Letting Go

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There are few moments in my life I would label as sacred. I do not take that word lightly. This post is about one of those moments; it likely is at the top of my very short list of them. I have spoken of it in a few select settings, and have struggled through the emotion it evokes in me each time. For the next few minutes, I invite you onto this holy ground in my soul. I hope it encourages your heart in some way.

Steve and SavannahBaby2

I have been blessed with a great relationship with my daughter, Savannah. She has been a “daddy’s girl” from day one. For the first several months of her life, she spent almost every evening cradled in the bend of my left arm. We took strolls overlooking our 8 acres of field in Dickson, TN, did the dishes (I washed and dried them with my right arm while holding Savannah in my left) and napped in my recliner in front of the TV.

As Savannah grew, daddy/daughter outings were a constant in every place we lived. Trips to the mall in Paducah, KY , breakfast at Krispy Kreme in Greensboro, NC,  flying kites at Mt. Trashmore in Virginia Beach, VA, taking the MR2 out for a drive at sunset in White Bluff, TN, and movie nights in Allen, TX, Savannah and I have always found things to do together. I love being a daddy to my girl, and I would give my life for her in a heartbeat, without hesitation.

stevesavannah ams 2012

Between flights at AMS on return from Uganda 2012.

When Savannah was a freshman in high school, she went on her first mission trip to Uganda. It changed her life. I was involved in her second mission trip to Uganda the following year. It was obvious that her heart was made for this kind of service! Savannah decided to wrap up her high school education two years early so she could devote herself to international missions.

A year later, just one month after her 18th birthday, Savannah left home to participate in a 6 month mission experience with Youth With a Mission (YWAM). As her peers were concluding their senior year of high school, my girl was hiking through the mountains of Morocco sharing with people the message of Jesus.

By the fall, Savannah had committed to serve on staff with YWAM to help train other young people interested in missions.  In January of 2015, having just turned 19 years of age, Savannah was assigned to co-lead a mission team to Nepal. She and her team arrived in Nepal in early April.

NepalTeam2015 pic1

Team that was in Kathmandu on April 25, 2015

Just before 2 AM on Saturday morning, April 25, I received a phone call that I let go to voicemail. I listened to it a minute later. It was Savannah. She was calling to tell us about an earthquake in Nepal and let us know that she was safe. (Read The Christian Chronicle article about Savannah’s team in Nepal here.) The hours that followed that phone call were traumatic for Savannah’s team to say the least. Nearly 9,000 people had been killed, and survivors were confronted with situations that no one should have to experience, and certainly not at 19. But they survived, and were able to serve the people of Nepal in the days that followed.

After a couple of weeks, Savannah’s team moved on to a nearby country for the second phase of their mission outreach. Within a short time, Savannah began to experience some health issues.  Despite repeated trips to the hospital, her condition worsened.  She was diagnosed with pancreatitis, but blood work and symptoms suggested other possibilities.

Holly and I consulted with health care professionals in the United States. We were presented with a range of possible conditions Savannah could be facing. The more severe end of that range included multiple organ shutdown and a warning that reversing the situation was time sensitive. The decision was made to move forward with a medical evacuation and get Savannah to the United States for treatment.

I don’t want to paint an inaccurate picture, overstate the severity of the situation or be overly dramatic.  The reality is no one knew exactly what was causing Savannah’s health to decline, or how quickly it might continue. My girl had just lived through a massive earthquake and we had no idea to what she may have been exposed. But there was evidence that her body was shutting down, and her physical appearance in our last video call left me deeply concerned.

Savannah boarded a plane in Nepal and began her trip home. That morning (Dallas time) I was at home alone. I remember folding a load of laundry in my bedroom when the emotional weight of the situation came crashing over me like an enormous wave.

I have asked many things of God through the years. There have been times I’ve asked repeatedly. I can recall only a few times that I would say I pleaded to God. But never before had I pleaded to God through tears that felt like they came from the deepest recesses of my soul. I begged God to heal my daughter. I have no idea how many times I repeated that phrase “God please heal Savannah,” but it was a lot.

At some point in my crying out to God experience, I noticed the song playing in my head. (I have a playlist going in my head 24/7.  Sometimes during the night it gets so loud that it wakes me up.) In that moment it was a hymn I’d led many times at church as a teen and young adult. The hymn was “Follow Me,” and it was the 3rd verse looping in my head.

O, Jesus if I die upon a foreign field some day,
‘Twould be no more than love demands, no less could I repay.
“No greater love hath mortal man than for a friend to die,”
These are the words He gently spoke to me.
“If just a cup of water I place within your hand,
Then just a cup of water is all that I demand.”
But if by death to living they can Thy glory see,
I’ll take my cross and follow close to Thee.

