We often see ourselves through various lens. Many see their value through their accomplishments or daily performance. Others view themselves through their ability to meet the standards placed on them by their parents, peers, or their community. Some people even view themselves through their current life season. An improper view of self can cause us to miss nature's call to transformation, overlook true success, and even disregard the joyful state of being.
Derived from the author's extraordinary personal story, in this first volume of The Hero’s Journey Series, Author Chauncey McGlathery shares how to find and maintain wholeness in a world of chaos. Chauncey discovered his need for wholeness through chronic illness and recovered to teach wholeness for others as a life coach.Deliver Yourself from Evil is a well-crafted compilation of theories, life lessons, and wisdom intended to shift your perspective of self and the world around you. This book is designed to guide you to seeking the true fulfillment and wholeness that only you can define.
We often see ourselves through various lens. Many see their value through their accomplishments or daily performance. Others view themselves through their ability to meet the standards placed on them by their parents, peers, or their community. Some people even view themselves through their current life season. An improper view of self can cause us to miss nature's call to transformation, overlook true success, and even disregard the joyful state of being.
Derived from the author's extraordinary personal story, in this first volume of The Hero’s Journey Series, Author Chauncey McGlathery shares how to find and maintain wholeness in a world of chaos. Chauncey discovered his need for wholeness through chronic illness and recovered to teach wholeness for others as a life coach.Deliver Yourself from Evil is a well-crafted compilation of theories, life lessons, and wisdom intended to shift your perspective of self and the world around you. This book is designed to guide you to seeking the true fulfillment and wholeness that only you can define.
If we want greater clarity in our purpose or deeper and more meaningful spiritual lives, vulnerability is the path. Brene Brown
My father was an amazing man. Some remember him as a rocket scientist. Others knew him as the Baptist pastor of the same church for half a century. Many even reflect on him as a patriot. My father was many things to many people, but most never knew that he was a sharecropper.
Did my father hide this part of his identity? Absolutely not. He was not embarrassed about it at all. He had an inordinate pride about his training ground. Even though he eventually left the cotton field for the Redstone Arsenal, he was always proud of his fieldwork.
That part of my father’s identity played a big role in how I became who I am. He made major moves, executed his master plan, and became the man he wanted to be before any of his kids were born. Once he and my mom had children, he was already working for NASA. However, even as a senior Aerospace and Systems Engineer, he remained, all his life and in all his endeavors, a man of agriculture — a man of the field. Everything he instructed and demanded his kids to do was, in a very explicit sense, guidelines and warnings so we would never fear going where he had already been — in the cotton field.
Wherever he was, my father was determined to be the best. Knowing my father’s drive is critical for understanding his identity and how he shaped my siblings and me. He never accepted anything less than everybody’s best. That is why, for most of my life, the only thing I ever needed was his approval. If my father gave his nod of approval, that meant it was indeed my best. And he knew my best.
My father watched me do all kinds of things. The public’s approval always came much easier than his, and he often reminded me of that whenever he suspected I was becoming full of myself. Regardless of how well I thought I had done, I never knew the truth until my dad gave his rating. People naturally clap to be polite to whoever is on the stage, so public approval was never my measure of excellence. His feedback told me exactly how well I had performed.
I will never forget the first time my father gave me his nod of approval. Since childhood, I was constantly on a stage, speaking, performing, and/or singing. I did my first solo in elementary school at Madison Academy, in what was then called the Spring Coronation. It was a time for each class to showcase the best of what they had learned in creative arts. I sang “The Impossible Dream” from Man of La Mancha.
It was a moment I will never forget. The lights were dimmed. The class was downstage, and I was upstage, front and center, with a spotlight shining down in the narrow space around me. When I finished singing, the crowd roared with praise. At the time, it was the loudest noise I had ever heard a crowd make.
“Dad, what did you think?” I asked my father after the show. “Yeah. It was okay,” my father replied. “You sang better than you did at home.”
People threw flowers. Many of them stood to their feet and cheered. Some even wiped tears from their eyes as they clapped. However, my father’s response to my performance was sober. He maintained that attitude throughout my life.
