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Making
things happen - with integrity. A weekly CyberMemo designed to keep you on task. Monday August 19, 2002 Volume IV Number 33 |
FOCUS - Wild Heart
My brother and I finally got in a round of golf. To pull it off (in view of the demands of family and office), we teed off early. The summer marine layer, early morning fog, thicker than usual, filled the valleys making visibility difficult that day.
As we walked up to the club house toting our gear, I reminded Roger that I’m only a few months away from qualifying for the “senior discount.” I suppose it ought to be a cause for celebration, you know, saving money and all, but it doesn’t feel that way. I only hope that when time comes for me to claim the savings that the person at the register looks back at me incredulously, sizing me up with careful scrutiny, then in utter disbelief, “Sorry sir, but I must see your I.D.,” requiring some sort of proof to substantiate my claim. I will happily pull out my driver’s license to prove my age. It will be a relief if they assume, from all appearances, that I could not possibly be that old.
But I have my doubts. They’ll more than likely smile and say, “Sure, no problem” and ring me up as an old guy.
But it’s a shade too soon for that. We both paid full fare, loaded up our cart, and just the two of us headed out for the first tee. About six-thirty AM. We wondered where the crowds might be. We pretty much had the course to ourselves.
Soon as we teed up, we knew we were in trouble. The visibility was a consistent twenty to thirty yards, just enough to see the trees on either side of the fairway. The rest looked like what pilots call “soup.” We laughed at our predicament and Roger said, “Well, I think the green would be that-a-way, about four hundred yards, so fire away!” And the two of us launched our opening drives into the fog. We could see the ball for only a split second, long enough to get a sense of its trajectory, and then soaring aloft, it disappeared into the soggy grayness of coastal fog, and off we’d go on the hunt for a little white speck in the grass, somewhere close to the fairway, we hoped.
It went on like this for about eight holes. On number four, Rog blasted a terrific drive with his REALLY Big Callaway Bertha. I congratulated him on the effort, straight and true ripping into the denseness, perhaps his longest of the day. It left a meteoric trail across the mist in its wake. We would only know for sure once we drove out there to see. But as we approached the assumed landing area for the monster drive, we heard the pastoral sound of a fountain. The gentle shower triggered the memory of it (I’ve played this course many times). I mentioned to my partner and opponent for the morning, “Hey Rog, you know, I think there’s a water hazard on this fairway… but it takes a real poke to reach it.”
Roger suggested that my lapse of memory might well be intentional. “Thanks for the warning, buddy,” he said, less than sincerely. And sure enough, the ball could not be found anywhere on the shoreline. We circled the whole pond. We could only assume that the splashdown was somewhere near the fountain at the center. I could only compliment him for the incredible blast of a drive, and offer that he drop another ball on the green grass without penalty since neither the score card nor I disclosed anything at all about water in the fairway.
It was an exercise in flying blind. We checked every indicator to get some sense of the distance from our ball to the pin, selected a club, and then on a hunch guessed the direction of the green, and then belted our shots into oblivion and hoped for the best.
I really wanted Roger to see the view from the fifth tee-box. It’s spectacular. But not this week. I pointed in the direction of a distant mountain top telling him about the stunning vista from that vantage point and Rog said, “Next time.” It’s a three-par. We launched a couple of eight iron shots skyward, hoping they’d hit the green somewhere at the bottom of the steep hill a hundred-thirty yards out.
Surprisingly, for those eight holes, our scores didn’t suffer. We’d pull up close enough to see, and there was the shot. Just about where we anticipated. Not so differently from a clear day when you can see forever.
On the ninth, with the fog “burning off” as we coastal dwellers like to say, finally, we could see the entire par five fairway all the way to the pin. We both blew our tee shots badly. A clear view threw us off. Way off.
We decided that, at least at our level of play, seeing the pin is not necessarily an advantage. Having a sense of where you are going, using the proper club, hitting the ball well, sticking to the fundamentals of the game… these are far more significant than a clear line of sight.
Sometimes the goal gets lost in the fog.
But that doesn’t mean we stay at home.
* * * * * * *
In his book, Wild at Heart, John Eldridge reminds us that life is a battle. While he is writing primarily to men, the battle is real for us all. No matter the gender.
But especially for men. Men are wired to think and feel and act in terms of the fight. In the contemporary culture wars, men have been told that this elemental orientation is something to be repressed. From childhood, aggressiveness is a cause for reprimand. Toy weapons are banned. Rough and tumble play brings scolding. Kindness and gentleness are rewarded. Competition is played down. From boyhood through adolescence to adulthood, men are taught to be nice guys.
Eldridge calls it the feminizing of America.
Guys will tolerate date movies. But given the choice, guys prefer films with conflict, explosions, gunfire, good guys and bad guys, flying, soaring, crashes, fearless heroes who know what they want. It’s a fundamental evidence of the gender gap. Guys, Eldridge claims, have a basic need (he argues it’s programmed into the genetic make-up) to be on a mission. And women respond to a man on a mission. It ought to be a mission big enough to make the heaviest of demands on the man. Even if it means giving up his life.
That’s why Gladiator and Braveheart and Shakespeare’s Henry V are among Eldridge’s favorite story lines. At the focal point is a hero willing to sacrifice his life for a cause that is greater than himself. It is commitment to family, home and homeland. Commitment to God.
A woman is drawn to such a man, says Eldridge. In fact, men who know nothing of commitment to the greater causes have little appeal to most women, according to his argument. A woman is attracted to his strength, his valor, his courage.
But we live in a culture of men who are nice guys. Churches filled with nice guys.
Men ought to be dangerous. Daring. In the phrase of Robert Bly – Iron John.
Eldridge wonders what has become of such men. Men of character. Perhaps we should look to the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center, and the nearly four hundred firemen who charged up the steps, courageous and unwavering in their commitment to saving lives.
So the battle then, memorialized in the classic, Pilgrim’s Progress, is not an unwelcome intrusion on our otherwise comfortable lives, it is to be pursued. It is part of our identity. It is a daily reality.
We should be prepared to stand up and be counted.
Men need to find other men who will fight side by side. Not in accountability groups that do little more than commiserate over missteps and failures and shortcomings. Rather, comrades at arms, fighting the good fight, aiming at victory. In a cause that matters.
Wild at heart.
* * * * * * *
It’s Monday morning. You are a leader.
Some days, the fog rolls in and the end game gets obscure. You can’t see the pin, much less the green or even the fairway. I’m learning to step up to the ball anyway. Take aim. Utilize all the tools in my bag to make the best shot possible.
Eldridge has me thinking these days. Am I battle weary, simply seeking retreat and protection from the fight? Or do I understand the nature of the battle, the enemy, the territory at stake, the purpose and the goal? Do I want sanctuary more than victory?
Are my friends simply chums… or are we fellow troopers, marching to a common drumbeat, covering each other’s backside and moving forward, taking new ground? Ask John Eldridge. He’s building an army of men willing to take on the Enemy, and in the name of a conquering, risen Lord, making Kingdom things happen.
That’s what I want, too.
How about you?
Posted in Valley Center, California
© Copyright Kenneth E. Kemp 2002
Special Thanks to my good friend David Belcher, owner of Rhino Media Group and creator of WisdomGram
LeaderFOCUS is a service of Good Stewardship Associates
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