As I focused on those words, they became a life jacket of mental/spiritual awareness in my overwhelming flood of emotion. As a parent, my primary goal had been for my children to love God and pursue His purpose for them.  Savannah was up to her eyeballs in that adventure, and her passion for it was inspiring! At 17, Savannah had spent a month on her own at a mission point in Uganda.  One night she had called us huddled in the bedroom of her apartment. Holly and I could hear the background noise of a riot and gunfire through the speaker. My daughter absolutely loved Jesus, and was no stranger to the risks of following Him.

From the time Savannah first discovered her passion for missions, people asked me how I was able to handle it as her father.  My response was always the same. “She doesn’t belong to me, she belongs to God. And He is infinitely more capable of keeping her safe than I am.”

In my fear around Savannah’s physical health, I had lost sight of that fundamental truth. She does not belong to me. Ultimately she is not on this earth for my comfort, she is on this earth to bring glory to God. For me, the ramifications of that truth had never hit home harder.

My prayer changed, a bit. “God, you know how much I absolutely love my girl. Please heal whatever is wrong with her. But if there is a different outcome that will bring you glory, then I submit to what you choose to do.” There were more tears, but when I left the bedroom at the end of my conversation with God, I felt a peace that I can only attribute to God’s Spirit within me.  I let go.

The next morning Holly and I went to met Savannah at Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport. I did not know if Savannah would be walking off the plane, or being wheeled off. Our plan was to take her straight to the emergency room.  When she came through the doors, I was shocked. Savannah looked as healthy as ever. She appeared to be in such good condition that we agreed to her request to swing by Chick-fil-A (her favorite place to eat) on the way to the ER.

The long story made short – the slew of tests revealed no trace of any health problems. Over the next many months, Savannah did experience random moments of abrupt increased heart rate (likely a PTSD symptom). But none of the issues that had been detected in the numerous hospital visits during the previous weeks could be found at the ER that day.  And I thank God.

I don’t have answers to the deep, and legitimate, questions that some may ask.  It is reasonable to wonder why God would heal one person and not another. I have friends who have buried a child or grandchild. I have friends who have pleaded with God to heal their child, some year after year, but have yet to see it happen.  I don’t profess to have the answer. I only know what I witnessed, and I thank God for the healing that Savannah experienced.

To say I’m proud of my girl would not begin to adequately describe my feelings. She is a warrior princess in God’s Kingdom and loves Jesus. It has been an honor to watch her grow into the amazing woman that she is today. From the time Savannah was old enough to understand my words, I would tuck her in at night and tell her how thankful I was that God let me be her daddy. I still am.

I’m very aware that every hug and daddy/daughter outing we’ve had since May of 2015 has been icing on the cake! I am forever thankful for God’s grace, and for the power of His Spirit that allows me be at peace.  And I’m grateful to have discovered that it’s possible to let go…and still have.

 

Reclaiming Childhood – Part Two

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StowOH3My goal for revisiting the house on Mohican Road was to connect with my childhood and trigger memories. I started Monday morning with a common childhood breakfast – Quaker instant oatmeal. The hotel even had my two favorite flavors, Maple & Brown Sugar and Cinnamon & Spice. I had a bowl of each for good measure! Then I got into my rental car and made the short drive to Stow.

As I drove through the center of town, I began to recognize street names I had not heard since I moved away from Stow in 1975 – Gay Road, Graham Road. Emotion began to bubble up.  Then I drove by Highland Elementary School where I had attended kindergarten and the first half of first grade. Memories started coming back.

I drove down the hill on Kay Drive where, as a preschooler one day, I had reached over from the passenger seat and turned the car key to the “off” position while my mom was driving us home. I had been curious what would happen to the car. Yes, memories were coming back.

When I reached Mohican Road, I didn’t need a map to know that I needed to turn left to get to my old house. But, with no conscious thought, my hands turned the wheel to the right. Apparently I wasn’t ready to go there yet.

I explored the other direction. I passed three streets before I reached the end. None of the names sounded familiar. But by the time I turned the car around, I remembered Kenwood Drive. I made a left on Kenwood Drive and drove up the hill back toward my old school. I recognized a house I had visited many times. I had a friend who lived there. We used to ride our bikes down that hill yelling, “Burnin’ out the woods!” I had not thought of that phrase in forever. I reached the top of the hill and noticed the street sign, Rose Drive.

