When I was a boy
When I was a boy I was adrift in a tumultuous sea of disdain, incompetence, anger and uncertainty. When I was a boy I wandered a marshland unsure of my footing, not knowing where it was safe to step. When I was a boy I stumbled on the scree unequipped for the steep terrain of life. When I was a boy I was on a journey with no compass and no map. When I was a boy I was often left to fend for myself as those around me withdrew into their own brokenness. When I was a boy I was alone. When I was a boy someone older and more powerful took advantage of my innocence and youth.
When I was a boy, I found an oasis...no... a mirage of safety and connection. I thought I had found a teenager who would be my friend. In reality he found me. But to an eight-year-old boy disconnected and adrift, someone older and cooler wanted to hang out with me. But that eight-year-old boy was unaware, unprepared and unequipped.
He cast into my waters and hooked me. When a fish is being pulled to shore, it has moments of swimming with the retracting line, hoping somehow it will get free. But other times it resists, jerking too and fro to avoid its impending doom. Whether the fish goes along or resists, its fate is the same. For the fish (and any victims of the Borg) “resistance is futile”. And like a fisherman who decides that a fish is perhaps too small to keep or without purpose that teenager cast me back into the water to once again float adrift in a tumultuous sea of disdain, incompetence, anger and uncertainty but this time I was wounded and less able to cope.
But somehow that 8-year-old boy did cope, survived and even thrived.
When I was a boy I survived the extremes of Christmas. The number of gifts I received each year was obscene. The floor in our living room would be covered with brightly wrapped presents. My brother and I would count them to see who had the most or who had the biggest. Such joy and anticipation. The gifts were extreme. But so too was the tension with slamming doors, my parents passive aggressively refusing to open each other’s gifts on Christmas morning and my sister having emotional outbursts. And one year after the gifts were opened my mom exploded in anger and threw all of the gifts down the basement stairs. There, in a pile at the bottom of the stairs sat our toys, some broken but all of them tainted with anger and disappointment.
And yet, that 8-year-old boy survived and held onto the hope of Christmas. As an adult I learned the true meaning of Christmas and have been able to give my children the Christmas I didn’t have. In our house, Christmas is still a time for an obscene number of gifts, but also for joy, laughter and reassuring family traditions.
When I was a boy, I didn’t have close friends. But as an adult I have found friends who have become like brothers to me. We have laughed together, drunk together, gone on adventures, cried together, prayed for each other and of course given each other a hard time. What I didn’t have as a child I have in abundance now.
When I was a boy I didn’t have a guide. But now I have a counselor who is teaching me what he knows. He too has, no doubt, taken his own hits in the battle. Perhaps at times he is unsure what to do, feeling disconnected or alone. But nonetheless he has, time and again, been willing to enter the arena with me and fight alongside so I can learn what he knows and experience healing and freedom.
When I was a boy I was confused about my sexuality and couldn’t comprehend marriage. But now I have a wife who is supportive, loving, kind and patient as I figure things out and work to be a better husband.
When I was a boy I wasn’t sure how things would turn out. But that 8-year-old boy survived and in some areas even thrived. But I am not satisfied. I want more healing and more growth. I want more knowledge and more wisdom. I want to be blessed so I can be a blessing.
And one more random thought, when I was a boy, I loved to play with matchbox cars. I loved those cars. I liked pulling them all out and lining them up to see if they would stretch from one end of the room to another. I sorted and organized them into their storage cases. I felt powerful as I pushed them along making the “vroom” sound of their engine. They were horrible drivers though as they constantly crashed into each other. But they were tough and always up for another ride. The red corvette was my favorite. He was fast and super cool. When I was a boy, I had a red corvette matchbox car. I wonder what ever happened to that red corvette. I miss him.
When I was a boy someone older and more powerful took advantage of my innocence and youth
When I was a boy, I found an oasis...no... a mirage of safety and connection. I thought I had found a teenager who would be my friend. In reality he found me. But to an eight-year-old boy disconnected and adrift, someone older and cooler wanted to hang out with me. But that eight-year-old boy was unaware, unprepared and unequipped.
He cast into my waters and hooked me. When a fish is being pulled to shore, it has moments of swimming with the retracting line, hoping somehow it will get free. But other times it resists, jerking too and fro to avoid its impending doom. Whether the fish goes along or resists, its fate is the same. For the fish (and any victims of the Borg) “resistance is futile”. And like a fisherman who decides that a fish is perhaps too small to keep or without purpose that teenager cast me back into the water to once again float adrift in a tumultuous sea of disdain, incompetence, anger and uncertainty but this time I was wounded and less able to cope.
But somehow that 8-year-old boy did cope, survived and even thrived.
When I was a boy I survived the extremes of Christmas. The number of gifts I received each year was obscene. The floor in our living room would be covered with brightly wrapped presents. My brother and I would count them to see who had the most or who had the biggest. Such joy and anticipation. The gifts were extreme. But so too was the tension with slamming doors, my parents passive aggressively refusing to open each other’s gifts on Christmas morning and my sister having emotional outbursts. And one year after the gifts were opened my mom exploded in anger and threw all of the gifts down the basement stairs. There, in a pile at the bottom of the stairs sat our toys, some broken but all of them tainted with anger and disappointment.
And yet, that 8-year-old boy survived and held onto the hope of Christmas. As an adult I learned the true meaning of Christmas and have been able to give my children the Christmas I didn’t have. In our house, Christmas is still a time for an obscene number of gifts, but also for joy, laughter and reassuring family traditions.
When I was a boy, I didn’t have close friends. But as an adult I have found friends who have become like brothers to me. We have laughed together, drunk together, gone on adventures, cried together, prayed for each other and of course given each other a hard time. What I didn’t have as a child I have in abundance now.
When I was a boy I didn’t have a guide. But now I have a counselor who is teaching me what he knows. He too has, no doubt, taken his own hits in the battle. Perhaps at times he is unsure what to do, feeling disconnected or alone. But nonetheless he has, time and again, been willing to enter the arena with me and fight alongside so I can learn what he knows and experience healing and freedom.
When I was a boy I was confused about my sexuality and couldn’t comprehend marriage. But now I have a wife who is supportive, loving, kind and patient as I figure things out and work to be a better husband.
When I was a boy I wasn’t sure how things would turn out. But that 8-year-old boy survived and in some areas even thrived. But I am not satisfied. I want more healing and more growth. I want more knowledge and more wisdom. I want to be blessed so I can be a blessing.
And one more random thought, when I was a boy, I loved to play with matchbox cars. I loved those cars. I liked pulling them all out and lining them up to see if they would stretch from one end of the room to another. I sorted and organized them into their storage cases. I felt powerful as I pushed them along making the “vroom” sound of their engine. They were horrible drivers though as they constantly crashed into each other. But they were tough and always up for another ride. The red corvette was my favorite. He was fast and super cool. When I was a boy, I had a red corvette matchbox car. I wonder what ever happened to that red corvette. I miss him.
