cheap cell phone and repeat the cycle all over again. Although my cell phone may be cheap, I still try to take care of it to the best of my ability. Of course, I always keep it ensconced in a good quality case and generally keep a glass screen protector on top of the screen.

A couple of weeks ago, I took the family to the farm for a fun fall day, and while I was there, someone bumped into me which caused me to drop my cell phone as I was taking a picture of my son. When it dropped, the phone fell face down onto a small rock which cracked the glass screen protector. When I got home, I removed the screen protector and discarded it to make sure that the actual screen was still fine. Although I initially thought I had an extra spare screen protector in the closet, it turned out that I did not. So, I promptly got on Amazon and ordered another one only to find out that it would not arrive for five days. Not wanting to risk damaging my “cheap” phone or risk scratching my “cheap phone’s screen,” I decided to forgo taking my phone with me to work for the week, and instead forwarded all calls to the landline in my office. I also forwarded all my texts to my chrome book, also in my office. Over the course of that week, I found that two things magically happened. 

First, I felt liberated! I did not have that little rectangular block sitting on my desk distracting me with its constant blinking, chiming, and buzzing signaling the hundreds of infernal, nefarious notifications that the stupid thing spews forth many times in a day. Instead, if anyone needed to reach me, they could call the phone which would in turn ring the landline, or text me and I would receive the text on my chrome book. It was such a blessed relief.

The second thing that I found happened was that I was a heck of a lot more focused throughout the week. Without a phone lying around constantly tempting me to check it every few minutes, I was so much more productive. I felt free! It was a great week, and I felt that the experiment was a huge success.

Cell phones, for me, have proven to be both a blessing and a curse. Today, we are constantly in touch with everyone around us, but we have also “lost touch” with those who are right in front of us. One of my biggest pet peeves is when people are so distracted and so involved in what’s on that little 5- or 6-inch screen (that I sometimes feel is the spawn of Satan). I remember some years ago when my wife and I were traveling back from Florida one summer. This was in the days before we had a son of our own. We stopped in Hattiesburg and ate at one of our old haunts from our college years, and happily engaged in a wonderful time of reminiscing as we ate our meal. Even before we had a kid, my wife and I always made it a priority to never have electronics at the dinner table. We felt that doing so would distract us from our time together. As we ate our meal that night, we observed the family sitting across from us; it consisted of a mom, dad, and three small children. During the entire meal, the mom and the dad never looked up from their phones one single time. The kids were very animated while trying to get the parent's attention, and the parents promptly proceeded to ignore them for the entire time sans for occasionally telling them to be quiet. The parents did not speak to each other, nor did they speak to any of the three children. I remember leaving the restaurant that night so pissed that two parents would have done that to their children, and I remember telling my wife that if we ever had any children, that we would never behave like that.

Fast-forward and I now have an eight-year-old son who does his best to drive me to drink some days with his incessant talking. But you know what? Dinner time for us is family time and no matter how much I want to veg out sometimes and disengage from everything around me, my wife and I always make dinner family time a priority whether we are eating at home in our kitchen or eating out at a restaurant. We have a family rule of no electronics at the table, and this includes my son as well. We take turns talking and listening to each other. We engage. We give each other our undivided attention.

When I am having a one-on-one discussion with someone such as a conversation over coffee or lunch with someone, I always make it a priority to not have anything in front of me that would potentially distract me from the conversation taking place. If that means leaving my phone in my office or in my car, so be it. Even though my adult ADHD brain sometimes jumps all over the place and my mind may be a million miles away when it actually appears that I’m listening to a person, I am still giving my best effort to be an active, engaged listener!

