Before my early thirties, I had never considered the military. I was the sort who kept to himself and generally liked things to stay the same, so committing several years to an organization that plunged you into unending interaction with strangers was as appealing to me as volunteering to be the pilot in a paper airplane experiment. My father, his father, my brother, and other family members had all joined, but I was not to follow.
This aversion to discipline-heavy, hierarchy-based order actually began sooner, when my father took me to a local Boy Scouts meeting to gauge my interest. During that meeting, I had the privilege of being introduced to a high-ranking patriarch of the local Scouts, but the infinite authority of such a towering figure only isolated me further. I envisioned tripping over Scout flags during important presentations, or making other such mistakes that drew the ire of said figure and the leering stares of judgmental peers. To a sheltered, pre-adolescent boy, it made sense that all eyes would invariably have been on me, so I told myself that if I had a choice in the matter, I would not join.
Indeed, a further incident around the same time seemed to furnish all the evidence a reasoning man would need to conclude that I simply did not like joining organized groups. My mother took me to a local recreation club to join a city basketball league. It is not an understatement to say that I hated basketball at the time, not least because I could often be found powering my way through other children toward the wrong hoop until the passionate cries of teammates redirected me. When I committed such indecencies on the court this day, my unyielding optimist encouraged me with the bright news that this would be both my first and last experience here, because I would surely not make the team. It would be to my infinite chagrin, then, to learn that despite such humiliatory behavior, I had made the team, for all who tried out were chosen. Apparently, there are no losers in city-league ball.
It is not as though I made an uninterrupted series of decisions to avoid commitment, however. Indeed, I had played soccer since I was five (and there actually had incited the anger of my coach, who bellowed an incorrectly-pronounced last name across the pitch when I began to dribble the ball toward my own net, which I often did), took part in t-ball for nearly as long, learned to swim when I joined the swim team at ten, bowled in leagues, and spent a not-too-short time in martial arts as a teenager, among other pursuits. Still, the specter of a commitment to put myself on display in front of strangers raised its unbearably monstrous head to a lad who needed proof that joining groups like these was safe. Consequently, I avoided them.
I had the real privilege of learning to trust, however, with the quiet encouragement of mentors who took time to pay attention to me as a teenager. These figures showed me not only that stepping out to do uncomfortable things was not bad, but could actually be of great benefit. It was from these men that I found the grace I sought so eagerly from adults, and consequently from them that I learned a sense of safety in relating to others. I must say that the importance of this lesson was not lost on me as an adult, either, for I am convinced that boys learn courage from their older mentors, enough to carry them into and through the trials of those decisions that affect the rest of their lives. This was no less true for me, though I did not realize it at the time.
I admit that I am not the least like the men who in seasons ushered me through the uncertainties of adolescence with their examples or their guidance. I am not one who easily reaches out to the shy or fearful, but I can say that I am the more convinced of the importance of figures like these when I think of my students, some of whom remind me of myself at their age, shoddy self-image and all; and they remind me of the importance of integrity and character when I think of the role I can play in my own classroom. Indeed, I may not fit the role of a typical mentor, but I can be one in the everyday decisions I make to follow God as he wants me to. I once heard a quote on the radio that has stayed with me: Honor God in your heart, and you will honor him in your life. Certainly, I fail at this, daily; but the pursuit is worth something, especially since there is a greater mentor who has been with me before I can remember, and is with me this very day. Far from the image of an angry Scouts patriarch I believed many of those in authority to be, this mentor is infinitely patient, and a ceaseless example of what it means to give grace. I want to be like that, even if it is only from a distance.
I never did join the military.
This aversion to discipline-heavy, hierarchy-based order actually began sooner, when my father took me to a local Boy Scouts meeting to gauge my interest. During that meeting, I had the privilege of being introduced to a high-ranking patriarch of the local Scouts, but the infinite authority of such a towering figure only isolated me further. I envisioned tripping over Scout flags during important presentations, or making other such mistakes that drew the ire of said figure and the leering stares of judgmental peers. To a sheltered, pre-adolescent boy, it made sense that all eyes would invariably have been on me, so I told myself that if I had a choice in the matter, I would not join.
Indeed, a further incident around the same time seemed to furnish all the evidence a reasoning man would need to conclude that I simply did not like joining organized groups. My mother took me to a local recreation club to join a city basketball league. It is not an understatement to say that I hated basketball at the time, not least because I could often be found powering my way through other children toward the wrong hoop until the passionate cries of teammates redirected me. When I committed such indecencies on the court this day, my unyielding optimist encouraged me with the bright news that this would be both my first and last experience here, because I would surely not make the team. It would be to my infinite chagrin, then, to learn that despite such humiliatory behavior, I had made the team, for all who tried out were chosen. Apparently, there are no losers in city-league ball.
It is not as though I made an uninterrupted series of decisions to avoid commitment, however. Indeed, I had played soccer since I was five (and there actually had incited the anger of my coach, who bellowed an incorrectly-pronounced last name across the pitch when I began to dribble the ball toward my own net, which I often did), took part in t-ball for nearly as long, learned to swim when I joined the swim team at ten, bowled in leagues, and spent a not-too-short time in martial arts as a teenager, among other pursuits. Still, the specter of a commitment to put myself on display in front of strangers raised its unbearably monstrous head to a lad who needed proof that joining groups like these was safe. Consequently, I avoided them.
I had the real privilege of learning to trust, however, with the quiet encouragement of mentors who took time to pay attention to me as a teenager. These figures showed me not only that stepping out to do uncomfortable things was not bad, but could actually be of great benefit. It was from these men that I found the grace I sought so eagerly from adults, and consequently from them that I learned a sense of safety in relating to others. I must say that the importance of this lesson was not lost on me as an adult, either, for I am convinced that boys learn courage from their older mentors, enough to carry them into and through the trials of those decisions that affect the rest of their lives. This was no less true for me, though I did not realize it at the time.
I admit that I am not the least like the men who in seasons ushered me through the uncertainties of adolescence with their examples or their guidance. I am not one who easily reaches out to the shy or fearful, but I can say that I am the more convinced of the importance of figures like these when I think of my students, some of whom remind me of myself at their age, shoddy self-image and all; and they remind me of the importance of integrity and character when I think of the role I can play in my own classroom. Indeed, I may not fit the role of a typical mentor, but I can be one in the everyday decisions I make to follow God as he wants me to. I once heard a quote on the radio that has stayed with me: Honor God in your heart, and you will honor him in your life. Certainly, I fail at this, daily; but the pursuit is worth something, especially since there is a greater mentor who has been with me before I can remember, and is with me this very day. Far from the image of an angry Scouts patriarch I believed many of those in authority to be, this mentor is infinitely patient, and a ceaseless example of what it means to give grace. I want to be like that, even if it is only from a distance.
I never did join the military.
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