The only other time I recall gaining my father’s approval was when I graduated from law school. Even then, it did not come across as gladness or even happiness. When I looked at his face, I saw resentment. Families from all over the world had traveled to Howard University in Washington, D.C., to witness my graduating class’s ceremony. You would think my father would have been smiling from ear to ear. I had done extremely well in law school and was offered all kinds of opportunities. I don’t believe that my father was not proud of me.
I think graduating from law school made me independent of his direction, and he was not ready for that. I believe he feared that his opinion would not matter as much to me since our family and community had begun to see me as an independent thinker and resourceful man in my own right. My father was afraid that I would never need anything from him again.
He did not realize, and neither did I, that even with all of the pomp and circumstance, I still needed his approval. At that time in my life, I did not have the mental capacity to consider that I needed his approval. I did not even know to communicate that I still needed him.
In 2016, my father passed away. Though I was a fully grown adult with experiences under my belt, I still needed him. His death was difficult. I was not upset with him for not fighting harder to stay alive. I was devastated that I no longer had the choice to rely on him.
For three years after his death, I woke up every day feeling like Isaac. I was on the altar, but Abraham was nowhere to be found. Who am I, if not Isaac? I never really thought about my identity past my relationship with my father. I never considered what might happen when we finally came down the mountain.
MY IDENTITY
Who was I without my father? After my father’s death, I filled my schedule completely. The goal was to ensure that I would not have a moment to think, much less breathe. For three or four months, I distracted myself. I spent my days in a rat race, doing stuff at church and managing various projects all over the city. If I had not fallen desperately ill, I would have continued down this destructive path.
My sickness forced me to come to terms with the life I had lived through the eyes of my father. As I laid in the hospital bed, I realized how distraught I was. I knew exactly what my father would do had he been there. As I waited for a diagnosis, I imagined my father’s hand resting on my chest as they had so many times before when I was a kid recovering from bouts with strep throat.
He had used those hands so many times to clap for me in the crowded stands of the Huntsville Recreational Football League. His hands also communicated terror when he had to discipline me. At my weakest point, I knew exactly where his hands would have been...one laying heavily upon my chest, and the other at his side.
Now, my father hadn’t consoled me like that since I was a kid. But it was such a critical part of who I knew him to be. He was not just a stern dad; he was also very loving. The power with which he loved his children was like nothing I have ever seen before. It was a biblical love. He was the best father. I can’t imagine having had a better protector, father, provider, or teacher.
So, when did I become Chauncey? When did I find my identity apart from my father?
I was secretly becoming me the entire time. When I left Alabama after college and moved to D.C. for law school, I relegated space in my life margins to develop my sense of self and become Chauncey. Moving to D.C. was huge for my personal growth and development. I had to live and create an identity in spaces, towns, cities, and states where no one had a clue who my father was. I had to learn how to do everything outside of his sphere of influence.
Though his legacy no longer went before me into rooms, I took his presence. No one had a presence quite like my father, and I’m glad I was able to learn that from him. That presence opened doors for me in D.C., then in New York, and later in Boston. It did not matter where I was, whether I was in the courtroom, the sanctuary, the classroom, or on the stage — I strived to be the best. Even when doing something for the first time, I was lavished with praise from every instructor, teacher, or director. I was just like my father when he was in the field, even though my labor was on a stage. I was the best and refused to settle for anything less than that.
MY BOTTOM
At every performance and every task, I endeavored and pressed for perfection. That’s all I knew to do. Though he could not see me, I could feel my father at every step on every stage. I could feel his nod of approval, and it made me feel whole. So in being perfect, I was myself. I knew I was present and valuable because I was exactly what I had been trained to be: perfect.
In my scenario, I was present and whole when I was perfect. There was only one issue with this perspective. What would happen when I could not be perfect? You guessed it. I could not handle it.
After my father died and I became ill, I had to confront this problem face to face. It was not the first time I’d dealt with disappointment, but it was the first time I was rendered helpless and unable to change my circumstances. I could not take “the course” again. I could not re-enroll, re-apply, move, or start over. I was stuck like the coyote under the Road Runner’s anvil. I was stuck, not under the weight of a loving hand, but of a deafening disappointment that I did not know how to lift.
