As a child, I was
surrounded by men that felt violence was an integral part of life. They were
rather expert in its application. Where they may have been lacking they were
subsequently expert at convincing the surrounding world that they were
not.
Raised during the
Depression in rural S.C. my Dad was one of these men. The simple truth was that
you did not mess with Dad. He might hurt you if he got upset. He might be sorry
later but that wasn’t much of a salve.
There were times
here and there when I tested him in tentative ways as sons will do but he was
not one to playfully tumble. They say young boys learn boundaries by wrestling
and such with their fathers. I built “walls” instead.
That brings us to
the story at hand. Recently one of my sons announced that he was fond of a
young girl and would like to invite her over. She was a charming and lovely
“child”. They are passed the age of puberty so hormones are obviously at play.
They were joined at the hip for most of the afternoon to a physical degree that
made even this reformed old rounder a little uncomfortable though it was all
innocent enough.
I made a couple of
cracks about it but tried to give them some space. There were certainly no
closed doors involved and a lot of checking in. I worked out on the heavy bag
and did an exercise video, then joined them for the Super Bowl in the den.
My son and I began
to discuss one-handed push-ups from the video and both got down on the thick
carpet to exhibit our minimal abilities in this area. I was fatigued and the
point I was trying to make was that I could barely do one of the push-ups in a
partial way when reasonably fresh.
The next thing I
know my 14-year-old soccer-playing athlete that is built out of something like
wire cord is on my back attempting to subdue me by choking from behind. My
first reaction at this assault was to rise up, turn and plant this rabid 140
plus pound monkey onto his back but midair I realized that we were dangerously
close to the glass and slate of the fireplace. I shortened the maneuver just in
time so that we fell alarmingly close to disaster.
Well he not only did
not release his hold but dug in with all his might until his skinny forearm
restricted my air passage. I attempted to grasp one of his fingers and peel his
hand away but he quickly jerked it back from my sweaty grasp and resumed his
choking.
Suddenly my animal
instinct rose up like a flame exploding in a back draft and I reached back to
grasp a handful of his thick brown hair. In the moment I began to snatch and
rotate out of his grasp, something happened. It would probably be more accurate
to say that something did not happen. I froze.
In my mind’s eye I
could see the young woman-child watching from the couch. I could tell that he
was choking with every ounce of strength that he had. It was evident that he
was willing to do whatever it took to win this “contest”. I sensed that he
needed this with every fiber of his being.
The problem was
that I needed it too. I needed to prove my masculinity and strength. I needed
to show my now deceased father that I was a man and could be as violent and
powerful as anyone who walks the face of the earth but I did not.
I let go of his
hair, reached down for his forearm, shrugged my shoulders a little in order to
find some breathing room and I laid there tense for a pregnant ticking of
seconds. He squeezed even harder until
I heard him say, “Ok, ok … I heard something pop. I’m gonna let go … don’t get
mad. I was just horsing around.”
We stood in unison
as I managed to humorously mumble, “Nothing like a surprise attack to get the blood going.”
We all laughed it
off and spent the remainder of a pleasant evening watching the Super Bowl until
we took the young lady home.
Later as we readied
for bed I told my son that I did not appreciate the surprise attack from
behind. (He has always had a propensity for such) I suggested that if it
happened again, regardless of whom was present, that he might find the result
to be somewhat different.
The next day the
whole thing lingered. I shared it with my brother to get his reaction. He too
had spent a childhood ruled by fear and has many of the same defense mechanisms
that I carry … namely a quick temper and an inability to take any degree of what
we perceive to be “crap” from anyone.
He was nothing
short of astounded at how I had reacted and much to my surprise was rather
complementary of my control.
I told him that all
I could make of it was that when I felt my temper flare the night before a
better part of me had somehow miraculously taken over. My desire not to harm my
son in any way had won out over a lifetime of conditioning.
In the moment there
had been no clear conscious thought. I had simply “let go” rather than fight
back.
Years ago during a
spiritual retreat I had heard a grizzled, large and obviously powerful man
share that his alcoholic father had physically abused him all of his childhood.
He said that as a man he had learned that his father and his father before him
had also been abused in the same way.
He told the group
that he had a son now and that he felt God had left him alive on this earth
through all of his sins and escapades so that he could break the cycle of
violence between father and son.
I knew in the
moment that as I sat and listened to this scarred yet humble bear of a man that
in many ways the same was true of me. I chose to stop any corporal punishment
of my children, mild as it was, shortly after.
I did not know then
how deeply God had embedded the pain and hope of that man’s sharing until I
felt my son choking me from behind with all his might.
I suspect that on
some level what he heard “pop” might have been the chain of violence that had
festered deep within since the beginning of my consciousness.
So here in the dim
light of a restful Sunday morning I feel deep and abiding gratitude. All I can think is,
“ Thank you, Son
for the gift of who you are. Thank you, Father … for every breath I take.”
Powerful
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