One of the things that I love about my small Samson group that I have been going to for several years is that each of the guys in the group is a wonderful listener. Or at least...he pretends to be a wonderful listener! We typically don’t have any distractions such as cell phones in front of us, and we each give the others in the group our full and undivided attention when that particular person is speaking. Because of this dynamic, I feel like I am being heard, and therefore I am more likely to be open, transparent, and honest with others within the group. I feel validated, and I feel like my sharing is important and worth something. In turn, I make sure that I am doing my best to listen to each of the other guys in the group; as I said earlier, my ADHD brain sometimes zooms off into the wild blue yonder, but I quickly reign it back in and make sure that my focus returns to where it needs to be: the person sharing in front of me. I remember a particularly disheartening experience that I had early on in another Samson group (that I never felt particularly comfortable in). During my time of sharing on one particular night, there was one gentleman who happened to be sitting right across from me. As he was sitting across from me, I happened to notice that he remained engaged in social media the entire time that I was sharing that night. Now, I could understand if he had received an important text that he needed to respond to, but no, that was not the case. He had his phone face up laying on the table where he proceeded to scroll through his Facebook feed the entire time that I was sharing. I cannot begin to describe how awful I felt that night. Even though it was probably nothing personal against me, it made me feel worthless and not validated, almost as if what I had to share did not matter one bit. From that point forward, every time I saw that man in the room, I clammed up. Sure, I probably shared something, but I can almost guarantee you that it was all superficial and nothing meaningful.

In a previous post, I have briefly talked about my friend from high school and from college who now lives in Nashville with his family. He has been through a lot in life including brain surgery back in 2019. For the most part, he is okay but there are still some ways in which he will never be the same. I was able to see him this past summer when he and his family came to my house for a few days, and he and I were able to go on several adventures together and just hang around like old times and catch up. On the night before he was to depart to head back to Nashville, he and I were sitting in the swing on my front porch just reminiscing about old times and the way things were when we were in high school and in college. I don’t know what it was about that night; perhaps I felt safe in the dusk of the evening with the frogs croaking and the crickets chirping all around me; or, maybe for perhaps the first time in ever, I felt truly safe around my friend. Whatever the case, I opened up to my friend. I mean I really opened up to him. I told him my story. Outwardly, it appeared that he was listening and he was nodding and giving me every indication that he was hearing what I was saying. I don’t know what led to me sharing my story, but I did, and I was trying to help him understand why I was the way that I was in high school and in college – sometimes distant and unable to be a good friend to him. Sharing my story was very painful as it always tends to be, and I could feel the hot tears threatening to spill down my cheeks. As I wrapped up my story, I sat there in silence for a few moments just processing all that I had talked about. Suddenly my friend said, “okay, why don’t we go inside and see what everyone else is doing?” I was absolutely devastated. I mean, after all, I had just finished pouring my heart out to him. I told him to go on inside and I would catch up with him later. Later, I made him aware of what he had done, and he was somewhat apologetic and asked me to re-share my story with him. I refused. I told him that that moment had come and gone.

That was in July, and it is now November. We still keep in touch, but I no longer make the great effort that I once did to ensure that our relationship stays close and our bond strong. If he texts me, I will respond in a very non-committal/disengaged manner. I have purposely been very distant. Yes, I am aware that God requires forgiveness, and I forgave him a long time ago, but it does not mean that the hurt is gone. I am trying to get over it, I really am. Most guys don’t take things as personally as I do, or wear their hearts on their sleeves. Past trauma in my life as well as my story tends to dictate how I react to certain situations a lot of times. I’m getting better; truly, I have worked on myself a lot the last couple of years and I really am in a better place than I have been in a long time. But certain situations still trigger those old feelings of rejection, abandonment, and resentment. I will always love my friend, but I will most likely never share my story with him again. For starters, I don’t think he was able to handle it or process it. Perhaps, he wasn’t even paying attention. And secondly, it’s just not something I feel like I can handle going through again.

I am aware of and I fully understand that there are various levels of transparency in the sharing that takes place between two people (or multiple people). This degree of transparency is largely dependent on how comfortable they are in their relationship with each other. I will leave you with this: whether you are engaged in the midst of a deep conversation with someone or you’re simply having a light-hearted chat about life over a cup of coffee, take the time to really give someone the gift of your undivided attention, and make the effort to really listen to what they have to say. Everyone wants to be heard. Everyone wants to feel like they are worth something and what they have to say matters. Be that person who listens. That person who TRULY listens.

Scars

 

Scars

(Note: all photographs taken by me, many years ago, in my hometown.)

