Blog # 4 Who I Am

I am James Allen Caruthers.

I am the son of... I don't know. I am adopted. And somewhat afraid of finding them.

I am my mother Martha, I am artistic, naïve, critical and one hell of a drama queen. She taught me to read and to love school and to be a gentleman.

I am my father Jim, the angry, drunken man I hated in my teens, accepted in my twenties and then loved in my thirties. He taught me to be anal, to pack, to love math and architecture. Because of him I got beat up as a kid. Because of him I treated my wives like shit, lost the first one and damn near lost the current one. But I have no greater example of how prayer, faith and a new life can totally transform a man.

I am my friends Kevin, Jim and Donn, who opened new worlds to me, and at times I was at odds with them, thought they hated me or wanted nothing to do with me. But now, at 50, i am at peace with them and talk with them, if only on Facebook.

I am the music I love, the books and movies that have inspired me. I have been Bruce Springsteen, George Bailey, Kevin Costner, Bob Dylan, Jim Morrison, Ronald Reagan, Jimi Hendrix, Vincent Van Gogh, CS Lewis, Jack Bauer, Gilligan, Bill Cosby, Mick Jagger and Anthony Hopkins.

I am my friend Scott and the US Army. One great life experience that lead to an Eternal experience. High school was an irrelevant puff of smoke. The Army is what gave me confidence, training, a career, a wonderful experience and a wife... for a few years anyway. Scott introduced me to Jesus, who I thought was a redneck at first. And, after five years of procrastinating and being afraid to be one of “those people”, I said yes to Jesus, whom I still picture as Robert Powell in the Franco Zeferelli film.

Therefore, I am Jesus. The words I love say that He is in me and I am in Him. My life is hidden with Him and in His Father. I will live forever with Him in a paradise that, right at this moment, sounds a little annoying. They also say that except for Him, there is no other way, which means that, according to my beliefs, many will go on and not know Him and will be tormented... and I still am having a hell of a time with that one, pardon the pun. And this meeting 21 years ago has shaped my life, even at times I dream of being in the back seat in an empty car that is steered by no one and is going forward recklessly. This eternal confidence in a loving God does not blend well with, nor does it obliterate, my extreme lack of confidence in this planet and it's people, especially me. I hunger for His will, yearn to know Him, to walk like Him and have his compassion and understanding of people. And at the same time, grow to be bloatedly full of His yapping and constant nagging at my conscience. I don't want what He says and I can't hear Him when I desperately need Him and feel abandoned. And I tune him out. Just the same way I did my father at age 15. And there is a little guilt and there is overeating until those things make me sick and I come home to His love. And I remember why I said yes.

I am Larry Huch, the meanest son of a bitch currently on Christian TV. I was taken in by the cult of his personality and learned faith, learned to serve, was given an opportunity to act on stage, and I found my drug. Soon the golden statue cracked and once I knew the man, I hated the man, and all he stood for. I felt raped, abused, used, violated in my mind and my wallet and damn near tossed the whole thing away. I am his anger, that was masked as being driven and being a prophet. I am his doctrine and it is one Hell of an exorcism to rid myself of all the phony, outright lies of his faith and teachings on how to get from God.

I am Rebecca, my wife and my teacher, my example of how to smell the roses. The sweet young girl I met while doing a play. Who teaches me to control my temper at the same time she teaches my son. She teaches me to let go, just like she teaches my son. And I feel for her, especially when Toby and I are having tantrums and throwing things and screaming, “why doesn't it work”?
I am her love. I am her softness. I am her childlike faith, I am her rose colored glasses... and I pray that one day soon I will truly see as she sees and put on this love, this softness, this grace and faith, and ADD silliness in the face of an angry, critical world. And I will have an ice cream cone and watch all the other ants destroy themselves while I hold her hand and we walk through life happy and content.

I am my son Toby. The one who spoke to me at the ultrasound and said, “Hi, I'm Toby!” He is the first being that I know that I am truly related to and he is a slice of me, and all those who are me and have made me. I laugh when he laughs. I cry when he cries. I scream when he screams. He swears when I swear. And when I see him draw, or tell a morbid, yet wild story, or explain how he needs a cheeseburger and ice cream in the most expressive and dramatic way, using his whole body to tell it, I see the seed of me. The seed my parents didn't care to or didn't bother to recognize. And I want so much to water him and nurture him with my love and understanding. Protect him and cuddle him and shelter him from the horror flick that is Earth. But at times I get so mad at him, for the incredible crime of being himself, which is being me. And I laugh as I tell him to ask for help, knowing that it is something I dread.

To look in the mirror is not to see who I am. Who I am is who I have met and known. I don't know who I would be without these people. To miss out on any one of them would be a lesser me. Even though I swore at times, if I could go back I would avoid most of them. I see that I am stuck with them. I moan at the idea of calling my mother and father regularly, even though they are both states away, yet they will live in me till I die. What they did right I will try to do. What they did wrong I will try not to do. And if I fail, can I really think that I am somehow better than they are? Smarter? Have more knowledge and resources than they had? If I succeed, I am still no better. For they are many someones also.