A most interesting thing happened, that street name triggered a warm feeling. I remembered walking past that spot with two friends on the way home from school. We were talking about football, specifically Joe Namath. Turning on to Rose Drive on Monday, October 30, 2017 marked the first time in my life I remember experiencing a positive feeling about my childhood.

I turned left and rolled slowly toward the path that lead up to Highland.  I had walked it many times as a child. I gazed across the field of grass and focused on the scene. I was surprised at how connected I was becoming with a childhood I had forgotten. I did a three-point turn on Rose Drive and turned right on Kenwood Drive.

When I reached Mohican Road, I turned left toward my old house. As I neared the stop sign between me and the house, emotion surfaced again. When I saw the house across the street, tears erupted. I pulled over and let my emotion out. What began as anger soon gave way to sadness. I sat in the car and cried for the little boy whose spirit was nearly suffocated by something he didn’t know how to process. I mourned the loss of a childhood I should have been able to enjoy.

When the tears stopped, I got out of the car and began walking. I walked the route I had just driven, up Kenwood Drive toward the corner of Rose Drive. I appreciated the beauty of the fall leaves and the patches of blue sky visible between the clouds. I greeted a few residents who were out on a morning walk. As I walked up the hill, I was aware my emotions were changing. The heavy sadness was lifting, and gladness was emerging.

I turned back when I reached the corner at Rose Drive. I realized there was nothing more I needed to see. Something incredibly powerful had happened during my visit to my old neighborhood. That coating of shame, sadness and fear had melted from my memories. I was actually feeling joy!

As I walked back down the hill, a phrase repeatedly echoed in my mind. “Trust your gut.” Many times I’ve wondered if the picture on the puzzle I’ve pieced together is real. It’s a common dynamic among sexual trauma survivors. “Am I crazy? Am I just making this up?” The evidence is overwhelming, but doubt still lingers. If you have been there, you understand. StowOH1

I did not hear an audible voice in that moment, but the effect was equally as powerful – assurance, peace. My faith gives me confidence that the phrase was prompted by a Spirit infinitely more powerful than mine.

When I got back to my car, I decided to swing by Highland Elementary School before leaving town. I drove to the school and parked, then took a few pictures from the street out front. I followed the concrete walkway to the entrance and slipped in with another visitor as they were buzzed in. (I’m sure I violated security procedure, but I doubted “I went to first grade here forty-two years ago and I want to come in” would gain me entrance!)

StowOH2I walked into the office, introduced myself, and said, “I went to kindergarten and first grade here forty-two years ago and I just wanted to come in.” The office staff verified that I had violated security procedure, but they were gracious. I mentioned the names of my teachers, Mrs. Saltis and Miss Wise. The office staff did not know of them. But a long-time teacher had walked into the office behind me, and she had Mrs. Saltis as a kindergarten teacher also!

We talked. She reminded me of an annual field trip that class took. It was to a farm just a few blocks from the school. When she described it, my memory of going there and petting the animals surfaced. I remembered how much I had enjoyed that experience! We chatted for a couple more minutes, then I mentioned I had a flight to catch in Pittsburgh and needed to head out.

I have always felt weak. Core beliefs that have plagued me since early childhood include “people want to hurt me” and “I’m powerless.” The last time I had walked out the door of Highland Elementary School was the beginning of Christmas break, 1975. I did so a wounded little boy, feeling dirty, shameful and afraid. But on this day, I walked out feeling joyful, confident and whole.

I don’t know that I can adequately describe how good it felt to reclaim my childhood the morning of October 30. I was almost giddy. Like Ebenezer Scrooge awaking on Christmas morning, my perspective had changed and something inside was very different.

On the way out of town, I stopped by Dunkin’ Donuts to pick up a few donuts and a hot chocolate for the road. The friendly server working behind the counter greeted me with the customary, “How are you today?”

“I’m good. Actually, I’m very good.” And for the first time in a very, very long time, I truly was. And I know I’m going to be.

Reclaiming Childhood – Part One

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I have practically no memory of life prior to a pervasive sense of shame and secrecy around sex. It was a dark cloud that settled into every nook and cranny of my being. From the moment I awoke to the moment I fell asleep, intrusive thoughts and images occupied my mind.

I clarify my statement with “practically” because I have a few snapshot memories around age 2. They are from the first of two houses I called home in Stow, Ohio. I remember a swing set and sand box in the back yard and listening to records on the big console stereo in the living room. I remember getting a “bed night snack” in the kitchen, my mom reading to me in the recliner, and my sister explaining to me what “weekend” meant. That’s about the sum total of my memories in that house. They are my only memories before the dark cloud appeared.

