Glory! How blessed I am that where I last left off is not the rest of the story. How incredibly thankful I am that the redemption and restoration of the crucified, resurrected and ascended Lover of my soul is having the last word! Not to go off like some raving evangelical religious guy, but Praise God he has some more for me!
I have told of the day I was shaving and got smitten with this delayed conviction of what I had unleashed. That was nothing less than the day that Jesus waded into my fetid swamp, knocked me out, slung me over his shoulder and started to carry me on the journey out. And a short journey it was not....
So much of those days during the two-year separation and following the divorce are like lost time. The healing and recovery that was underway was way too imperceptible to bring any kind of visceral relief. No, the noise and chaos of just trying to survive, keep my job, find a way to continue to be a father to my precious daughters and not drown in the dark tank of depression that dogged me resulted in an overall numbness that defied description.
Initially my struggles were to find housing that would be appropriate to bring my girls into for weekends together. That took a while. In one twelve month span, I moved at least eight times, sometimes in places that were safe for two girls aged 6 and 7, other times not so much.
For instance, there was the "season" I moved into one of those "rooms for rent" within a private home. Sounded good, scoped out the place in a drive by...nice, suburban split level in Maplewood. Met the lady, toured the place and signed up. Things got decidedly more dicey, however, within days of move in. When I would go down to watch TV in the communal family room there was always a cast of unsavory characters that would seem to perpetually be there and others that would endlessly drop by with their Dobermans. A normal evening was like a clip from one of those Discovery channel programs: "Inside Folsom Prison". I noticed, in checking for my mail, that the pile almost always had a number of envelopes addressed to a wide variety of people with return addresses like: State Dept. of Corrections, Parole Office, Ramsey County Courthouse etc. So much for bringing my girls over....I lived there for three weeks, broke my rental agreement and literally backed out of the house with my paltry belongings and their vicious threats that I would not be getting away with this.
Fortunately, things did eventually start to get better. After living in a friend's apartment that was paid up for five more weeks, trying another "rental in a private home" deal, house sitting out in Afton for the winter, I eventually got an apartment in the ghetto of Woodbury (yes, despite it's well-known affluence, there is one and if you come with me I will show you). This was my new base camp which provided some welcomed stability and a home near my girls that would accommodate frequent visits. Those frequent visits were a major thumbprint of God's redemptive work in my circumstances.
The two years leading up to our marriage dissolution could not have been more acrimonious. For a time, it seriously appeared as though the girl's mother would be taking them and moving back to her hometown in Idaho. I had absolutely no recourse in the matter. Those were the darkest of days, anticipating that separation, feeling helpless to prevent it and getting schooled in the non-rights of fathers in such situations. (Source of some frustration: How do the courts expect to foster fathering in children's lives when all that is most commonly offered is "visitation rights".....how do you effectively parent with just "visitation" rights?) I began to gain some understanding of what must sometimes be behind some of the abductions we endlessly hear/read about. Yet, very soon after signing the final papers things started to turn decidedly less caustic. It was as if a major point had been made, some justice had been served, a penalty had been exacted and now there was room for the entrance of at least minimum levels of cordiality and some additonal leeway in making more accommodating visitation arrangements.
Now living within 14 miles of the girls, every other weekend began to morph into the addition of 1 or 2 weeknights as well. I would drive the girls to their schools the next morning. This felt so good, to be more dynamically in J&J's everyday life. Those were the days learning the rules of Mom's House, Dad's House (a book that was helpful at the time). My highest priority was my daughters. The end of our marriage was the beginning of me becoming an infinitely more dedicated father. Within a couple of years, I was able to buy a townhouse in Woodbury which offered even greater feelings of permanency and increased stability.
Every other weekend and a couple of weeknights with my kids gave me hope that perhaps I could protect them from the worst effects of "a broken home". I heard myself often saying, "You have a full time Mom who loves you and a full time Dad who loves you, just not under the same roof". Sounds better than it really is, kind of skirts around and ignores the true impact of it all but certainly a distant consolation prize. To this day(and with no thoughts of ever stopping), I continue to be concerned and vigilant for the fallout of this trauma upon their fragile lives. (It's just that now, at 23 and 24, they are outside of so much of my grasp but for prayer, thank you God for prayer!)
Meanwhile, I spent post traumatic years in a charismatic Lutheran church (now there's a juxtaposition for ya', kind of like the Lord slipped the Scandinavians a spiritual mickey) that many had come to over the years to find a place of healing. But healing did not come quickly...I spent more than a year merely attending the "blue haired ladies service" doing little more than just staring at the cross and trying to hear from God. I made no effort to meet anyone or to participate...I simply came to present myself to God and pray for forgiveness and for my girls. After several years, I tentatively stepped out and became involved in altar prayer and some men's ministries. And then, five years ago, my time at that church came to an abrupt end, not by my efforts but through direct intervention from Kingdom emissaries. The time came when I couldn't get one thing from a service, it was as if the church had turned to brass for me, even though everyone else seemed to be having no problems. Every inquiry of mine to Jesus was met simply with "Your time here is over", but with no direction for any alternative/Plan B.
