Difficult Memories

     It's funny how little things will bring you right back to places you don't want to return to. These memories savage a good moment in time, and ruin what is happening in the hear and now. They can turn light into darkness, and laughing joy into searing pain. Growing up, we were always one misstep away from bombs being dropped upon us, only one mistake from a living hell. The target we were supposed to hit was always moving, the bar always ever higher. I don't think he himself knew what he wanted from us, living life through a twisted and warped reality.

     Nothing good comes easy, at least that's been my experience. One of my mentors would fill pages with tales of broken young men, being led back to the pain, back to the terror of a boyhood gone wrong, brought there by a loving and faithful Father who knew that the only way to experience wholeness was to conquer the fears and horrors. Much like Yoda takes young Anakin back to face Darth Vader in a vision, I too have been mercifully pushed into the ring with a myriad of enemies, ones that I would have been too fearful to face without the gentle push from a God who hears my tears drip down on a sometimes heartless and awful earth.

     Last night was one of those nights, where I knew he was in the teaching, in the experience, there to heal. I'm learning to take him at his word, and when he talks about how he came to bind up the broken-hearted, he certainly wasn't kidding. For many years, especially as a rabid car nerd, I had longed for someone to teach me how to drive a manual. YouTubing things can certainly be of value in a pinch, but God intended for men to teach other men skills, iron sharpening iron, and much is lost in the relationless drudgery of typing a question into a phone. A friend recently purchased a 2012 Volkswagen Golf GTI, heavily modified to go faster than the dreams of a young soldier. He saw my instant delight in the car, and offered to show me how to row the gears in an empty parking lot.

     I was never shown these things as youngster- doing physical things or using fine motor skills, and so when I have a teacher or others are watching, I feel like I'm right back at 5 years old, attempting something both my father and I know I have no business doing. He would never take ability or age into account- there I'd be one minute, playing with legos, the next minute, being forced to help him cut wood on a shrieking table saw. It all comes rushing back, even at 25. Every damn time. I have no reason to complain- this was the hand dealt me; I could not choose my parents. But this is the hand I have.

     We chose an empty parking lot, empty save for a sleepy patrol car. Calmly, my friend would walk me through the launching procedure from stop to first gear: "Butterfly it, smooth clutch out, smooth gas in. Too fast, try again. C'mon bro, don't get flustered- it took me forever to learn how."

     Those feelings came back, as they always do. Stall after stall, and the hands sweat, adrenaline begins pumping, as all my Type A tendencies begin to echo the voices of my past. But that's never the end of the story. He coached me through my mistakes, refusing to let me get too anxious and quit. I finally got the hang of it, and was soon laughing my head off as we raced around post, tires shredding as the worked-over motor was given room to run.

     I've learned to expect a rush from the past during such times. Difficult memories, indeed. It comes with the territory, but the trade-off is a one-on-one with the maker of heaven and earth, someone who sees that 5 year old me, crying in terror, and refuses to let me stay there. He knows I was a victim, but is making me into a victor.