From a young age, I was told that I possessed a knack for penning words onto paper. I must admit that I have always enjoyed writing and expressing my emotions through the written word. Perhaps that is why I went on to obtain both B.A. and M.A. degrees in English Literature and did a stint of teaching on the collegiate level. But like anything else in life, our gifts and skills will quickly become rusty with lack of use. Over the past two years, I have had so many thoughts; thoughts that I both wanted and needed to share, and I have had so many opportunities to pen those thoughts down on paper. Sometimes I did, but most of the time I didn’t. For reasons that I can’t explain, I have failed to write on a regular basis. As a result of this, both my personal blog and my contributions to the Samson blog have been gravely neglected.

Last year, during the height of Covid, I decided that I wanted to start riding a bicycle again so that I could join my young son in riding around our neighborhood. Of course, as was the case with so many other things, there was a nationwide bicycle shortage during the middle of the pandemic in 2020. Although we did eventually find a bicycle for my wife to ride, I could not locate a single men’s bicycle in the style or the size that I wanted. There were simply no bicycles to be found anywhere. About that time, I recalled that I had a derelict old Huffy hybrid bicycle left over from my college days; it had been resting dormant in the corner of my shop for many years. Through the years, my wife had often suggested that I should just get rid of the bike; indeed, she could not understand why I was holding on to a dusty vestige from my college days. But you know, the bike had (and still has) great sentimental value to me as I had taken it with me during my two years in Arizona and had ridden it all through the Grand Canyon National Park. So, I hauled the bike out of the shop and took it to Bicycle Revolution in Gluckstadt where I promptly proceeded to fork over nearly as much to overhaul the old wreck as I would have paid for a brand-new low-end bicycle. Getting back on that bike was like reuniting with a familiar friend; our reunion was a little rusty at first, a little wobbly, and we were both a little uncertain of what to do with each other for the first few moments. However, I quickly got up to speed and soon it was like we had never been apart.

Or perhaps, rediscovering my love for writing will be more along the lines of opening a door or a window that has not been opened for many years. You know, when you first open that door or maybe the window, it will most likely refuse to open all the way might even make a terrible racket while trying to be persuaded. But the more you open it and close it (and maybe apply a little oil to it), it becomes smoother and easier to operate. This blog post is a “quasi-attempt” of sorts to re-launch my writing. A re-oiling of a squeaky and rusty mind if you will.

Fall has always been my most favorite time of the year. I can most likely attribute this love of autumn to the fact that I started my very first revolution around the sun on September 1, (I was born a Labor Day baby many moons ago) and I was destined to be welcomed into the open arms of fall. In any case, the arrival of my birth month always fills me with eager longing for what I consider to be the most magical time of the year. As the blazing summer sun slowly loses its brutal radiance and begins to give way to the cooler autumnal wind, my soul instinctively begins to enter into a more reflective season of life.

I have had, for many years now, the great privilege of working for a small, private university. From an aesthetical standpoint, I would argue that the campus possesses a timeless beauty carefully honed by the generations of people who have lovingly cared for it; in any case, it just feels like home after being here for so many years. I often enjoy slipping away on my afternoon break or during the latter part of my lunchtime, and simply taking a leisurely stroll around the campus. I am a natural-born people watcher, and I love to observe people. Although I am not a shopper and I have not been to an indoor mall in ages, I used to love to go with my family and just sit on the bench in the middle of the mall and watch people pass by while my family shopped. I love to watch the interactions between people and imagine who they are and what they are in life. Similarly, I will sometimes simply sit down on the bench in the middle of campus and observe the students rushing to class, oblivious to anything or anyone around them.  Sometimes when the students aren’t so rushed, I enjoy watching their interactions with one another as they pass by. Occasionally, I will take note of the lone individual lost in their own ruminations while taking a lonely, singular stroll.

As the air begins to get crisper and the trees begin to shed their leaves, I observe the piles of red and gold leaves that scatter the landscape. In my head, the late, great Eva Cassidy’s voice begins to sing as I think of my favorite song sung by her – Autumn Leaves. “The autumn leaves drift by my window, the falling leaves of red and gold...”

