The Swing of an Axe

There are many benefits to living back in Syracuse New York, too many to count.  Four of those benefits are my dear friends, the Choat's.  The man of the Choat household is my best friend, Junky Joe.  Junky Joe is one of one children born to his mother and father a number of years ago.  He was raised in Bakersfield California until moving to Syracuse with his family multiple years ago.  Last year the mother and father of Junky Joe moved to Syracuse New York so they could be closer to their child and his family.

I have been assisting Junky Joe lately, a small price to pay for all the love and affection he and his family have given me throughout the years, by chopping wood for the smoker he uses to cook various meats and other foods.

This past Sunday I went over to the Choat household to visit with the family.  After a certain amount of time the father and mother of Junky Joe came to visit with their family as well.  The three of us men were sitting outside on the back deck and admiring a new wood splitter that Junky Joe had purchased to replace his firman's axe.  As we talked about the new wood splitter I decided to walk down there and give the new thing a try.  I walked out and grabbed a log of wood from the pile against the garage and marched it over to the chopping block.  The log I grabbed had a nasty knot shooting out of the bottom of it and as the other two men walked down to join me they wondered out loud if I should put this one back and grab another log from the pile.  But I had already raised the heavy wood splitter over my shoulder and the log was already standing, looking into my eyes and giving me dirty looks, and there is something that happens when a man holds something heavy and sharp, he has to prove his manhood by swinging the hardened steel and breaking something in his path.  

What seemed like 45 minutes after the first swing was swung, the three of us men still stood taking turns trying to break and show this log who possessed the real strength.  In the battle of Man vs. Wood man always wins...Always.

It was my turn to swing the fireman's axe and show that log who was boss.  I swung down on the inferior and silly log beneath me and then pulled the blade from the hardened wood.  The father of Junky Joe said something to the effect of "Wow, that boy sure is accurate!"  It was nothing, really.  I swung the axe and hoped as the blade swooshed towards the log that I would actually hit my mark and not skim the side and accidentally cut my foot off in the process.  Apparently I did something right, something good, something successful because the father of Junky Joe was so impressed that he made mention of it out loud in the moment with me standing there listening.  

Today, 3 days later, I was swinging that same wood splitter and chopping wooden logs for the smoker of Junky Joe.  Every time I swung the handle I could hear what that old man said Sunday afternoon.  I thought how accurate I was with the axe and how I needed to improve, I needed to continue to be accurate.  With every swing of the handle I felt powerful, I felt like I was accomplishing something, I felt like I was good at something. I can remember as a little boy playing basketball and imaging that I was starting for the New York Knicks, all eyes in the entire stadium were on me.  Every time I went for a lay-up in the school gymnasium I could see the flashes of camera lights in the arena catching my picture.  

The father of Junky Joe said words about me on Sunday that encouraged me, they lifted me up, they made me feel amazing, and they have stuck with me now 3 days later.  I am good at something, so good in fact that an old oil man from Bakersfield California noticed and said so.  It is like hitting the winning home run, scoring the winning touchdown, winning the game for the home team.

Such simple words presented in an innocent and simple way have had such an impact on my heart.  I am good at something... I am really good at something.

I can only wonder how much more important my words are to those closer to me.  Words can sometimes lose value when we use them too often, that's one of the problems with words, it can be difficult to gauge what the current value of each word is in the moment.

I suppose the simple reality here is that I need to be more honest, more true, more intentional, more heartfelt.  I need to choose better words that lift hearts and open minds and I need to suffocate those words that break and wound and pull down. 

 

Two Coaches

Baseball was big in my family when I was growing up.  As legend has it, my Papaw had a shot at playing for the Cincinnati Reds but was prevented from his chance at the pro's because he was the only one in the family who could carry the keg of beer from the basement of the family bar and bring it upstairs to tap it behind the counter.  

Both my brothers were talented at the sport, especially my oldest brother who was a natural and had a passion for the game.  Either he viewed baseball as something he was passionate about or something to get him into a college scholarship after high school, either way he was good at what he did on the diamond.  

