Recovered Memory
Stories
Sharing Visions
Divine Revelations, Angels, And Holy Coincidences
I was a male glossophobiac. An avoider of spotlights. Stage frightened. Intensely afraid of speaking in public.
Throughout my high school and college years, any assignments requiring an oral presentation became a Gethsemane experience. Such public tasks became stomach churning, heart pumping, blood-sweating ordeals that drove me to fervent prayer: "O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me and if this cup may not pass away from me, give me the flu. In Jesus' name. Amen."
Without any aid from mental health specialists, I knew the origin of this social phobia -- a sixth-grade poetry recital at Washburn Elementary School in Duluth, Minnesota.
In the fateful spring of 1963, my teacher, Mr. George Mead, told the class that we were going to have a poetry recital. To up the educational ante, we would be performing memorized poems from the elevated gymnasium stage before invited guests -- our mothers. Now, I don't recall any anxiety with this assignment. Up to this point, I enjoyed the limelight. In fact, I'd regularly volunteered for any speaking parts at the Sunday School Christmas Program.
Mr. Mead informed us that we had a month to prepare. He provided our timetable: a week to select our poem, two weeks to memorize it, and a week for dress rehearsal, with the program on a Friday afternoon. As usual, I procrastinated till the day before we were to make our selection and headed to the local Carnegie Library. My selection process had two criteria -- shortness and nothing girly. Those conditions were met by the twentieth century English Poet Laureate, John Masefield's, "Sea Fever." Three stanzas and a "lonely sea and sky." Coincidentally, his poem offered my pre-adolescent heart words to express my dreams of Lake Superior and a "gypsy life."
After turning in my poem selection, the tedious work of memorization was postponed until the weekend before our dress rehearsal. By Sunday evening, I was able to recite the poem. When my turn came at the dress rehearsal, I did all right, except for an occasional pause or two. Mr. Mead then pronounced the dress code -- white blouses and black skirts for girls; white shirts, black bow ties, and pants for boys. His final word to us was get to bed early so we would be "up and at 'em."
On the day of the poetry recital, I remember experiencing irritability at the breakfast table and a curious gnawing in the pit of my stomach. At school, the air was ripe with excitement. The girls were chattering. Some were talking about being so scared they might forget or faint or wet their pants. Most of the boys had grown uncharacteristically silent. The boys who did speak employed the time honored male strategy of diversion, talking about baseball, bikes, or the Swiss Army knives they would be awarded at the Spring Banquet for being school crossing guards. I was in the "quiet camp," but unusually alert.
Then show time arrived. Mr. Mead had us line up in our order of appearance. I was near the end of the program, following a kid named Dave Timmons. Dave was a mystery to us. He was a round kid with an incomprehensible vocabulary. He spent half his time with us, and half time at a special school downtown for the "academically gifted." He hadn't been there for rehearsal. We entered the queue in order, making our way down the back stairs from our third floor classroom, passing the lunchroom with its lingering smell of milk carton, to the awaiting stage and an audience of mothers. To ease the tension, I asked Dave how he was doing. He surprised me with his candor. He said he hoped he wouldn't be an embarrassment to his mother. I hadn't thought about that possibility.
As each student made his stage debut, the line advanced two steps, until I was backstage. The place seemed so much brighter and more important than I had expected. While I struggled to make the adjustment, Dave's turn came. I watched him move directly to the microphone and introduce his poem -- "Casey at the Bat, A Ballad of the Republic" by Ernest L. Thayer. As he spoke the first line -- "The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day," something entered and transformed him before my eyes. He didn't recite the poem. The poem seemed to recite him, moving his body, raising and lowering his voice to match the action of its words.
Dave Timmons was possessed and his poetic possession mesmerized us to the very end -- "and somewhere men are laughing (a howl of derision), and somewhere children shout (yippee!), but there is no joy in Mudville -- mighty Casey has struck out (boooo!)." And then Dave hung his head in sympathy for the residents of Mudville and walked off stage right to a thundering round of applause seldom heard in the early 1960s.
That was when I learned about following the "hard act." Someone behind gave me a hiss and a push. I slowly walked to the microphone and felt I had just entered an unknown dimension.
Though the lights initially blinded me, I began -- John Masefield's "Sea Fever."
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.
I must ...
And there were no words to follow. I asked, searched, knocked for them, but I didn't receive, find, or have the door opened. Not knowing what else to do, I started over. "I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky." Again finding nothing at the end of the first stanza, but a vague memory of "grey mist" and a "grey dawn." It was then in the vast sea of anonymous women, my eyes locked on my mother. Her blue eyes were growing larger with each second of her son's dumbfoundedness. Her fear mobilized me. I knew what to do. I quickly started over and recited the first stanza for the third time. I didn't wait for the second stanza to arrive. I recited part of the third stanza and made up some words to rhyme with them. Then I walked off the stage.