Absentmindedly, I stop to pick up one of the leaves and I slowly rub it between my fingers, noting the beautiful texture somewhat mottled by spots of brown. I stop to pick up another one. Curiously, I hold them side-by-side and observe that they are both unique and quite different from each other. No two leaves are ever alike. Just like humans, the leaves have tiny veins that give them life, and these veins create a web pattern that is intricately designed and belongs only to that leaf.

As I hold the leaves in the palm of my hand, my attention turns to my skin, which having completed its 40^th orbit around the sun some time ago, is starting to look less youthful than it once did. Subconsciously, I stroke the scar on the palm of my left hand. It is a tiny and nearly invisible mark born of a brief run-in with a box blade knife while on the job during my years in Arizona. I remember that day, having to get stitches in that hand because the gash was quite deep and painful. I remember that even worse than having to get stitches was the humiliation of being required to take a drug test because the accident happened while at work. Of course, it goes without saying, that I was able to pass the drug test (as I always have) with flying colors. No, the scar was a result of my own stupidity and carelessness and not the result of some drug-induced stupor.

As my gaze moves up from my palm to my left forearm, I note the faint, yet still, visible scar marring my skin. Fondly, I think back to a childhood puppy, who in a moment of overexuberant puppy playfulness, got a tad bit rough with the nips from her sharp puppy teeth and broke the young, tender skin on my seven or eight-year-old body. As I look around on my arms and my hands, I realized that there are other, smallish scars that are barely visible, but nonetheless still there. I can’t even recall how I got most of them. Some of them, like that scar on the palm of my hand, bear testimony to more significant events in my life. Other smaller scars, however, don’t have any significant event associated with them. Yet they still tell the story of a well-lived life.

As I continue my walk, I think about other scars on my body. These scars are hidden for the most part and are less outwardly prominent. They are hidden. That doesn’t mean the events associated with them were any less painful. Hidden or not, they still tell a part of my story. Reflexively, my hand begins to gently stroke my abdomen as I think about the 7-inch scar that runs from the lower part of my chest to below my navel. I recall the day that it happened. I think about how even though God saved my life at that point, the extremely painful months that followed made me wish he hadn’t. In fact, I still suffer from issues to this day related to the emergency surgery that caused that scar. I am not ashamed of that scar; I will unabashedly take my shirt off when I go swimming with my son in the summertime. If anyone ever notices, they certainly don’t ask me about it, but I would never hesitate to talk about it if they were to ask.

For some reason, a certain percentage of the male population seems to think that scars are really cool. I am not included in that percentage. I remember that upon my arrival back at work two weeks after my emergency surgery, one particularly outspoken and bold male student worker (who was a good guy nonetheless) asked me “so, Mr. Coleman, do you have a scar?” I responded with “Yes, Tyler, I have a very large scar.” Tyler then proceeded to let me know that my having a scar was “so cool” and that “chicks [apparently] really dig scars!” Even though Mr. Coleman did not think it was “cool” at the time, I politely smiled and told him “I’m glad you think so, Tyler! For the record, I am married, and my wife doesn’t really dig it!” Fortunately, Tyler did not ask me to show him the scar in question, as that would not have been appropriate in a professional work environment!

Other scars are metaphorical in nature; these are scars that live deep within our psyche or deep within the confines of our hearts. I never really stopped to think about how each of us has emotional scars, but it’s so true. Even if one has lived the most incredibly perfect life, I would daresay that each person has at least one thing that is scaring them below the surface. I never really gave much thought about that in my own life, but those scars are there, nonetheless. They were just so glossed over that I had almost forgotten that they existed. The last six or seven years in Samson have taught me to be more introspective and to carefully examine myself deep down into corners that I would much rather forget about. All this introspection has re-exposed wounds that the scars had covered up for so many years. And that is not cool at all. Or so I thought. And unlike my abdominal scar that I have no problem displaying during the summer months, no one is ever allowed to see those hidden scars.