Which more or less brings me to the present. After coming to WH as a casual visitor a couple of times (because my girls were going there and liked it) I ended up discovering that this was to become my new church body. And over the last five years there has been a marked crescendoing of healing, outfitting for ministry, clarity of identity and generally growing a bit more comfortable in my own skin. I expect I have returned to where I could have been some 15 or 20 years ago if I hadn't taken some very wrong turns.
Describing all this has been pure work. As a rookie in blogging (twelve posts and counting), I have experienced some deep satisfaction and even some fun in birthing some posts. This has not been like that but still seemed necessary. I liken it to those corporate websites that always have little sections you can click on like Product, Contact, About Us. Yes, this has been About Me, it provides some background and some historical perspective on who I am today and how I got here. Tentatively, I plan on coming back to post about....ahhh, never mind.... This 500'Flyby has nothing to do with my plans. I just hope to be back soon with more of who knows what.
James, you have worked hard...come over here and rest under the Big Pine...cease striving and know that I am your Lord and go before you in all you do.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Who's your worst enemy?
(WARNING: NOT TO BE READ WHILE EATING)
I guess my intent is not to spend the next umpteen posts telling endless stories of wounds incurred in the war zone of life. No one gets through life without taking hits, no one. And really, it's not the hits themselves that impact one's life so much...it's the message of the wound that has the lasting power. It's the vows we make around the wound, often in the interests of self-protection to avoid future repeats. We also make agreements with ourselves fueled by anger, hatred, utter terror and a host of other stout emotions in the aftermath of woundings that drive us to make those "I will never again", "From now on, whenever....", "I can see that I'm not....", "My life will always/never be...." etc, etc, painfully etc.
But for me to go on in this blog-o-mine requires me to take an unpleasant tour through the worst wound of all. Yes that one, the "mother of all wounds". To say that I have not been looking forward to this is the mother of all understatements. Matter of fact, I am tapping out this post mere days after my last one which, for me, is an unusually short interim. Why? Because today, my birthday, in my devotion time I felt the Lord release me to go and at least start this dreaded post. The picture that describes my angst about this comes from when I was a tyke and was sick to my stomach. My Mom would keep telling me that I needed to just throw up and get it over with. Well, I hated that process so much that I would put it off and put it off until finally (mercifully) nature just had it's way and I went through the brief trauma but gained relief as a result. So, excuse me in advance, I have to throw up....!
From where I sit, the worst wounds of all are the self-inflicted ones. After all, those coming from other people and other sources normally just couldn't be avoided. We get hit, we reel, hopefully we heal well and we move on. But those heart gashes we brutally slice on our own are a diabolical self-betrayal, a turning of our self against our self. Where do you turn when you can't trust yourself to do right by you? What can be worse than becoming your own worst enemy? How are you supposed to get up in the morning of a new day and look forward to a day of blessing when you yourself have become the enemy camp?
OK Santiago, approach the white porcelain confessional and get it out! It was the late 80's, I was married and Jessica and Jenna were (and are) the most precious daughters on the face of this earth. Trust me, this is a true statement!! They would and still do melt my heart and send me quickly to my knees in both gratefulness for getting to be their dad and for protection and blessing upon their lives. I was at the time a troubled man. Having made Jesus my Lord May 19, 1975, married in October of 1977, we had gone 7 or 8 years to a great church that ultimately fell completely apart. A couple years of co-pastoring a home church and I was fast taking on water as my ship headed for the dangerous rocks and ultimate shipwreck. I was in a position of power in my career, had a VP title, company car, successful....
However, at home I was esteemed not. I just couldn't seem to please or get it right and domestically it was a continual eggshell walk.(Caveat: I blame no one but myself for this wounding. I take full responsibility for my actions and I am 110% accountable. No part of this post is meant to be offered as an excuse or even a viable or understandable explanation. All that follows is nothing but the reaping of a black harvest from black seeds regretfully sown by me.) A typical weekend took the form of me saying or doing something offensive on Friday which precipitated a long lasting anger response that would tank most weekends.
In stark contrast, at work I was kind of 'the man'. I had been instrumental in rolling out a particular program that was dramatically turning around our companies financial picture. I was getting lots of kudos, I was in demand for the 'work hard, play hard' after work get-togethers at the local 494 clubs. Oh at first I resisted mightily. As a believer, that wasn't for me. But the erosion of this position went pretty fast and within several months of saying no, one night I went. I was virtually an instant hit and was crowned king of the party and expected to become a permanent fixture by my peers. And what about those work peers? How dangerous can the group become with whom you spend, at that time, 50 hours a week? They become not only like a family...they can become in some ways even closer as you share all the emotional ups and downs of fast-paced business dealings. Fox hole buddies.....
Well, you have undoubtedly seen this coming....
I also found myself getting lots of attention from some of the females at work. After work there was no shortage of letting down your hair and dancing and laughing. I am ashamed, eternally regretful to have to confess that I succumbed. I let it happen. No need here for gory, tabloid-quality details. Suffice it to say that I did adulterous things with several women. No affairs with any of them, never slept with any of them but, regardless, I did adulterous things that would not stand the light of day much less the light of the Truth. I betrayed my wife, my daughters and myself. I may as well have plunged a cold blade of steel into their hearts and into mine. I ripped asunder, shredded, the gossamer fabric of trust.