I have no concrete memory of what created the dark cloud. And the absence of that memory has been the single biggest frustration of my life. Years of trying to make myself remember have been fruitless. As a counselor who specializes in sexual trauma, I know attempting to force a repressed memory into the stream of conscious thought is counterproductive, even potentially harmful. But as a survivor of an early sexual encounter, that knowledge has not squelched my desire to remember.

While the memory of what happened was locked in the vault of repression, the effects were not. Having the door to sexuality opened early in my childhood put me on a path that nearly destroyed my life. I didn’t ask for it, I didn’t want it and I sure didn’t understand it, but I had to live with the aftermath. And I had no clue how to do that.

I have learned a lot since beginning recovery in 2002, about myself and the dynamics of sexual addiction. Add to that pool of knowledge a master’s degree in counseling and multiple post-graduate courses in sexual trauma. I’ve put a lot of pieces of the puzzle together over the past 15 years. I know a 4-year-old doesn’t simulate sex out of nowhere. Fantasy is often the mind’s attempt to correct a trauma. Compulsive behavior has a root. The body stores emotional memory in a powerful way, and when it gets triggered it can be overwhelming. Forty-five years later I still don’t remember what created the dark cloud, but I know something did. And I know what house I lived in when it happened.

MohicianRd

My second childhood home in Stow was on a quiet neighborhood street, Mohican Road. Several families with children my age lived nearby. I lived there for about three years, but I’ve never had many memories of life at that house. (When the mind blocks out a memory, it often blocks out large chunks of them.) And the few I do have, they have always felt dingy. It’s as though someone took my childhood memories and coated them with shame, sadness and fear. Even memories that should evoke joy like learning to tie my shoes, pushing the lawnmower with my dad, riding my Big Wheel – these memories have always been accompanied by flat affect. The balloon of my childhood joy was deflated early on.

Since beginning recovery, I’ve done a good bit of work around my early sexual experience. In the absence of a concrete memory it’s been difficult, but I’ve worked with the pieces of the puzzle that I’ve had. I’ve worked through a mountain of shame. And like trying to escape quicksand, I’ve struggled with feeling powerless. I’m grateful for the progress I’ve made, and I watch for opportunities to continue healing.

Last month I presented a weekend workshop on sexuality at the Stop Nine Church in Byesville, Ohio, less than two hours from Stow. I thought that visiting my childhood home could be a healing experience, so I made plans to take a detour through Stow before my return flight home on Monday.  Friday morning as I was leaving for Ohio, I typed the address for the house on Mohican Road into Google Maps. I wanted to verify how long the drive from Byesville would take.

When the address popped up, I clicked on the street view. There it was, just as I remembered – a two-story house with a grassy front lawn. My childhood home of forty-two years ago appeared to be in much better shape than I expected! I swiped right, then left, checking out the houses next door. They looked like I had pictured in my mind. But I certainly did not anticipate what happened next.

StowOH5On a whim I started to turn the view to the house across the street. From the core of my being instantly came the thought, “Don’t do that!” Too late, my finger had already swiped the screen revealing the house. The emotion flooded over me in an instant! Anger, disgust – I don’t recall a time when I have felt more raw anger. The tears erupted. There was no visual memory, but the emotional memory was unmistakable.

That experience Friday morning sealed my resolve to return to my childhood home Monday morning. Fortunately I had a most enjoyable and encouraging experience speaking at the Stop Nine Church. The connections made with the leaders and several members over the weekend filled my emotional reserves. It left me in a good place for the emotional roller coaster ride that was coming.

(to be continued)

Inexcusable

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Please set aside your politics.  This post is not about the 2016 presidential election or a particular candidate. Let me emphasize, NOT about any particular candidate. It is about something much more important.

News cycles for the past week have been filled with allegations, conjecture, denials and deflections related to sexual exploitation and abuse of numerous women. Both major party candidates have their individual baggage related to the issue, and every voter will make his or her decision about who to support as the chaos continues.

Listening to the barrage of media commentary  in recent days, I have been struck by the dehumanizing and calloused discussions among individuals on both sides of the political fence.  Among the many alarming comments I’ve heard is the questioning of why a victim of unwanted sexual touch would wait “so long” to bring it up.  I’d like to offer my perspective on that one.

It is the summer of 1984.  I am 16-years-old.  I am a camper at a Bible camp in North Carolina.  It is just after midnight of the first night.  I wake up in the middle of a thunderstorm and discover that my sleeping bag is soaking wet; there is a leak in the roof above my top bunk.  I lay awake for what seemed like eternity, not wanting to bother anyone with my problem.  Eventually I muster the courage to wake up an adult chaperone in the cabin, a youth minister popular in that region.  I inform him that my bunk is wet and ask what I should do.  He responds, “You can sleep with me.”

