Summer Camp Can Be A Strange Place
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| More proof that boys desire men to challenge them to be men of God |
I
learned quickly that “intense” was not a big enough word to properly
describe Carson. Nope, I discovered Carson’s intensity early and
uncomfortably during the second game we played at our Southern
California boys camp. Apparently the only tools you need to squeeze the
character of a boy are a few well aimed balls and the promise of dodgeball glory that rests like a crown upon the head of the last boy
standing.
Carson
is one of those 12 year old guys that is so naturally athletic that
it’s nauseating. His blond frame is not big, but he’s all muscle, and
every one of those muscles seems to know exactly what it should be doing
and where it should be at just the right time. Throwing ... check.
Catching ... Check. Contorting one’s body like a character in the
“Matrix” who has fallen right from the pages of fiction and into our
dodgeball court ... Check.
The problem with Carson was not his ability to control his body ... it was his unwillingness to control his temper.
Intensity
is Good. Unbridled anger erupting from his mouth and scorching the
other members of civil society around him was unacceptable. I also know
that if left to take root this kind of anger produces husbands and
fathers who disciple their families straight into a living hell by
filling their homes and the hearts of those trapped within its walls
with hopeless fear. The bruised souls and faces of women and children
are just the fruit of the violence practiced when men were boys playing
games. Games are training for life. Games reveal and they teach. And I
was not about to allow this weed to begin growing in my presence without
at least some attempt to weed it out while it was still small ... ish.
I
called him out and warned him that he needed to immediately bring his
anger under control or he’d end the game as a spectator rather than a
victor. Either he didn’t believe me, or he forgot, or he just couldn’t
help himself, but I only had time to take a few breaths and he’d already
exploded in anger all over the court again.
His
look of shock and hot indignation was almost laughable when it finally
registered that I was serious that he’d be sitting the rest of that
game. He threw the balls he held in his hands down in undisguised
disgust. As he walked over to me I think it was only my relative size
advantage that spared me from an untimely death. He was the kind of
angry that can only be given birth by surging testosterone stoked into
fury by a misplaced sense that a grievous injustice was being
perpetrated upon his 12 year old person.
My
heart sank. I knew he’d be upset but it was clear that more was at
stake. I had just made an enemy. Any possibility of building a
relationship with him was gone. His heart was now closed to my voice. I
didn’t show it but I was really sad. I stood on the hillside. He sat at
my feet about 6 feet away, breathing deeply, seething, and avoiding any
eye contact. At that point I stopped paying attention to the game and I
began to pray.