Sometimes, I feel that it would have been much easier to have gone through life making myself believe that everything was okay; in fact, I know that it would have been easier. But then I wonder: where would I be today? Would God be able to use me in the same way that he has in the past few years? Only a couple of people, maybe a handful, within Samson know me and know the scars that I bear. Of that handful, maybe one or maybe two know the extent of and the depth of pain that still haunts me to this day. No one at my church does. And that is a painful cross that I bear each week. It is a sore subject and just might be the topic of a future Samson blog.

Scars cover wounds. They block pain. Within the first few weeks after my surgery in 2015, I got a terrible wound infection. My body could not begin the healing process until that wound was addressed and treated. The scar couldn’t form. The staples couldn’t be pulled. How many people have wounds inside that have never been addressed and treated? My scars inside are new, born of very old wounds that have finally started to heal over the last decade.

I don’t think scars ever go away. In fact, I know that most of them don’t. My 33-year-old scar still exists to remind me of a long-gone but playful puppy. It is a memory. A moment in time. A month and a half after my surgery in 2015, I visited with the surgeon’s nurse where she proceeded to pull the 48 Staples out of my incision with a pair of surgical pliers. Surprisingly, it didn’t even hurt all that much. Perhaps it was because the scar tissue blocked the nerves from sending the pain signal to my body.

I remember meeting with my surgeon a few months after my surgery for a follow-up, postop visit. As I met with the surgeon that day, I thanked him for saving my life and told him what a blessing he had been. I then asked him if my scar would ever go away. He said no, son, I don’t think so. With you being such a fair-skinned white boy, I think that your scar will always be quite visible. And it is. Even though that happened back in 2015, I see it every day when I wake up and get dressed. I see it when I take a shower. I see it when I go swimming in the lake with my son in the summertime. Even though I sometimes want to be resentful of that ugly mark, God tells me that I am to be thankful. Thankful for my scars. And so, I am. For me, that scar is a beautiful sign of God’s grace and mercy in my life. It is a sign that he was not finished with me at that time. It is a mark on the roadmap of my life. I am sometimes tempted to be resentful of my eternal scars as well. But I am learning to instead be grateful.

I will have to admit, that I have not always looked at my inward scars as something beautiful. Most days I still struggle to accept them. As Natalie Grant sings:

“I see shattered

You see whole

I see broken

But You see beautiful

And You're helping me to believe

You're restoring me piece by piece”

 

Even if I still find those internal scars painful, God still honors them and uses them, and he is helping me to believe that he is restoring me piece by piece. One day, the scars will be gone. Both the outwardly visible, and the internally invisible scars will be gone. I will sit down, wrapped in the arms of my savior, on a bench bathed in golden sunlight somewhere in a new creation. I will look at my hands and look at my arms and they will be completely unblemished. The scars will be no more.

I still have pain every day. These days, the physical pain is not as bad as it used to be, but the emotional pain will never go away. I have learned to accept that I just have to keep on pressing forward and rising to face each new day. The scars will always be there. But they don’t define me as much as they used to.

I slowly rise from the cool metal bench where I have been sitting alone, having taken a brief pause from my walk. I daresay I can detect a hint of the winter wind somewhere far off in the air. As I continue with my walk and begin to make my way back towards my office, I drop the two leaves that I have been holding in my hands. As I watch them drift slowly to the ground; they flutter about in a fantastical dance orchestrated by mother nature. They fall, destined to join the hundreds of other leaves littering the landscape. Suddenly, a wind blows, a breath blowing life into the leaves, and they begin to rise from the ground and swirl all around me. Oranges, reds, and golds all mix brilliantly into a fall kaleidoscope. As the wind begins to pick up steam, the leaves swirl faster and faster all around me. Big leaves and little leaves are all inter-mixed, yet each is unique and different in its own way. Little veins, little marks, little scars of sorts; each leaf is unique and created individually by the creator’s hand. The older I get, the faster life seems to move, much like the leaves swirling around me. Big people, little people, old people, young people all quickly moving around me and all carrying their own scars. Each has a story; perhaps, it is a story that we can learn from if we only take the time. 

“What was dead now lives again

My heart's beating, beating inside my chest

Oh I'm coming alive with joy and destiny

'Cause You're restoring me piece by piece”