He opens his sleeping bag and instructs me to lay down next to him.  I just want to go to sleep.  He wants something very different.  What happens next should never happen to anyone, but it happens.  It is unwanted, non-consensual and devastating. Eventually I pretend to be asleep.  It stops. I am silent…for 17 years.

I type these words sitting in a Chick-fil-A surrounded by the spectacular beauty of Superior, CO.  I have dealt with my abuse experience in therapy. I have shared this story on four continents and across the US as a speaker on sexual issues.  I have a masters degree in counseling and specialized training in sexual trauma & abuse.  I have worked with scores of sexual trauma survivors over the past 10 years.  Yet, I am still holding back tears as I write and sipping on my second Cookies and Cream milkshake to calm the emotion that has been stirred. The effects of unwanted sexual touch are a deep mine shaft drilled long ago – always there.

The fact that I was abused 32 years ago does not lessen the impact it had on my life.  The fact that I waited 17 years to disclose the details does not mean it did not happen!  The fact that I have not confronted the youth minister that perpetrated the abuse does not excuse his behavior or remove his responsibility for it.  And what HE did most definitely is not MY fault.

The abuse that occurred in a relatively brief period of time resulted in consequences that hurt me, my wife and my children.  Sexuality is attached to the core of our being, and it effects every aspect of our person – mental, emotional, behavioral, relational and spiritual.  Trivializing the impact of sexual abuse, devaluing victims or attempting to silence their voices, be it from perpetrators or society at large, are inexcusable responses! Male or female, as individuals made in the image of the Creator, every person deserves much, much better than that.

If you are voting in the 2016 American presidential election, by all means vote for the candidate you choose to support.  But please, please don’t allow your political fervor to turn a topic deserving of respect and sensitivity into a political chess piece. I choose to believe that we are still better than that.  We certainly should be.

 

The Best Dog Ever (Part 1)

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Crying in the shower is not the way I typically begin my day.  In fact, I can’t remember that ever happening.  But when Facebook callously reminded me it had been exactly one year since Baby Ruth passed, it triggered a sadness that drew tears throughout the morning.

Steve&BabyRuthEdited pic 2Baby Ruth was the best dog ever!  If you also have owned the “best dog ever,” then you understand how I felt about my beloved furry friend.  Holly gave me Baby Ruth for Christmas in 2003.  It was, without a doubt, the best Christmas present I have ever received!  I picked up Baby Ruth from a breeder in Charlotte, NC, and she rode in my lap the entire drive back home to Greensboro, NC.  For the next two weeks, Baby Ruth slept cuddled next to my head on my pillow every night.  The connection that formed in those first weeks became a once-in-a-lifetime bond with man’s best friend.

Many people have asked why the name Baby Ruth.  Interesting story!  I wanted to name the puppy after a candy bar. My son, Michael, 11 at the time, wanted to name her after the Bible character Ruth.  There was such an obvious solution to our situation that I didn’t explore his motivation.  The name “Baby Ruth” worked for both of us!

Several weeks later, Michael informed me that it was not Ruth he intended to name the puppy after.  He wanted to name her after the woman who helped the spies escape the city of Jericho.  He had mixed-up Ruth and Rahab!  I cringed at the thought of wandering the neighborhood hollering “Rahab” if the dog were to get lost, and I was pretty certain there was not a Rahab bar on the market.  Thankfully it was too late for a name change. The AKC papers already had been submitted!  The name “Baby Ruth” was set in stone.

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Me and Baby Ruth in the snow.

I realized two important things about Baby Ruth very early, she loved to work and she loved to be with her people.  When Baby Ruth was 3-4 months old, Greensboro received a blanketing of packable snow that made for great sledding down the only hill in our neighborhood.  The three children living in our house bundled up like the little brother in A Christmas Story and headed toward the hill with our only sled in tow.  Baby Ruth barked incessantly from behind the big window in our living room.  She wanted to go with the kids!

I fastened the harness around Baby Ruth, clipped the leash on, and let her out the door.  She was one excited puppy!  We arrived at the top of the hill and the kids waited in the line that had formed.  When their turn came, all three kids loaded on the sled and started down the long hill.  As they began to slide, Baby Ruth got away from me and jumped on the sled with the kids.  The kids thought having a puppy ride with them was the coolest thing ever!  Baby Ruth appeared to agree.