Getting sick was the first time that perfection was completely outside my reach. Every other time, when I disappointed myself and failed to reach perfection, I could still see it, no matter how far the distance. I would figure out the process, learn the formula, and go after perfection again. However, when I was sick, there were no steps. I was on an island, surrounded by an ocean. I did not have a clue who I was. I was confused, like a ship without a sail, like an astronaut without a shuttle. I was unanchored, and I was floating, being pushed and pulled by every wind, current, ocean, and idea. And what’s worse, I had no clue what would happen next.
I felt into and through consciousness. I seemed to travel far away from how I had learned to live. I fell for so long that eventually, I just stopped falling. Eventually, I was at the bottom.
Someone once asked me, “When you hit your bottom, what was it like? Was there finally peace for you?” I wish. It was not peaceful exactly, but it was quiet. There was no one there to tell me how I should live.
The doctors had tested me for every cancer, virus, bacteria, organ failure, heart condition, and brain trauma they could think of. Yet, they found nothing that explained my illness. Much of what happened to me in that hospital room I’ll never remember. But I remember the day my brother visited me for what the doctors assumed would be the last time. It was the day after I had a series of almost fatal seizures.
I don’t remember most of what happened that day, but I discussed it with my mother and her sisters. The doctors, who still had no idea what was wrong with me, told my family that I had suffered a series of seizures and had to be placed in the ICU. The doctors explained that the next seizure would put me in a coma, one from which I would never awake. My mother was advised to call the family so everyone could say their final goodbyes.
Everyone visited, but I did not sense their presence. However, when my brother came into the room, I opened my eyes. I’ll never forget what I saw and felt from my brother’s presence. He was standing over me, looking like a descendant of slaves, walking into the Legacy Museum in Montgomery. His countenance could be described as that of a Holocaust survivor walking around Auschwitz. You would have thought I had been in a coma for six months. He looked as if he had been exhausted, having conquered hell and high water just long enough to bid me goodbye. I had never seen that look on my brother’s face before. He inherited his disposition from our father. They are both built like emotional fortresses— impenetrable. Until that moment, I did not even know he was capable of showing that much emotion. But that day, when I looked into my brother’s eyes, I knew I was at the bottom of my identity.
MY CONFIDENCE
I had a choice to make. I could die, or I could get up. I had lost the secret recipe for my life. I did not have the formula for perfection anymore. Since I was already at the bottom, stopping was a feasible option. After all, I had accomplished 99% of all I had planned to do. I’d had a good run — a couple of degrees and a marriage. What more could I have asked for?
Lying there, down to nothing, I still had the nerve to be confident. I believed that though I had hit rock bottom, my life was not done. The life I was created to live had not reached its end. I had no clue where that confidence came from, but I was convicted to believe there was more for me.
When my family informed the doctors that I was awake, they rushed into the room to speak with my family and me. I don’t remember much about that day, but my Aunt Florence, who has always been the best truth-teller in our family, remembers that day vividly. With great excitement, she shared every detail upon my request.
“Look, this is it.” my aunt recalled the doctor saying to me. “You need to get your affairs in order. Your family is here to say goodbye. You’re not leaving this hospital alive. I have to tell you the truth because it’s my responsibility. This is goodbye.”
After his comment, my aunt said that she looked at me, and determination slowly swept across my being. She realized I was not close to an end. By that point, I had been in a hospital bed for a couple of weeks. I had been extremely frustrated during my entire stay. Every time the doctors came into the room, they spoke about me but rarely spoke to me. However, after the doctor’s statement, my aunt recalls me becoming very calm. Though they never gave me the floor to speak, on that day, I took it.
“Ohhhh, nah.” My aunt said I drawled out slowly. I imagine that I went to an old place in my mind. It was a place that I’m sure my ancestors visited a million times before. It’s a refuge in the midst of infinite ocean storms. That old place is like the sanctuary in the soul, comforting and assuring you when all the evidence is against you. At the very bottom, I found that place, and in it, my confidence.
“What did you say?” The doctor asked.
“Oh, nah.” My aunt said I replied. “What? No! It’s not gonna happen like that. This is not as big of a thing for me as you think it is. I’m not exactly sure what all is going to happen between now and me leaving this hospital, but I’m definitely going to be leaving this hospital. In a few days. Because I’ve got to get to the life I have not lived yet.”