This ilicit behavior occurred within a 6-8 mos time frame. That time passed and life went on for about a year and I lived with basically little to no conviction of wrongdoing. I realize this sounds all wrong and sick but this delayed reaction to my sin was how it actually happened. One morning I was shaving, seeing myself in the mirror and it's like a light bulb snapped on inside me and I was overwhelmed with "Oh my God, what have I done? Who have I become" (I am now very sick about regurgitating this horror. I intend to make a final dash to the end so pardon any abruptness.)
Suffice it to say that eventually I ended up confessing the truth. Oh, not in a brave way...no, I have no credit coming. It was pulled out of me bit by bit by someone who, (bless her heart this is a talent of hers, not a weakness), could make a KGB agent look like a rank amateur. Finally it was all out, I lived in the house for a little while longer but that soon came to an end. We were separated for 2 yrs, there were several aborted attempts at reconciliation/restoration. But I had betrayed someone who Meyers-Briggs described as being closest in makeup to the historical character of Joan of Arc. What followed were 2 of the darkest, most depressing, lost years of my life and I owe it all to me and the enemy who must grin even now as it is retold.
We were officially divorced July of 1992. I will not be like one of those Hollywood characters who, on their death bed, report that they have no regrets. I have many and my heart is full of scars. I say this not to eilicit sympathy, that would be ludicrous. No, only to set the record straight on what was the source of the worst of my wounds...it was me.
Yes, there is restoration to be discussed. But, as before, I am going to leave this stinking mass of putrid slop just lie there. My South African friends, Dean and Lorna, have offered their hot sun and so yes, I put it out under that scorching, African sun for now to quiver along with the other arrows.
J, if you ever come across this I can only say once again how very sorry I am for all that I brought down on you. Know that it has exacted much of my life from me and to this day I walk with a limp.....not that that would bring any consolation.)
Happy Birthday Hoppy
I guess my intent is not to spend the next umpteen posts telling endless stories of wounds incurred in the war zone of life. No one gets through life without taking hits, no one. And really, it's not the hits themselves that impact one's life so much...it's the message of the wound that has the lasting power. It's the vows we make around the wound, often in the interests of self-protection to avoid future repeats. We also make agreements with ourselves fueled by anger, hatred, utter terror and a host of other stout emotions in the aftermath of woundings that drive us to make those "I will never again", "From now on, whenever....", "I can see that I'm not....", "My life will always/never be...." etc, etc, painfully etc.
But for me to go on in this blog-o-mine requires me to take an unpleasant tour through the worst wound of all. Yes that one, the "mother of all wounds". To say that I have not been looking forward to this is the mother of all understatements. Matter of fact, I am tapping out this post mere days after my last one which, for me, is an unusually short interim. Why? Because today, my birthday, in my devotion time I felt the Lord release me to go and at least start this dreaded post. The picture that describes my angst about this comes from when I was a tyke and was sick to my stomach. My Mom would keep telling me that I needed to just throw up and get it over with. Well, I hated that process so much that I would put it off and put it off until finally (mercifully) nature just had it's way and I went through the brief trauma but gained relief as a result. So, excuse me in advance, I have to throw up....!
From where I sit, the worst wounds of all are the self-inflicted ones. After all, those coming from other people and other sources normally just couldn't be avoided. We get hit, we reel, hopefully we heal well and we move on. But those heart gashes we brutally slice on our own are a diabolical self-betrayal, a turning of our self against our self. Where do you turn when you can't trust yourself to do right by you? What can be worse than becoming your own worst enemy? How are you supposed to get up in the morning of a new day and look forward to a day of blessing when you yourself have become the enemy camp?
OK Santiago, approach the white porcelain confessional and get it out! It was the late 80's, I was married and Jessica and Jenna were (and are) the most precious daughters on the face of this earth. Trust me, this is a true statement!! They would and still do melt my heart and send me quickly to my knees in both gratefulness for getting to be their dad and for protection and blessing upon their lives. I was at the time a troubled man. Having made Jesus my Lord May 19, 1975, married in October of 1977, we had gone 7 or 8 years to a great church that ultimately fell completely apart. A couple years of co-pastoring a home church and I was fast taking on water as my ship headed for the dangerous rocks and ultimate shipwreck. I was in a position of power in my career, had a VP title, company car, successful....
However, at home I was esteemed not. I just couldn't seem to please or get it right and domestically it was a continual eggshell walk.(Caveat: I blame no one but myself for this wounding. I take full responsibility for my actions and I am 110% accountable. No part of this post is meant to be offered as an excuse or even a viable or understandable explanation. All that follows is nothing but the reaping of a black harvest from black seeds regretfully sown by me.) A typical weekend took the form of me saying or doing something offensive on Friday which precipitated a long lasting anger response that would tank most weekends.
In stark contrast, at work I was kind of 'the man'. I had been instrumental in rolling out a particular program that was dramatically turning around our companies financial picture. I was getting lots of kudos, I was in demand for the 'work hard, play hard' after work get-togethers at the local 494 clubs. Oh at first I resisted mightily. As a believer, that wasn't for me. But the erosion of this position went pretty fast and within several months of saying no, one night I went. I was virtually an instant hit and was crowned king of the party and expected to become a permanent fixture by my peers. And what about those work peers? How dangerous can the group become with whom you spend, at that time, 50 hours a week? They become not only like a family...they can become in some ways even closer as you share all the emotional ups and downs of fast-paced business dealings. Fox hole buddies.....