When they stopped at the bottom, one of us had the bright idea to tie Baby Ruth’s leash to the sled and let her pull it up the hill.  Baby Ruth, thrilled at the opportunity, bounded up the hill with the empty sled dragging behind her.  For the next hour or two, Baby Ruth went down the hill with the kids on the sled then towed it back to the top!

Before Holly located the breeder in Charlotte, I had prayed for God to lead us to the Rottweiler puppy that would best fit our family.  Watching Baby Ruth so filled with joy sledding with her kids that afternoon, I knew God had answered my prayer.  But I had only seen the tip of the iceberg!

Later that year, Holly and I founded UltimateESCAPE.  We moved from Greensboro to Portsmouth, VA where I began graduate school at Regent University.  One evening a car full of teenage boys pulled up in our front yard and parked.  (Yes, in our front yard!)  They got out and prepared to skateboard down the street.  I could hear the voice of Jar Jar Binks in my head, “How rude!”  Holly, equally flabbergasted by their rudeness, suggested that I take Baby Ruth out to “greet” them.

I clipped Baby Ruth’s leash to her collar and opened the front door.  The second she crossed the threshold of that door, Baby Ruth transformed from our friendly dog into the guard dog from hell!  At that time, I was 6’ 2’’ and sported at gym-induced 215 lbs. (not quite the Max’s Donut-induced 240 lbs. of more recent years).  It was all I could do to hold back my 85 lb. Rottweiler from dragging me off the porch as she lunged after that car load of boys!  In the blink of an eye she went from snarling to barking viciously, and white foam was pouring from her mouth.

You’ve never seen a group of teenage boys jump into a car so fast!  That car peeled out of our front yard leaving grass and chunks of dirt in its wake.  One of the guys was a little bit too slow and got left behind.  The last I saw of him, he was running after the car yelling for his buddies to come back for him.

“Good girl, good girl,” I praised her as I patted her head!

Baby Ruth was a faithful companion for many years.  She loved to fetch a ball, catch a Frisbee, go for runs, ride in the car, etc.  She was a winner in the show ring, produced exceptional puppies, slept with one of the kids most every night, and was worth her weight in gold as a security dog for our family.  I absolutely loved my dog!  But the real adventure with Baby Ruth didn’t begin until the summer of 2009.  And that iceberg of answered prayer I had seen the tip of, its massive depth began to be revealed.

Letting Go

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MR2 GrandCanyon2

It was love at first sight!  In February of 2005 I found a 1991 Toyota MR2, T-top with leather seats, for sale on eBay.  With each bid, my heart raced faster. The price was rising to the point I knew I should stop bidding.  But I REALLY wanted that car!  Fortunately, the other bidders quit just before the price hit my ceiling, and I won the bid!!  A few days later I flew from Virginia Beach, VA to Tampa, FL to pick up my “new” car.  I can’t recall ever being more excited about making a 12 hour drive than I was that day.  And so began my adventure with my favorite car ever.

Over an 11 year period, I drove almost 150,000 miles through at least 15 states in that little car.  It became a source of joy for three generations of Holladays.  After I graduated from Regent University in May 2006, my vehicle needs changed and a 2-seat sports car no longer was a fit. My dad had become fond of the little car, so he purchased the MR2 from me. After 18 months and a hip replacement,  my dad decided he would prefer to see his grandchildren enjoy the car. The MR2 keys came back to me wrapped in Christmas paper with a bow!

With a center of gravity just under the driver’s right elbow, that car would hug a curve tighter than a toddler hugs a teddy bear.  My kids and I enjoyed many drives on curvy county roads that paralleled the thrill of roller coaster rides!  On one occasion (that’s my story and I’m sticking to it), Griffin and I clocked our time from the south end of Old County House Rd in White Bluff, TN to the Charlotte, TN line just over the Jones Creek bridge at 59 seconds.  That section of road, with its sharp turns, dips and hills, normally required at least 3 minutes to navigate in the Suburban. I was never able to break that record, although I admit I tried a time or two.

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Baby Ruth on a trip back to Texas after “speaking” in Tennessee

Savannah learned how to drive a stick shift in the MR2, thanks to her Aunt Drea. Griffin actually learned how to drive in it. Baby Ruth and I made several trips together in the MR2 during the years she presented with me.  One of my favorite memories of her in that car happened in Holladay, TN at the North 40 Truck Stop.  I had a take out container of pumpkin crunch left over from Thanksgiving that I had packed for the road.  I stopped to fuel up at the truck stop.  In an effort to “Baby Ruth proof” the pumpkin crunch, I stashed the take out container up under the brake peddle and slid my seat forward.  When I returned to the car, I noticed Baby Ruth licking her lips and traces of whipped cream around her mouth.  Sure enough, my 80 lb. 10 year-old rottweiler had managed to get to the pumpkin crunch.  The only trace of the dessert left in the car was quickly disappearing from Baby Ruth’s lips!