All of this was just a prelude. I actually said those words. I had that confidence. For the first time, I had a true sense of what it meant to be present, here, on this planet, and in this universe.
Hitting rock bottom allowed me to realize what mattered and what did not. It was not about the awards or accolades. The positions and experiences I’d had no longer mattered. Now, my days are relaxed. I’m not anxious about what I have or who is around. If I have appointments or meetings, whether everything happens or nothing happens, my attitude and reflection about the day remain the same.
MY BEING (MY WORTH)
I no longer judge my days based on my accomplishments or what I achieved. Now, I base the value of my days on my awareness. Instead of asking myself, “Chauncey, what did you achieve today?” I now consider, “What did I hear today for the first time? What did I learn?” I hope that after reading this book, you will see the treasure in rating your days with a similar rubric.
Before I hit bottom, I was very much an island. I was an unrepentant solo act, a one-man show. I did not need anybody or anything to make me happy, and I loved this about myself. I was good all by myself.
That would have always been true about me until I realized being alone was not healthy. I can’t move, live, or breathe without everybody, and everything created, contributing to my existence daily. Before hitting bottom, I was not ever really independent. I just enjoyed the illusion that I was. It gave me a sense of control of my fate and my destiny. Honestly, I always thought to myself, “If they aren’t my father, they do not matter to my success.”
Now, I have more joy. Even deeper than joy, I have more me. I am more myself than I ever thought I could be. I talk, introduce myself, and engage others with more sincerity. I am truly interested in discovering not our differences or distinctions but our similarities.
Every day, I find gems in every experience. I have a cool part-time food delivery job where I get to walk in and out of restaurants, residences, and workplaces, picking up orders and making deliveries. I am in and out of different living, working, and social settings that, in my previous life, would have meant nothing to me. The old Chauncey would have hated it. He would have never even applied for the job.
In my past life, I was the gem. Now, I am the gem hunter. From a value and life perspective, giving myself away, I end up with more than I had before.
Anyone who would dare to apply the five principles of deliverance I discuss in this book will get more out of life than they ever anticipated. If you are anything like I was, you are an island, a one-man show, a good all by yourself type of person. However, this practice will help you realize that you can not move the way you want to move in isolation. You are not wired for it. Someone who follows this practice will soon realize that we were not meant to live separately from everyone else.
We are all connected, inherently and eternally.
Now I will not just say that you will have more joy, although truer words could not be spoken. You will have something even deeper than joy. You will have more you. Do you know what I mean? There will be more of you in everything. You will be more present. You will introduce yourself and engage with others with true interest to discover similarities. Every day and in every experience, you will search for gems. You will be pleased to find them everywhere you dare to look.
After his father’s death and a sudden illness that renders him in the hospital, Chauncey McGlathery experiences what it’s like to no longer be perfect for the first time, leading him to realize that he never truly was to begin with. He bravely allows the reader in on his personal journey, in hopes of inspiring other perfectionists and hard workers to rethink their lives and what really matters to them before they’re too far gone down the destructive path our author has personally been through.
The author boldly removes the mask most people are used to wearing as they perform their roles in life, emphasizing how important it is not to lose our divine selves playing these practical roles and how the same attention we give to these roles we must allow our true selves and each other.
The author eases the readers’ guilt by reminding them that it is not their duty to be in control of everything, but to simply control and be conscious of their own part and what they’re adding into the game of life.
Mr. Chauncey does a good job turning his pain into something that could potentially ease other people’s pain as he portrays this pain and lack of success as his ultimate “reward” that enabled him – and hopefully the reader – to see the world differently.
However, the advice and message in the book is quite repetitive. Despite the chapters being short, the author still felt the need to summarize the previous chapter again at the beginning of the new one and also give a brief summary of what was coming next then simply expanding it. It felt as if the writer didn’t really have much to say and was trying to fill out pages, the message would’ve been the same had he simply offered these brief summaries alone, instead it – along with basically the same stories – kept getting repeated, which could very well bore the reader instead of solidifying the message.
The work would’ve been stronger had it had more people’s experiences or if it had simply been an essay.
But, for a quick, hopeful read, it’s good enough.