A Boy and His Wound
Unfortunately, my story is dark, ugly, shameful, and embarrassing. I wish it wasn't that way, but it is. If we all got to write our own stories, this is definitely not the story I would have written for my life. My story would have been much different. Much brighter. Much happier. But this is my actual story, not the one I wish I could have written. There is a degree in which we do get to write part of our stories, but our scripts come with some chapters already written in ink, which we cannot change, though we wish we could. Mine is not one of those stories where a person was apart from Jesus, and something happened and they came to Christ, and Jesus instantly changed everything in their life. Wouldn't that be nice? Praise God for those stories, but that is not my story. No, my story is much darker, and uglier than that. Like Lazarus, I kept my grave clothes on, only in my case, much longer than he did (Jn. 11:44). What follows is shameful and embarrassing, but it’s my story. And more importantly than that, this is the story of God intervening in my story, praise God! My story is the story of a broken, wounded boy who grew up to be a broken, wounded man. I don’t even understand all of my story, and I lived it, and suffered through it. All I know is that I was a man in chains, but Jesus Broke My Chains! (JesusBrokeMyChains.com)
​
My story started out pretty normal. I was your typical young boy, who loved his family (even my brother occasionally), his dog (always), his mom’s cookies, and his Red Ryder BB gun. But then, I had a major life wound inflicted upon me when I was 11 years old. I was sexually shamed by my father. He had no idea that what he did to me would have such serious effects on my life. But it did. My brother and I had stolen some golf balls at a store. He hid his in his socks. I hid mine down my pants. Store security caught us, and called my dad over the loudspeaker. He was irate! When we got home, he called my mother into the room and forced me to "show" my mother how I retrieved the golf balls from my pants. Even at 11, I knew this was wrong. As I was crying like a baby, and begging him not to force me to do this, he insisted, and I had no choice but to put my hand down the front of my pants, and take it back out. That event severely wounded my masculinity by sexually shaming me in front of my mother. That wound would affect me for the next 43 years. I could not find complete freedom from that wound until I was 54. And that wound would lead me into other wounds. Fortunately for me, and only by God's grace, I kept seeking freedom and wholeness along my rocky road of life, until one Sunday afternoon when I encountered Jesus in my garage, and He released me from the chains that held me captive for those 43 years. Praise God that Jesus Broke My Chains!
​
I have often reflected on that event and the pain, the emotion, the agony, and the tears that were emanating from my young self. There was no reason whatsoever for my dad to force me to do that, except to sexually shame me. And shame it did. Not only was it the most negative, painful event of my young life (actually all of my life), but it also planted two destructive lies deep into my heart and life. The first lie was that my sexuality itself was not good; no more than that, that it was bad. When an 11 year old boy is sexually shamed by his father in front of his mother, what other lesson is there, except that his sexuality is bad? There was no need for me to “show” her how I got the golf balls out of my pants. It was rather obvious. The second lie that was born that night was that the sexual parts of my body were also not good: or that they were inferior or inadequate. “If my sexuality was bad, then my body must have been bad also,” I thought. That event certainly wasn’t designed to help me feel positive about my body and my sexuality. The event taught me that it wasn’t enough, or good enough; that my sexuality was lacking, or insufficient; that my “maleness” was not male enough. No male should ever have to believe that, especially not a young, impressionable 11 year old boy. That lesson taught me that I should have been ashamed of both my sexuality and my body. So I was. And I grew up believing those lies as they were burned and ingrained into my heart and life on the worst night of my life. I couldn’t have articulated these theories at 11 years old, but those seeds are the seeds that were planted that night, and they would grow over time. And their roots went deep into the soil of my young, wounded heart, masculinity, and life.
​
John Eldredge wrote a book called “Wild at Heart.” It is the anthem of Christian books dealing with a man’s need to recover his masculinity. He writes, “Every boy, in his journey to become a man, takes an arrow in the center of his heart, in the place of his strength. Because the wound is rarely discussed, and even more rarely healed, every man carries a wound. And the wound is nearly always given by his father.” And I would add that the wound comes in various sizes, with various life impacting capabilities, and huge potential for damaging effects, pain, and shame. Some wounds are more minor; some more major, like mine. He goes on, “In order to understand how a man receives a wound, you must understand the central truth of a boy’s journey to manhood. Masculinity is bestowed. A boy learns who he is and what he’s got from a man. He cannot learn it in any other place.” What I learned that night was that my sexuality, and my body, were lacking, and worthy of shame. The wound struck deep into my young, budding masculinity. What other lesson was there for me to learn?
​
The events of that night were never spoken of again. That’s right, the worst night of my life was never spoken of again. I had wished that my dad would have come to me and apologized for what he did. That he would have asked my forgiveness, and admitted what a boneheaded idea that it was. But he never did. I never questioned my dad’s love for me; just his decision making skills that one night. In his mind, I guess it was over. In mine, it certainly wasn’t. Nor was it over in how the pain of that night would play itself out in my life over many years, or decades, to follow. My dad would never know the effects that one incident would have in my life. Nor would I want him to. Funny how just one night can impact a life. Not really funny at all, but sad; extremely sad. A better word is devastating. And that was the beginning of my self awareness of my sexuality. And everything about it was negative. If I had one “do over” in life, I would have used it that night. But none of us ever get “do overs” do we? Now, after over 60 years on this planet, that would still be my one “do over” night. I would give anything to be able to go back and redo that one night in my life.