By far the most memorable adventure involving the MR2 happened in the Grand Canyon.  Griffin and I drove the MR2 out to Prescott, AZ to tour Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University during spring break 2015.  On the way home, we detoured by the Grand Canyon and spent a night in the park.  After a day of sight seeing via bicycles and a hike into the canyon, we started toward Flagstaff for the night.  About 10 minutes into our journey east along the rim on Desert View Dr., smoke began to

MR2 GrandCanyon4

Emergency crews respond to the 911 call about the MR2

pour from the engine compartment of the MR2.  I pulled over, grabbed my computer bag from the trunk, and we ran back about 100 feet from the vehicle.  I called 911.  I think every member of the Grand Canyon National Park emergency crew arrived on the scene about 10 minutes later.  That event may be the subject of another blog post in the future, but the short story is Griffin and I left the MR2 at the Grand Canyon and returned home.  Two months later my dad and I made a trip back to the Grand Canyon to retrieve the MR2.  That trip was another adventure in itself!

Even typing those words almost two weeks after the decision brings tears to my eyes. The MR2 was connected to a sea of memories of raising children and adventures on the road.  It’s been like a friend for a decade of my life.

But sometimes the price of holding on is more than the pain of letting go.  Be it an addiction, a relationship, a collection of “stuff” or something else,  maybe it’s best to open our eyes to the toll it’s extracting.  Stealing joy from the future by holding on to the pleasure of the past seems like a focus in the wrong direction.  Anything you need to let go?

 

 

 

Shot in the Gut

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I was just beginning to drift off to sleep a few minutes before midnight when I was startled by a domestic disturbance coming from a house nearby.  I did what any self-respecting Rottweiler owner would do; I put Legend on her leash and took her outside to investigate!  With my 106 lb. puppy in the lead, we walked down to the street to investigate.  All was quite.

I decided the ruckus must be over, so I turned back toward the house. But Legend had picked up a scent and was intent on investigating.  Given the late hour (and not wanting the occupants of the house to discover me lurking outside their place) I whispered for Legend to “leave it” and gave a gentle tug on her leash.  Legend was intent on sniffing out the trail she had discovered, and she did not respond to my wimpy command.  In my fear of being discovered, I reacted by jerking on her leash with all 245 lbs. of my being.

In all honesty, a good 25 lbs. of my being are the result of too many visits to Max’s Donuts, and a habit of overdosing on popcorn and M&Ms.  But there is also a fair amount of muscle hidden beneath my extra pounds.  I have no idea how much force I exerted on that leash, but what happened next provided some insight into that topic.

My jerk reaction was sufficiently powerful enough to bend the metal ring on Legend’s collar, setting free the heavy-duty metal clasp on the end of the leash.  It all happened in a flash.  I heard the “pop” of the clasp breaking free and noticed the street light reflecting off the shiny chrome missile heading straight at me!  In a fraction of a second that clasp traveled the 10 feet between me and Legend.  The thick hoodie I had thrown on while rushing out the door provided little cushion from the force of that clasp.  It felt like I had been shot in the gut.

Several thoughts instantly raced through my mind as Legend continued sniffing the ground, oblivious to the entire incident:  Man that hurts!  I really don’t like my dog right now.  If I start beating my dog, is anyone awake to capture it on video?  Wow, that really hurts.

Fortunately I did not respond in a bad way, as a few seconds later two police SUVs pulled up in front of me.  That distracted Legend from the trail she had been exploring and she walked over to me.  I held Legend by the collar and pointed toward the house I assumed the police were investigating.  Thankfully, they were not there looking for me!  Legend and I made it back home undetected by any neighbors.

When I got back inside, I checked out the damage caused by my overreaction.  The impact from the clasp had peeled back a few layers of skin, resulting in a painful looking “strawberry.”  But that was just the immediately visible damage.  About five days later the full level of bruising was evident, and it was much larger than the point of impact. Additionally, a hard knot developed on the deeper muscle, and it remains there almost three weeks after the incident.

You can learn a lot about relationships from a shot in the gut.  The damage caused by an overreaction is much deeper, and longer lasting, than we may see (especially us parents). Sometimes we resort to a show of force to affect someone’s behavior.  We yell, threaten, shame, manipulate, or bully others into doing what we want them to do.  We might succeed in getting our way in the moment, but we cause harm at a much deeper level.