Well, you have undoubtedly seen this coming....
I also found myself getting lots of attention from some of the females at work. After work there was no shortage of letting down your hair and dancing and laughing. I am ashamed, eternally regretful to have to confess that I succumbed. I let it happen. No need here for gory, tabloid-quality details. Suffice it to say that I did adulterous things with several women. No affairs with any of them, never slept with any of them but, regardless, I did adulterous things that would not stand the light of day much less the light of the Truth. I betrayed my wife, my daughters and myself. I may as well have plunged a cold blade of steel into their hearts and into mine. I ripped asunder, shredded, the gossamer fabric of trust.
This ilicit behavior occurred within a 6-8 mos time frame. That time passed and life went on for about a year and I lived with basically little to no conviction of wrongdoing. I realize this sounds all wrong and sick but this delayed reaction to my sin was how it actually happened. One morning I was shaving, seeing myself in the mirror and it's like a light bulb snapped on inside me and I was overwhelmed with "Oh my God, what have I done? Who have I become" (I am now very sick about regurgitating this horror. I intend to make a final dash to the end so pardon any abruptness.)
Suffice it to say that eventually I ended up confessing the truth. Oh, not in a brave way...no, I have no credit coming. It was pulled out of me bit by bit by someone who, (bless her heart this is a talent of hers, not a weakness), could make a KGB agent look like a rank amateur. Finally it was all out, I lived in the house for a little while longer but that soon came to an end. We were separated for 2 yrs, there were several aborted attempts at reconciliation/restoration. But I had betrayed someone who Meyers-Briggs described as being closest in makeup to the historical character of Joan of Arc. What followed were 2 of the darkest, most depressing, lost years of my life and I owe it all to me and the enemy who must grin even now as it is retold.
We were officially divorced July of 1992. I will not be like one of those Hollywood characters who, on their death bed, report that they have no regrets. I have many and my heart is full of scars. I say this not to eilicit sympathy, that would be ludicrous. No, only to set the record straight on what was the source of the worst of my wounds...it was me.
Yes, there is restoration to be discussed. But, as before, I am going to leave this stinking mass of putrid slop just lie there. My South African friends, Dean and Lorna, have offered their hot sun and so yes, I put it out under that scorching, African sun for now to quiver along with the other arrows.
J, if you ever come across this I can only say once again how very sorry I am for all that I brought down on you. Know that it has exacted much of my life from me and to this day I walk with a limp.....not that that would bring any consolation.)
Happy Birthday Hoppy
Saturday, April 12, 2008
A tale of Two Scenes
One of the more liberating things over the last 5 or so years of my life has been to be honest and acknowledge my woundedness and to revisit various crime scenes in my life. I grieve a bit over how long this has taken me but am thankful that it has arrived nonetheless.
I wonder, Why so long? You know, I write that off in part to the craziness of how I have done maleness. It has been shaped by lots of things...mainly by my unique, learned biases along with my interpretations and homemade remedies to life's events. (Caveat: Of course, my journey as a guy is certainly not going to be universally applicable to all men. Today's blog is simply submitted as a hunk of catharsis intended for me and my life processing).
Never let them see you sweat! I confess that has been operative in my life, born out of the fierce competition on/in fields, rinks, classrooms, social mazes and the ultimate battleground of corporate America. Oh yes, no chink must be shown less you provide an advantage for the many opponents, visible and invisible, that are ever close by.
For whatever reason, that bucket is done carrying water for me. Maybe the timing of this recalibration is just part of getting physically older or gaining more spiritual maturity or just the effect of a lifetime of loving Cheetos...I don't know and for now it's not pertinent.
There are two scenes that I am going to drag out of closeted darkness and into the searing white light of day and fresh perspective. (Passing observation: Although willing to do this, I'm aware of a significant level of hesitancy at actually doing so.)
MURDER BY KETCHUP:
I was about 11 and we were on a family summer vacation heading up to Duluth and the North Shore. Very exciting for me, loved it up there with all the rock climbing a boy could want, the mystery of the largest freshwater lake in the entire world, the fancy white tablecloths of the Pickwick and their delectable, hot, Popovers and the funky little cabins of the North Shore low-tech "resorts". It was heaven I tell you!
We were riding in my Dad's shiny new 1957 Chevy with 3 on the tree and a Blueflame 6 banger power plant. Man he was proud of that car! Turns out it was the first brand new car he had ever purchased thus his pride was so very understandable. I still remember that on these kinds of vacations, my Mom would always seem to get my brother (4yrs younger) and me brand new bluejeans. They were the dark blue variety which, I believe, were really the only style around then. The main reason I think of those jeans is how incredibly stiff and uncomfortable they were. Like strapping two planks on your legs complete with that scratchy unbroken-in denim to boot. They also invariably were too long and I ended up with 4" or 5" cuffs which would eventually fill with acorns, twigs and other assorted detritus. But I digress on this Levis rabbit trail.....