​
As I write this on my laptop, my dad is 86 years old, and in a memory care facility in Granbury, Texas. He has dementia. He still recognizes me for now, and he gets extremely excited when I walk in his room. One time, his excitement and joy were pretty much uncontrollable. That always makes me happy to see his excitement when he sees me. There are always several hugs each time I visit. I know that his time here is very limited. We can no longer hold a conversation of any kind. He can and does still say, “I love you so much,” and I say the same thing back to him. I know that before long, he will be in the presence of Jesus. And I will be very, very sad and broken up over it, and I will be very thankful for what we were able to share for some 60 years, even though our relationship never reached its potential, or even came close. Matthew West sings, “This life ain’t always wonderful, but this life ain’t all there is.” How true that is. I find hope in those words. (My dad met Jesus in May 2023.)
​
At some point, as an adult, I forgave my dad about three or four decades ago, for his one night of senseless decision making in my life. I don’t remember exactly when it was, and I never even told him, since we never spoke of that event after it happened. But I forgave him, and released any hurt feelings I had towards him because of that event. Was that event stupid? Extremely. Was it ugly? Certainly. Did it cause a deep wound in my masculinity? Absolutely. Could my life have been different without it? Unquestionably. Would it help me to hold a grudge against him for the rest of my life? Never! I forgave him, but that didn’t mean I was free from the wound inflicted upon me that night, and its effects in my life. My wound would continue to bleed off and on for years. Sometimes a little; sometimes a lot. Until Jesus stopped the bleeding.
​
My dad was never a good conversationalist. We were never able to discuss real issues like life, feelings, girls, or certainly not sex. Our closeness came through sports. My mother was always a very positive influence on my life. She told me many times, “You can do anything you want to do in life.” She was the one that hauled me and my friends all over the city to the next golf course, gym, lake, movie theater, putt putt course, or baseball field. Both of my parents always tried to instill confidence in me, and build me up, and in most ways, it worked.
My dad was a major positive influence in my life in many ways; primarily sports. He spent hours and hours with me teaching me how to hit a baseball, catch a fly ball, bait a hook, throw and kick a football, dribble and shoot a basketball, hit a golf ball, and occasionally throw a golf club! (Yes, you read that correctly.) Had that been a competitive sport, I believe I could have won something (note the confidence)! Without his regular influence in my life, I would have never batted clean up on my all star baseball team, won the Fort Worth Punt, Pass, and Kick city competition two years in a row, or been my high school basketball league’s MVP, or achieved All State status my senior year. I owed a lot to my dad. But I always longed for a deeper relationship that went beyond sports. I wanted to connect with him relationally. That is what every young man needs and wants. I certainly did. More than that, I craved it. Eldredge writes of his own boys, “What they want more than anything, what I love to offer them more than anything, is soul-to-soul oneness.” Yes, that’s what I craved with my dad, as does every young boy.
​
My brother and I were not raised in church. We had gone some when we were small, but about the time I was seven, we quit going altogether. My dad went to one denomination, and my mother went to another. So, my brother and I took turns going with one parent one week, and with the other the next. Then we just stopped going at all. Apparently, this disagreement over which church to attend, and in which church my brother and I would be raised, caused a great division between my parents. So we quit going altogether, as they decided, in essence, that we would not be raised in church.
​
It must have been about the same time as this terrible event, that my dad called me into the same room to have "the talk" with me. I obviously didn't know anything about sex at the time, but even as a young boy, I could tell that the talk didn't go well at all. I knew that my dad was uncomfortable. The talk may have lasted five minutes, if that, but it was not a positive experience at all for me, and obviously not for him either. I have often wished that that time could have gone like it should go between a father and a son. I have wished that it could have been a healthy, positive experience that drew father and son closer together like it should have; that it would have given me confidence in myself, and in my sexuality; that it would have been a bestowment of some piece of masculinity upon me, a coronation and celebration welcoming me into becoming a young man, like I think it can be when handled properly. It was anything but that kind of conversation. He and I both knew it. But that was my one chance for sexuality to be communicated to me in a positive, healthy manner. Needless to say, that never happened. Instead of being positive, it was another negative experience. The only thing positive I can say is, “At least he tried.” The subject of sex or sexuality never came up again. And that was a lesson in itself. If you never discuss it, then maybe it is not good, natural, or wholesome, I assumed.
​
​ I grew up on a street with a lot of boys. There were always friends to do things with like play basketball, hockey, baseball, football, shoot birds, and burn ants under a magnifying glass! Typical boy stuff! We went hunting together, and went down to the creek many times. Of course, there was bike riding, and games of tag, and whatever else young boys can find to do. But unfortunately, some of those things involved sexual play and experimentation, which is not unusual for young boys. By the time I was in junior high, I had had some kind of sexual play or experimentation with seven boys, who lived in the eight houses closest to mine while growing up, all within 40 yards of my house.
​
I was a freshman in high school during early 1977. It seemed that my parents had always had a tumultuous relationship, from my point of view of being a child and hearing the arguments, as long as I could remember. One day, my dad called me into my bedroom, and told me that he was leaving. I don’t think the divorce was inevitable at the time, but the writing was on the wall. I was 14, and my foremost role model of my already wounded masculinity was telling me he was moving out of the house. My brother was a high school senior, and would be leaving for college shortly. I felt like my masculinity had taken another blow, which it could not afford to take. No doubt, divorce hurts at any age, but it seemed to hurt especially badly at my age. At least to me, and my already broken masculinity.