We wonder why people don’t want to be around us, why they don’t talk to us, why they’re not interested in our ideas or advice.  We’re puzzled why we don’t have closer relationships.  We wonder what’s wrong with them.

A more productive question might be, “Have I done something to cause this?”  Has my show of force resulted in others avoiding, withdrawing from, being embarrassed by or distancing themselves from me?

My recent midnight experience reminded me that every action has an equal and opposite reaction.  Perhaps a gentle approach would have been less painful, and more effective.  You may find that to be true as well.

Unimportant

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Lonely, sad, fear…the feelings overwhelmed her.  Her family was falling apart.  The only relationship that still mattered to her was about to be severed.  She felt abandoned.

Where was this God who had done such mighty works among His people?  Why had He turned His back on her family?  How would she survive?  What good could possibly come from this chaos?

In the moment her life seemed shattered.  It appeared she served no purpose.  Her story would fade into history unnoticed, lost in a sea of obscure lives that didn’t matter.

Little did she know her story had just begun.  From the ashes of her distress the Lord of the universe was scripting one of the most amazing stories ever written; the book bears her name!

In this dark moment Ruth could not have envisioned the bright future God had ordained for her.  She would soon cross paths with a man of great wealth and prominence, a man of character from the tribe of Judah.  Ruth will give birth to a son.  Through his lineage will come two of the greatest kings in the history of the world, David and Solomon.

She felt unimportant.  It could not have been further from the truth! Unimportant2Ruth’s life was an integral part of God’s story of redemption and is preserved in His written revelation to mankind.  And, Ruth is one of only three women included in the genealogy of the Savior of the world!

Unimportant, I don’t think so.

What about you?  In the midst of your chaos and distress, do you feel unimportant? I wonder if it might be far from the truth.

Just Below the Surface

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just below the surface…

     Appearances can be very deceiving.  I captured this image (left) on a recent flight into LAX.  Based on what is visible, one would have no way of knowing this is a photo of Los Angeles, CA.  Approximately 30 seconds after taking this photo, my plane passed through the thin layer of clouds.  I could see clearly the landscape of Los Angeles to my right and the Pacific Ocean to my left.  It is amazing what can exist just below the surface.

     I find the same to be true about people.  On the surface life appears to be intact.  Successful career, nice house, attractive family, plenty of everything – that’s what others perceive.  However, just below the surface…
Broken relationships, fear of being discovered, haunting memories that invade the present, loneliness, insecurity – these are just the tip of the iceburg. 
     Consider children.  They feel pressure to maintain the appearance that all is well, but just below the surface is their reality.  They don’t measure up, they are yelled at, they fear rejection, they get in the way, they feel alone, they are abused – and if they dare speak the truth…
     The appearance is much more attractive, but we were not created to maintain an appearance.  We were created to be authentic.  Authenticity requires a willingness to look below the surface and face reality.  It is often unpleasant, especially with regard to self, and requires courage a warrior would envy.
     Are you willing to go there?  Are you willing to honestly look at what is just below the surface in your life?

You can learn a lot about sex…in a freezer

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It comes in a variety of flavors...but it's still ice cream.

(This post is a brief sample of a chapter from a book I am writing.  I hope you like the concept!)

I am amazed at the variety of places and objects that illustrate truth about sex.  Tonight I went to Braum’s to pick up some ice cream for my wife, Holly.  (That’s my story and I’m sticking to it!)  There must have been 30 different flavors in the row of freezers I looked through.  My eyes were drawn to the Brownie Batter because that is the one I knew Holly would want.  Then I noticed the Peanut Butter Cup, and the Snickers, and the Peppermint, etc.  Let’s just say I walked out of the store with more than the Brownie Batter!

As I hovered over the row of freezers, envisioning a spoonful of chocolate Cake Batter finding its way into my mouth and wondering how upset Holly would be if I blew the whole bill in my pocket on ice cream (I bet old Ben liked ice cream too), I realized you can learn a lot about sex in a freezer!

Chocolate, Cookie Dough, Strawberry Shortcake, Mint Chocolate Chip, Peanut Butter Pretzel, even Vanilla, they are all variations of the same thing, ice cream.  No matter what the type, it is still ice cream.

It’s the same way with sex.  Fantasy sex, solo sex, cyber sex, text sex, oral sex, “true sex,” call it what you want, it’s all still sex.  The brain and the body respond the same way regardless of the type.

We live in a culture that tells our children, “It’s not really sex.”  Perhaps every parent should take their children on an outing to an ice cream shop.  After all, you can learn a lot about sex in a freezer.