So we pull into a little drive-in along Hwy 61, the only real route then available up North (way pre-35W). Ah yes, time for an all-American lunch of burgers and fries, the best meal ever invented in my 11 year estimation. At last the carhop brings the tray, connects it to the partially rolled-up driver's side door window and Dad distributes the goods. But then things turned decidedly ugly....
My brother and I sat in the back and started fighting over who got to use the red plastic squeeze bottle of ketchup first. In the ensuing battle we squeezed the bottle hard and ketchup squirted all over the ceiling and seats of this brand spanking new 1957 Chevy. My Dad went directly over the edge into a rage that had to have been pent up over a million things for a very long time because when it was released it rivaled the fierceness of Vesuvius!
He grabbed the ketchup bottle from us, shook for a second with unbridled anger and then proceeded to point the bottle at me while unloading it's entire contents all over my face, my chest, my arms.... In addition to the ketchup it was the hatred in his eyes that ultimately devastated me to my core. My reaction of hurt and unbelief quickly turned to anger. I bolted out of the car, dripping with ketchup, eyes stinging from tomatoes and tears, and headed out to Hwy 61 to walk the 60 or 70 miles home. Eventually, Dad pulled up alongside of my determined, angry walk down the shoulder of the road yelling at me to get back into the #^%$&% car! I ignored him totally and set my eyes like flint toward the south and away from my murderer. I was determined and intended to never get back into that car again! I had been shot and killed by my own Dad!
ORDER OF THE ARROW:
I loved Boy Scouts, especially the camping. Summers always included a number of weekend camping trips to Willow River, Rum River and O'Brien State Park complete with tinfoil dinners, campfires, hikes and scary stories at night. But the mother of all camping experiences was Camp Tomahawk. One full week of camping bliss with aquatic merit badge opportunities, freedom, the great food of the dining hall, freedom, all kinds of contests and sleeping in big tents with cots. Man it was the Ritz!
Every year the week culminated with a sacred Indian-type bonfire ceremony. The counselors morphed into Indian braves with bare chests, leather loin clothes, moccasins and war paint. This was guaranteed to get the heart of any 1950's-era boy racing.
The ultimate moment came at these culminating ceremonies where the "braves" would go into the audience (seated on logs circling the 10' high fire), roughly grab a scout and forceably drag him from the crowd and throw him to the ground by the fire. This would be repeated several times until there were maybe 15-20 guys. They would then be solemnly initiated into the Order of the Arrow as part of an elite team of scouts who had been secretly elected by their peers. The evening would end with those new initiates being loaded into trucks, taken out deep into the woods and one by one, thrown off into the mosquito-infested forest to spend the night alone with no food, water or flashlight. Then, the next day, they would be assigned to work on very difficult projects out in the hot sun under a covenant of complete silence. I tell ya, that was legendary stuff, highly esteemed and I could only dream that one day that could be me.
Well, one year it appeared that my time had finally arrived. After the secret ballots were counted, I had several of my 'insider' buddies tell me that I was the guy and this was my year! That night at the sacred ceremony my heart was racing with the anticipation of being dragged down to the fire, made to kneel, then being hit hard on each shoulder with the 'sacred stick' and whisked away into the inky darkness, alone in the woods. Me, about to become part of the lore I had observed over the years. Fantastic!
In waded the braves with their angry demeanor looking for the anointed ones. More and more boys were grabbed as I waited with baited breath. And then that part of the ceremony was over and I was still sitting on my log, unidentified and uninitiated. Subsequent tries at joining the group at the trucks were sharply rebuffed..."You must have already been intitiated at the fire in order to proceed on the journey...no exceptions! And all because of a scoutmaster who didn't understand that it was his job to stand up behind the elected boy and point him out to the roving braves. An opportunity for masculine initiation forever lost....
Of course there is vulnerability that comes along with throwing out two such examples of wounds in my life. I can just hear that accuser in my mind:
"You call those wounds? Hell, that ain't nothin'. What a pussy!"
And to those voices I say just 4 words, 3 of which are printable "Shut the @&$% up!"
Somebody else may have experienced these very things and it may well have run off like water off the proverbial duck's back. For me, they carried messages that I accommodated. I believed their lies wholeheartedly. I swallowed their poison. These combined with other woundings and ministered this to me....
"You were a pain to your Dad. You were nothing special and you certainly don't have what it takes. Things available to other guys aren't going to be for you. Your yearning for initiation and inclusion into the fellowship of men is just not meant to be. You will perpetually be a day late and a dollar short. You have been weighed and found lacking in worth. Best you can do is just fake it cause you sure don't have it. Good luck Bub, you're going to need it!"
Allow me to speak of healing and resolution another time...for now I'm just going to pluck out some arrows that found their mark and leave them to quiver in the heat of the noonday sun.
You didn't really see this kind of blog comin' did you Santiago? Couldn't have or you would have never shown up in the first place....
I wonder, Why so long? You know, I write that off in part to the craziness of how I have done maleness. It has been shaped by lots of things...mainly by my unique, learned biases along with my interpretations and homemade remedies to life's events. (Caveat: Of course, my journey as a guy is certainly not going to be universally applicable to all men. Today's blog is simply submitted as a hunk of catharsis intended for me and my life processing).
Never let them see you sweat! I confess that has been operative in my life, born out of the fierce competition on/in fields, rinks, classrooms, social mazes and the ultimate battleground of corporate America. Oh yes, no chink must be shown less you provide an advantage for the many opponents, visible and invisible, that are ever close by.