If my oldest brother was passionate about baseball our father was a fanatic.  Dad spent hours upon hours researching methods and techniques to improve our ability to hit, field, and throw the baseball.  I can remember pulling pieces of rubber tubbing with a baseball attached at the end to develop arm strength.  I can remember throwing a dish towel into a mirror while standing on a 2X4 to improve my balance and delivery, and I will never forget the infamous Ken Griffey Jr. "Instruct-O-Swing" contraption we would hit baseballs off of and into a backdropped net my father had built for us to be able to practice in the off season inside our family garage.    

I have happy memories from my childhood involving the game of baseball and my family and I have nightmares involving the game that I have tried to erase from my memory for most of my adult years.  

One of those nightmares happened when I was just a young boy, maybe 7 years old or so.  It was the first year the kids were allowed to pitch during games and not have to rely on the coaches to lob the baseball directly over home plate so we could hit rockets into the outfield.  It was an indoor practice our team was having in a local gymnasium.  I was on the pitchers mound and I was struggling to throw a strike, in fact I had hit 6 kids who were just trying to take batting practice.  My father stood behind the backstop and made hand gestures and arm movements and tried to quietly mouth instructions to me as he watched the nervousness get the better of his seven year old son.  He looked like a wild character, standing back there, obviously frustrated but still loving and only wanting his young boy to succeed.  My coach stood off to the side of the "field", he was a drunk with a thick mustache and was married to a woman that coached a team we considered to be our rival.  I can remember my coach turning his head from watching my father give instructions to watching me hit his players in their rib cage.  

After awhile the coach called timeout and asked my father to join him out on the mound.  I stood there as the coach began to express how he thought my father was being a distraction to me and then watched as my father disagreed and said he was helping me.  This continued for a few minutes as I stood there, my seven year old self turning and twisting my head to the left and then to the right as I followed the conversation, bewildered and confused as to what was actually taking place.  All I knew was I had a few teammates crying because I'd hit them and maybe cracked a few ribs and now two adults had stopped practice to come and talk about something on the pitchers mound.   

Everything sounded like noise to me until suddenly I heard my name.

"Anthony!  Son, who do you want to listen to?  Who do you want to coach you?"  The words left the mouth of my alcoholic coach and snapped me back to reality.

Immediately I felt alone, helpless, confused, scared, worried, terrified, and any other words you can think of.  I would have pissed my pants had there been enough water in my system.  I didn't know what to say, I didn't know what to do.  There my father and my coach stood, towering over me, both men looking down into my eyes and waiting for the answer of a seven year old to determine who would win their argument and ultimately who would walk away with their head held high and their chest puffed out.  I thought this was why God created women, to settle arguments between men and determine who was more manly.  Well, for whatever reason I was the one in charge of making that decision now.  After what felt like an eternity and after what seemed like a thousand voices screaming the question into my ears I finally answered.  

My father immediately had a look of total defeat on his face.  I think I saw tears welling up in his eyes as he dropped his head down and walked back to the sidelines.  My coach, with a drunk smile on his face knelt down, placed his hand on my shoulder and began to give me instructions.  All I could do was watch my father walk away, obviously saddened and disappointed.  Suddenly this wave of emotion swept over my body as I felt responsible for his defeat.  I had given him over to the enemy, betrayed my dad to a drunk little league coach with a mustache.  

The entire drive home on the dark backroads of Kentucky I sat in the front seat with my baseball glove in my lap and told my dad I was sorry, I told him I didn't mean it, I wanted to pick him but I didn't know what to do.  I don't remember him saying much that night or even looking at me.  I just remember seeing the glow of the dashboard lights in his face as he squeezed the steering wheel and drove us home.  

Today I am 28 years old and find myself in a similar position at times in life.  Frequently choosing between two people, choosing between two things, having to make the decision on who I want to coach me.   

Most of the time these decisions are choosing between God and sin.  What voice do I want to listen to in the moment?  Do I want to listen to God or do I want to follow sin for awhile to see what happens?  When God says, "She's not your wife" will I still choose to follow her for awhile anyways?  The answer to that is yes.  And just like when I was seven, I frequently make the wrong decision of who I want to coach me.   

Thankfully, God doesn't walk away with His head tilted down to the ground looking defeated.  God gracefully and loving encourages me and brings me back home and back into His arms.