It felt like a dream state. Everything seemed to slow down. I made my way up the stairs to my classroom. I sat at my old oak and wrought iron desk. I surrendered to gravity and lowered my forehead to the hinged top with my hands dangling at my side. Then wave after wave of hot, moist shame rolled through me. From that moment on, the word "failure" was written on my forehead so everyone could see.
For the next decade, whenever called to speak in public, I immediately recalled that story and was soon given another dunking in the baptismal waters of shame. As I stood before others to speak, they were changed into critics, mockers, judges. They weighed me in the balance and found me wanting. I had developed a full-blown case of glossophobia.
In my senior year of college, I experienced a spiritual renewal. My heart was warmed, like Wesley's, and I had a personal encounter with the Divine. I began attending an evangelical Christian church. About a year later, the pastor asked me to preach a Sunday evening sermon. Once again, the old, old story and its sea billows rolled. I said what many Christians say when buying time, "I'll pray about it."
I really did pray, asking the Lord for help. In fact, I fasted and prayed. One evening, several days into the fast, while in prayer, I lowered my forehead to my desk and entered into a dream or some altered state. I was back at Washburn Elementary in the spring of '63, observing a sixth grade boy at a microphone on an old gymnasium stage trying to remember the words to a poem. I watched the boy walk off the stage. He would not lift his head as he made his way to the back stairs. I smelled stale milk and wax. I followed him up the three flights to his classroom. I watched him put his forehead down on his desk as I anticipated the end of that very familiar story.
But to my surprise, that was not the end. As the boy flushed with shame, I heard the doorknob quietly turn. The door opened. Slow deliberate footsteps made their way beside the boy. All I could see were his scuffed black wingtips. He placed his hand on the boy's shoulder and spoke. "Don't be ashamed. You did good. It took real courage to keep trying as you did." The boy did not acknowledge his presence. There was a moment of silence. The man removed his hand, turned around, and shut the door behind him.
Then I raised my head from my desk. I realized that I had made a decision back then to reject an affirmation in favor of self-condemnation. In so doing, I had forgotten part of the story. In truth, I felt as though I had rejected the grace of God. I had cast out love and opened the door for fear to enter. As I pondered this recovered memory, I knew that I had just been given a divine gift. I was given the choice to let go of self-loathing and be healed. I could continue to be paralyzed by the fear of making mistakes, and avoid risk-taking, or accept a decade-old affirmation of encouragement and open my eyes to new possibilities. I chose to be healed. Two weeks later, I preached my first sermon. Now I am a circuit-riding Methodist preacher in a three-point charge and loving every opportunity to proclaim the precious message of God's healing word.
Dedicated to the unknown masculine soul with scuffed black wingtips.
Throughout my high school and college years, any assignments requiring an oral presentation became a Gethsemane experience. Such public tasks became stomach churning, heart pumping, blood-sweating ordeals that drove me to fervent prayer: "O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me and if this cup may not pass away from me, give me the flu. In Jesus' name. Amen."
Without any aid from mental health specialists, I knew the origin of this social phobia -- a sixth-grade poetry recital at Washburn Elementary School in Duluth, Minnesota.
In the fateful spring of 1963, my teacher, Mr. George Mead, told the class that we were going to have a poetry recital. To up the educational ante, we would be performing memorized poems from the elevated gymnasium stage before invited guests -- our mothers. Now, I don't recall any anxiety with this assignment. Up to this point, I enjoyed the limelight. In fact, I'd regularly volunteered for any speaking parts at the Sunday School Christmas Program.
Mr. Mead informed us that we had a month to prepare. He provided our timetable: a week to select our poem, two weeks to memorize it, and a week for dress rehearsal, with the program on a Friday afternoon. As usual, I procrastinated till the day before we were to make our selection and headed to the local Carnegie Library. My selection process had two criteria -- shortness and nothing girly. Those conditions were met by the twentieth century English Poet Laureate, John Masefield's, "Sea Fever." Three stanzas and a "lonely sea and sky." Coincidentally, his poem offered my pre-adolescent heart words to express my dreams of Lake Superior and a "gypsy life."
After turning in my poem selection, the tedious work of memorization was postponed until the weekend before our dress rehearsal. By Sunday evening, I was able to recite the poem. When my turn came at the dress rehearsal, I did all right, except for an occasional pause or two. Mr. Mead then pronounced the dress code -- white blouses and black skirts for girls; white shirts, black bow ties, and pants for boys. His final word to us was get to bed early so we would be "up and at 'em."
On the day of the poetry recital, I remember experiencing irritability at the breakfast table and a curious gnawing in the pit of my stomach. At school, the air was ripe with excitement. The girls were chattering. Some were talking about being so scared they might forget or faint or wet their pants. Most of the boys had grown uncharacteristically silent. The boys who did speak employed the time honored male strategy of diversion, talking about baseball, bikes, or the Swiss Army knives they would be awarded at the Spring Banquet for being school crossing guards. I was in the "quiet camp," but unusually alert.