For whatever reason, that bucket is done carrying water for me. Maybe the timing of this recalibration is just part of getting physically older or gaining more spiritual maturity or just the effect of a lifetime of loving Cheetos...I don't know and for now it's not pertinent.
There are two scenes that I am going to drag out of closeted darkness and into the searing white light of day and fresh perspective. (Passing observation: Although willing to do this, I'm aware of a significant level of hesitancy at actually doing so.)
MURDER BY KETCHUP:
I was about 11 and we were on a family summer vacation heading up to Duluth and the North Shore. Very exciting for me, loved it up there with all the rock climbing a boy could want, the mystery of the largest freshwater lake in the entire world, the fancy white tablecloths of the Pickwick and their delectable, hot, Popovers and the funky little cabins of the North Shore low-tech "resorts". It was heaven I tell you!
We were riding in my Dad's shiny new 1957 Chevy with 3 on the tree and a Blueflame 6 banger power plant. Man he was proud of that car! Turns out it was the first brand new car he had ever purchased thus his pride was so very understandable. I still remember that on these kinds of vacations, my Mom would always seem to get my brother (4yrs younger) and me brand new bluejeans. They were the dark blue variety which, I believe, were really the only style around then. The main reason I think of those jeans is how incredibly stiff and uncomfortable they were. Like strapping two planks on your legs complete with that scratchy unbroken-in denim to boot. They also invariably were too long and I ended up with 4" or 5" cuffs which would eventually fill with acorns, twigs and other assorted detritus. But I digress on this Levis rabbit trail.....
So we pull into a little drive-in along Hwy 61, the only real route then available up North (way pre-35W). Ah yes, time for an all-American lunch of burgers and fries, the best meal ever invented in my 11 year estimation. At last the carhop brings the tray, connects it to the partially rolled-up driver's side door window and Dad distributes the goods. But then things turned decidedly ugly....
My brother and I sat in the back and started fighting over who got to use the red plastic squeeze bottle of ketchup first. In the ensuing battle we squeezed the bottle hard and ketchup squirted all over the ceiling and seats of this brand spanking new 1957 Chevy. My Dad went directly over the edge into a rage that had to have been pent up over a million things for a very long time because when it was released it rivaled the fierceness of Vesuvius!
He grabbed the ketchup bottle from us, shook for a second with unbridled anger and then proceeded to point the bottle at me while unloading it's entire contents all over my face, my chest, my arms.... In addition to the ketchup it was the hatred in his eyes that ultimately devastated me to my core. My reaction of hurt and unbelief quickly turned to anger. I bolted out of the car, dripping with ketchup, eyes stinging from tomatoes and tears, and headed out to Hwy 61 to walk the 60 or 70 miles home. Eventually, Dad pulled up alongside of my determined, angry walk down the shoulder of the road yelling at me to get back into the #^%$&% car! I ignored him totally and set my eyes like flint toward the south and away from my murderer. I was determined and intended to never get back into that car again! I had been shot and killed by my own Dad!
ORDER OF THE ARROW:
I loved Boy Scouts, especially the camping. Summers always included a number of weekend camping trips to Willow River, Rum River and O'Brien State Park complete with tinfoil dinners, campfires, hikes and scary stories at night. But the mother of all camping experiences was Camp Tomahawk. One full week of camping bliss with aquatic merit badge opportunities, freedom, the great food of the dining hall, freedom, all kinds of contests and sleeping in big tents with cots. Man it was the Ritz!
Every year the week culminated with a sacred Indian-type bonfire ceremony. The counselors morphed into Indian braves with bare chests, leather loin clothes, moccasins and war paint. This was guaranteed to get the heart of any 1950's-era boy racing.
The ultimate moment came at these culminating ceremonies where the "braves" would go into the audience (seated on logs circling the 10' high fire), roughly grab a scout and forceably drag him from the crowd and throw him to the ground by the fire. This would be repeated several times until there were maybe 15-20 guys. They would then be solemnly initiated into the Order of the Arrow as part of an elite team of scouts who had been secretly elected by their peers. The evening would end with those new initiates being loaded into trucks, taken out deep into the woods and one by one, thrown off into the mosquito-infested forest to spend the night alone with no food, water or flashlight. Then, the next day, they would be assigned to work on very difficult projects out in the hot sun under a covenant of complete silence. I tell ya, that was legendary stuff, highly esteemed and I could only dream that one day that could be me.
Well, one year it appeared that my time had finally arrived. After the secret ballots were counted, I had several of my 'insider' buddies tell me that I was the guy and this was my year! That night at the sacred ceremony my heart was racing with the anticipation of being dragged down to the fire, made to kneel, then being hit hard on each shoulder with the 'sacred stick' and whisked away into the inky darkness, alone in the woods. Me, about to become part of the lore I had observed over the years. Fantastic!
In waded the braves with their angry demeanor looking for the anointed ones. More and more boys were grabbed as I waited with baited breath. And then that part of the ceremony was over and I was still sitting on my log, unidentified and uninitiated. Subsequent tries at joining the group at the trucks were sharply rebuffed..."You must have already been intitiated at the fire in order to proceed on the journey...no exceptions! And all because of a scoutmaster who didn't understand that it was his job to stand up behind the elected boy and point him out to the roving braves. An opportunity for masculine initiation forever lost....
