Man Movement

The Men's Movement. That phrase does nothing for some, but for others it conjures up images of men running naked through the forest, beating drums, and getting in touch with their wild side. Names like Bly, Keen, Kipnis, Lee, Rohr and Eldredge might be thrown around. And the sentiment might surface that says, "That stuff's over and done. Finis." I've read the works of the aforementioned authors, I've been to a few of their conferences, and have run naked through the forest and other locales with adequate tree cover. And it ain't over folks. But it is different now, because what was started or was viewed as a "men's" movement has settled to the level of a "man's movement." Don't get me wrong - the plural aspect is still vitally needed, but you can't be plural all the time, you don't have the freedom to run naked with your brothers every weekend, you can't always get a wildman on the phone when you need some encouragement. Sometimes, you've got to go singular. Sometimes, you've got to arouse the wildman within yourself and beat the drum and adamantly answer, "Yes," when asked, "Did you really run naked through a forest with trees falling if there were no other men there to see you and hear the trees?"

I had the opportunity to "move" twice the last couple of days and by the grace of the One who keeps this world, I did. My wife and I were blessed to have a night away on Tuesday. My parents were in town and offered to keep the kids and no sooner had those words dropped from their lips than I scribbled our cell number on a post-it and the minivan blew out of the driveway. FFFRRREEEDDDOOOMMM! But real men know that freedom is always opposed - always. We found a beautiful B&B in the mountains and arranged to stay for the night. As we prepared for an evening together, my wife got a migraine-ish headache. No, not the "no-sex-tonight-bucko" thing; this was something that really floored her. Her desire was to have some time to read, we were going to sit out under the stars, drink some vino and do the sex-tonight-bucko thing. But she got really sick. As I saw my wife totally knocked out, I felt helpless, like a little boy who didn't know what to do. She said, "Please pray for me." And I moved. I prayed for and over her. And guess what? Nothing. Not a damn thing. In fact, it seemed to intensify. She lay there for a few more minutes, in tears at the prospect of losing sacred time to this, this... opposition. We've got three kids under the age of nine - we just don't get away that much for overnighters. And I moved. "I think we should pray again, Mer." She agreed. I prayed a second time, asking this Jesus who's always supposed to hear us when we pray, to SHOW US THE MONEY - BE OUR AMBASSADOR OF QUAN! (yes, I like Jerry McGuire). And guess what? In a matter of moments, everything cleared. She was able to lift her head off the pillow and resume life. I don't know if that's ever happened to me or us before. But I believe it did because of a man movement.

Later the next morning, the second "B" in B&B was enjoyed with the only other couple staying at the inn. Turns out that he's a Mennonite pastor and she's a Mennonite pastor's wife. But she had on a blouse that showed cleavage and used the word "pissed" at the "B" table; no floor length skirts and bonnets here. My wife was immediately drawn to her for she emitted a very real and earthy spirituality for a pastor's wife; something seldom seen, but sorely needed. Like many pastors, Mennonite or not, Mr. enjoyed talking and really directing the conversation. I could sense that it would be a wonderful thing if the two ladies could talk uninterrupted; it would be a gift for my wife's heart. So, I moved. I threw out a few hand-tied "church" flies and the Mennonite trout rose and grabbed 'em. In nothing flat, I had the pastor telling me everything about his church, how many folks they have, what his leadership style is, etc., etc. I nodded at the appropriate times and said, "Hhmmnn" on occasion, asked for clarification several times, and maintained eye contact throughout. And all the while, I was very aware that my wife and the pissy-cleavaged Mennonite pastor's wife were having a heart-felt conversation, even sharing some tears together. And I believe it happened because of a man movement.

To take full credit for those movements would be what's called hubris. But flying too close to the sun always melts your wings and you fall into a forest and have to run naked back to the house banging your drum against waist-high foliage. But I can take some credit, for I believe the Spirit offered me the opportunity and the corresponding courage and unlike so many other times, this time I moved. Twice. And I'd swear the Father said, "Well done." Take a man moving in the mountains of Colorado and add it to a man moving in the urban hum of Chicago, join it with a man moving through the fog of Seattle coupled with a man moving even in the stifling heat of Arkansas and guess what you have? A men's movement. No, it ain't over; it's just gettin' moving.