Then show time arrived. Mr. Mead had us line up in our order of appearance. I was near the end of the program, following a kid named Dave Timmons. Dave was a mystery to us. He was a round kid with an incomprehensible vocabulary. He spent half his time with us, and half time at a special school downtown for the "academically gifted." He hadn't been there for rehearsal. We entered the queue in order, making our way down the back stairs from our third floor classroom, passing the lunchroom with its lingering smell of milk carton, to the awaiting stage and an audience of mothers. To ease the tension, I asked Dave how he was doing. He surprised me with his candor. He said he hoped he wouldn't be an embarrassment to his mother. I hadn't thought about that possibility.
As each student made his stage debut, the line advanced two steps, until I was backstage. The place seemed so much brighter and more important than I had expected. While I struggled to make the adjustment, Dave's turn came. I watched him move directly to the microphone and introduce his poem -- "Casey at the Bat, A Ballad of the Republic" by Ernest L. Thayer. As he spoke the first line -- "The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day," something entered and transformed him before my eyes. He didn't recite the poem. The poem seemed to recite him, moving his body, raising and lowering his voice to match the action of its words.
Dave Timmons was possessed and his poetic possession mesmerized us to the very end -- "and somewhere men are laughing (a howl of derision), and somewhere children shout (yippee!), but there is no joy in Mudville -- mighty Casey has struck out (boooo!)." And then Dave hung his head in sympathy for the residents of Mudville and walked off stage right to a thundering round of applause seldom heard in the early 1960s.
That was when I learned about following the "hard act." Someone behind gave me a hiss and a push. I slowly walked to the microphone and felt I had just entered an unknown dimension.
Though the lights initially blinded me, I began -- John Masefield's "Sea Fever."
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.
I must ...
And there were no words to follow. I asked, searched, knocked for them, but I didn't receive, find, or have the door opened. Not knowing what else to do, I started over. "I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky." Again finding nothing at the end of the first stanza, but a vague memory of "grey mist" and a "grey dawn." It was then in the vast sea of anonymous women, my eyes locked on my mother. Her blue eyes were growing larger with each second of her son's dumbfoundedness. Her fear mobilized me. I knew what to do. I quickly started over and recited the first stanza for the third time. I didn't wait for the second stanza to arrive. I recited part of the third stanza and made up some words to rhyme with them. Then I walked off the stage.
It felt like a dream state. Everything seemed to slow down. I made my way up the stairs to my classroom. I sat at my old oak and wrought iron desk. I surrendered to gravity and lowered my forehead to the hinged top with my hands dangling at my side. Then wave after wave of hot, moist shame rolled through me. From that moment on, the word "failure" was written on my forehead so everyone could see.
For the next decade, whenever called to speak in public, I immediately recalled that story and was soon given another dunking in the baptismal waters of shame. As I stood before others to speak, they were changed into critics, mockers, judges. They weighed me in the balance and found me wanting. I had developed a full-blown case of glossophobia.
In my senior year of college, I experienced a spiritual renewal. My heart was warmed, like Wesley's, and I had a personal encounter with the Divine. I began attending an evangelical Christian church. About a year later, the pastor asked me to preach a Sunday evening sermon. Once again, the old, old story and its sea billows rolled. I said what many Christians say when buying time, "I'll pray about it."
I really did pray, asking the Lord for help. In fact, I fasted and prayed. One evening, several days into the fast, while in prayer, I lowered my forehead to my desk and entered into a dream or some altered state. I was back at Washburn Elementary in the spring of '63, observing a sixth grade boy at a microphone on an old gymnasium stage trying to remember the words to a poem. I watched the boy walk off the stage. He would not lift his head as he made his way to the back stairs. I smelled stale milk and wax. I followed him up the three flights to his classroom. I watched him put his forehead down on his desk as I anticipated the end of that very familiar story.
But to my surprise, that was not the end. As the boy flushed with shame, I heard the doorknob quietly turn. The door opened. Slow deliberate footsteps made their way beside the boy. All I could see were his scuffed black wingtips. He placed his hand on the boy's shoulder and spoke. "Don't be ashamed. You did good. It took real courage to keep trying as you did." The boy did not acknowledge his presence. There was a moment of silence. The man removed his hand, turned around, and shut the door behind him.
Then I raised my head from my desk. I realized that I had made a decision back then to reject an affirmation in favor of self-condemnation. In so doing, I had forgotten part of the story. In truth, I felt as though I had rejected the grace of God. I had cast out love and opened the door for fear to enter. As I pondered this recovered memory, I knew that I had just been given a divine gift. I was given the choice to let go of self-loathing and be healed. I could continue to be paralyzed by the fear of making mistakes, and avoid risk-taking, or accept a decade-old affirmation of encouragement and open my eyes to new possibilities. I chose to be healed. Two weeks later, I preached my first sermon. Now I am a circuit-riding Methodist preacher in a three-point charge and loving every opportunity to proclaim the precious message of God's healing word.
Dedicated to the unknown masculine soul with scuffed black wingtips.