Of course there is vulnerability that comes along with throwing out two such examples of wounds in my life. I can just hear that accuser in my mind:
"You call those wounds? Hell, that ain't nothin'. What a pussy!"
And to those voices I say just 4 words, 3 of which are printable "Shut the @&$% up!"
Somebody else may have experienced these very things and it may well have run off like water off the proverbial duck's back. For me, they carried messages that I accommodated. I believed their lies wholeheartedly. I swallowed their poison. These combined with other woundings and ministered this to me....
"You were a pain to your Dad. You were nothing special and you certainly don't have what it takes. Things available to other guys aren't going to be for you. Your yearning for initiation and inclusion into the fellowship of men is just not meant to be. You will perpetually be a day late and a dollar short. You have been weighed and found lacking in worth. Best you can do is just fake it cause you sure don't have it. Good luck Bub, you're going to need it!"
Allow me to speak of healing and resolution another time...for now I'm just going to pluck out some arrows that found their mark and leave them to quiver in the heat of the noonday sun.
You didn't really see this kind of blog comin' did you Santiago? Couldn't have or you would have never shown up in the first place....
Thursday, April 3, 2008
The Kadunce
Good to be back. It's also good to let the blogging thing go for awhile and exercise letting myself feel, yet not accept,pressure to add something fresh for those few friends who may drop by only to see cobwebs hanging from my last post. I have determined that to truly make this my own, I have to eradicate visualizing visitors, to eradicate all feelings of needing to somehow be like a polite host who feels responsible for attending to my guests.
(Also, someday soon, I want to begin a post without an opening bit about my thoughts re: blogging. Just blog man! Blog at will! Let er' rip Santiago!)
Put Sandi on a plane today- along with 400 other women she is off to Frontier Ranch for Captivating and a long weekend of inviting God to speak directly to her heart and to bring his light and life and to personally meet with her amidst the Rockies. I'm so blessed by her!! Today I was truly smitten by the grace of God upon my life. Driving back from the airport this morning, I felt somehow transported to a place where I could get more of a 30,000 foot view of my life and the hand print of God was all over the picture that came into focus. So if anyone saw a silver-haired man crying while driving on westbound 494 at 7:30AM, I must take the rap!
Married just over 7 years, we are really an unlikely couple in so many ways. Sandi's conservative, Swedish reserve, her more refined tastes in general, her artistic sensitivities, and normally favoring a sense of decorum and order. And then there is moi, with a propensity for shooting from the hip, lover of organic realism and quick to dive right in the middle of all that is broken or limping with a directness that is most often not all that cuddly toward any response smelling of avoidance.
Yet, God brought us together, even taking me aside at one point and making it vividly clear that Sandi is for me and the only one who is going to get in the way would be me. Yikes! What's a fella to do?
I'll tell you what he did. He asked her to come up North to Naniboujou lodge and on a hot day in August, 2000, I took Sandi to the Kadunce river. We put on old tennis shoes and walked up the middle of the river (more of a creek actually) and let me tell you, it is a glorious thing to do. You never leave the creek, walking right smack down the middle of it. Flat open spaces gradually grow rock walls on each side which just get higher as you proceed. Soon, you are where no one else can see you unless they too were in the creek. Eventually we came to a small waterfall and a rock grotto with sheer rock walls that ascended above our heads maybe 40', even turning in towards each other at the top leaving only about a 3' or 4' opening to let in the light of the clear blue sky.
And so it was there, in that grotto, full of sharp rock shards underfoot, with only the sound of the waterfall, with filtered light streaming in from the restricted opening overhead, that I searched for 2 flat rocks. Once found, I laid them amongst the shards, got down on my knees, reached into the small fanny pack that I had brought along to pack-in the diamond ring, opened the box and asked this dear woman to marry me. And she was silent. In the background, the waterfall made it's quintessential waterfall noises and time seemed to stand still.....to stand oh, so still...standing still.... Oh my gosh! She wasn't going to say Yes! Finally, after about a minute posing as an hour, she smiled and agreed and I was transported into a blended-family adventure that percolates along even as I write. (Sandi has since stated,on more than one occasion, that the time of silence was her way of just taking in the moment and burning it into her memory.)
Getting married to another "mature" (code word for older) person with children is about giving each other lots of space, not having preconceived notions or assumptions about necessary changes or obvious new priorities,ie. who is going to stop or start doing what and whens. One of the more difficult areas was the church thing. Both of us were pre-involved in different local bodies and neither of our choices resonated with the other. In a sort of unspoken fashion, we made room for the differences with no power play attempts to convert the other. Despite the eye rolls that we often felt coming from others("You're not fellowshipping together? Ewhhh!), Sunday mornings took us down a forked road.
All this to say that Sandi getting on that plane today put a bit of a magnifying glass on all that Jesus has done in merging us increasingly into one flesh without our overtly trying to make it happen. We now enjoy worshipping God together in the same church, ministering together every Sunday morning by praying for/with others. Somehow, things just came together and the Spirit of God went behind the scenes where no mere man can go. He slowly rewired us and has increasingly made the manifestation of the spiritual truth "the two shall become one" into a beautifully unfolding see/touch reality.
Driving to work today from the airport, I could clearly see the tapestry that he has been weaving, but this time from enough distance to better appreciate the incredible depth and saturated colors of the threads that are now beginning to form such an intricate design. And I just wanted to blog tonight to say Thank You Father for what you are doing! I want to brag on you Lord! Your ways truly aren't our ways and forgive me for all the times I lack trust in you. You don't deserve such fickleness and I don't deserve your involvement in my life. I exalt You Lord for your unmerited favor upon this vessel of clay. Thank you Holy Spirit for your unceasing pursuit of my heart and the profound gift of Sandi in my life. You, Lord, are the hero of this story and I belong to you! Let me shout it again from my housetop...."Who is this King of glory? The Lord of hosts, he is the King of glory! Selah!
(Also, someday soon, I want to begin a post without an opening bit about my thoughts re: blogging. Just blog man! Blog at will! Let er' rip Santiago!)
Put Sandi on a plane today- along with 400 other women she is off to Frontier Ranch for Captivating and a long weekend of inviting God to speak directly to her heart and to bring his light and life and to personally meet with her amidst the Rockies. I'm so blessed by her!! Today I was truly smitten by the grace of God upon my life. Driving back from the airport this morning, I felt somehow transported to a place where I could get more of a 30,000 foot view of my life and the hand print of God was all over the picture that came into focus. So if anyone saw a silver-haired man crying while driving on westbound 494 at 7:30AM, I must take the rap!
Married just over 7 years, we are really an unlikely couple in so many ways. Sandi's conservative, Swedish reserve, her more refined tastes in general, her artistic sensitivities, and normally favoring a sense of decorum and order. And then there is moi, with a propensity for shooting from the hip, lover of organic realism and quick to dive right in the middle of all that is broken or limping with a directness that is most often not all that cuddly toward any response smelling of avoidance.
Yet, God brought us together, even taking me aside at one point and making it vividly clear that Sandi is for me and the only one who is going to get in the way would be me. Yikes! What's a fella to do?
I'll tell you what he did. He asked her to come up North to Naniboujou lodge and on a hot day in August, 2000, I took Sandi to the Kadunce river. We put on old tennis shoes and walked up the middle of the river (more of a creek actually) and let me tell you, it is a glorious thing to do. You never leave the creek, walking right smack down the middle of it. Flat open spaces gradually grow rock walls on each side which just get higher as you proceed. Soon, you are where no one else can see you unless they too were in the creek. Eventually we came to a small waterfall and a rock grotto with sheer rock walls that ascended above our heads maybe 40', even turning in towards each other at the top leaving only about a 3' or 4' opening to let in the light of the clear blue sky.
And so it was there, in that grotto, full of sharp rock shards underfoot, with only the sound of the waterfall, with filtered light streaming in from the restricted opening overhead, that I searched for 2 flat rocks. Once found, I laid them amongst the shards, got down on my knees, reached into the small fanny pack that I had brought along to pack-in the diamond ring, opened the box and asked this dear woman to marry me. And she was silent. In the background, the waterfall made it's quintessential waterfall noises and time seemed to stand still.....to stand oh, so still...standing still.... Oh my gosh! She wasn't going to say Yes! Finally, after about a minute posing as an hour, she smiled and agreed and I was transported into a blended-family adventure that percolates along even as I write. (Sandi has since stated,on more than one occasion, that the time of silence was her way of just taking in the moment and burning it into her memory.)
Getting married to another "mature" (code word for older) person with children is about giving each other lots of space, not having preconceived notions or assumptions about necessary changes or obvious new priorities,ie. who is going to stop or start doing what and whens. One of the more difficult areas was the church thing. Both of us were pre-involved in different local bodies and neither of our choices resonated with the other. In a sort of unspoken fashion, we made room for the differences with no power play attempts to convert the other. Despite the eye rolls that we often felt coming from others("You're not fellowshipping together? Ewhhh!), Sunday mornings took us down a forked road.
All this to say that Sandi getting on that plane today put a bit of a magnifying glass on all that Jesus has done in merging us increasingly into one flesh without our overtly trying to make it happen. We now enjoy worshipping God together in the same church, ministering together every Sunday morning by praying for/with others. Somehow, things just came together and the Spirit of God went behind the scenes where no mere man can go. He slowly rewired us and has increasingly made the manifestation of the spiritual truth "the two shall become one" into a beautifully unfolding see/touch reality.
Driving to work today from the airport, I could clearly see the tapestry that he has been weaving, but this time from enough distance to better appreciate the incredible depth and saturated colors of the threads that are now beginning to form such an intricate design. And I just wanted to blog tonight to say Thank You Father for what you are doing! I want to brag on you Lord! Your ways truly aren't our ways and forgive me for all the times I lack trust in you. You don't deserve such fickleness and I don't deserve your involvement in my life. I exalt You Lord for your unmerited favor upon this vessel of clay. Thank you Holy Spirit for your unceasing pursuit of my heart and the profound gift of Sandi in my life. You, Lord, are the hero of this story and I belong to you! Let me shout it again from my housetop...."Who is this King of glory? The Lord of hosts, he is the King of glory! Selah!
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