“The Man I Forgot”

Who are you?

Who am I?

Underneath it all, what kind of man am I really?

What have I forgotten?

I ask those questions all the time. I ask them when I’m alone. When I’m talking to God. When I’m imagining conversations with my wife or my kids. I ask these questions of myself constantly.

Last night, I watched “Cinderella Man” with my daughter. I’ve watched it several times and it always gets me. It’s the story of James J. Braddock….a Depression era boxer who was a rising contender who lost it all and had to work as a day laborer just to put food on the table, only to make an almost inexplicable rise through the ranks and finally beat a vicious boxer named Max Baer for the heavyweight championship.

The entire movie is inspiring but there is one scene that brings me to tears every time.

It’s in the dressing room right before his fight with Baer.

Let me be clear….Baer was a literal killer. He had killed two men in the ring in his career and was in his prime. Braddock was older, seen as a has-been, and a huge underdog. His wife, Mae, had been his undying supporter all through the movie. When he was on the rise, she was his biggest fan, when they were struggling to keep their apartment heated, she was loyal….but this Baer fight was different. She was truly scared for his life, and so she withdrew her support. It clearly affected both of them as her belief in him had been a driving force in his comeback. But her fears about being a widow overshadowed her, and she pulled away.

But then came the dressing room.

Braddock is getting his hands taped and Mae steps into the room. She had never been to any of his fights, so this was a significant moment in the movie. And she pulls him aside, looks right into his eyes, and says,

     "Maybe I understand some, about having to fight. So, you just remember who you are... you're the Bulldog of Bergen, and the Pride of New Jersey, you're everybody's hope, and your kids' hero, and you are the champion of my heart, James J. Braddock."

And I weep.

Every time, I break down in this scene.

I used to think it was just because every man wants to hear those words from the woman he loves; that she believes in him and loves him.

Certainly, that is true and may be part of it.

But here’s what I really think gets me:

I know what it’s like to forget who I am.

I remember what it’s like to drift from my identity and purpose.

I know what it’s like to pretend to be someone I didn’t want to be.

As I think about this scene, I am reminded of another movie and another scene that made me break down right in the theater.

Believe it or not…..it was the theatrical release of “The Lion King.” 

There is a scene where Simba is confronted by the ghost of his father, Mufasa. And Mufasa, in that wonderful James Earl Jones voice, says to his son,

     “You have forgotten who you are.”

And let’s just say I’m glad the movie theater was dark, because it hit me like a sledgehammer. See, in 1994 (when that movie came out), I had definitely forgotten who I was.

Life has a way of doing that to us if we’re not careful.

Ongoing pressures, our woundedness, the hidden desires to be important or seen or loved often drive us to take roads we were never meant to take.

We begin to pretend that we are people we never intended to be.

We feign arrogance. We run after anything that offers a shot of dopamine, whether it is sex, or accomplishments, or fame or addiction. We chase after approval. We compromise in order to feel accepted. We wilt under our fears and hide because of our shame.

We forget who we are.

And we need to be reminded.

In “Cinderella Man” Mae reminds her husband that he is the “Bulldog of Bergen.”  He is the guy that has never quit…..not in the ring and not in life. He is the hero of his children…..that he is a man of integrity and whether he is wealthy or barely able to provide milk for the family, that he is still his kids’ hero. She reminded him that his example was inspiring hope for so many who were fighting through the misery of the Great Depression and, most of all, he was the champion of her heart.

She reminded him of who he was…….and it was exactly what he needed to hear.

Mufasa? He brought a similar and much-needed message to Simba, his son. Simba, after losing his dad and blaming himself, had drifted in the life of “hakuna matata”….the life of no worries and no responsibilities. Mufasa reminded Simba that he was not born for frivolity….that he was the son of the king!

Simba, too, needed the reminder.

Sometimes so do we.

This life can beat us down over the course of time. We take punch after punch and try to hang on. And sometimes we lose ourselves in strategies that are either about escape or merely survival.

We start with so many hopes. We dream of making a difference. Of love and legacy.

But somewhere along the way, between our own choices and the painful choices of others, we lose our way…we forget who we are.

And we need a reminder.

A reminder that our identity is NOT wrapped up in our worst moments.

That we are not defined by our failures.

That no matter how worn down we are, or how far we have drifted……we are something MORE.

But maybe remembering who we are is not simply about becoming better versions of ourselves. Maybe it is about remembering the things that were true before we lost our way.

I am the son of Harry Welch. My father’s son.  That means something to me. I carry pieces of him in me, some that I recognize and probably others that I don’t. I am a husband, a dad, and a grandpa.  I still want to be the kind of man my wife can respect and the kind of father my kids can look at and be proud to call their dad. I want to be their hero.

But even as I write those words, I realize that I haven’t always been heroic. I haven’t always been the man I wanted to be. There have been times when I have failed my kids, disappointed my wife, and hurt the people I love. There have been seasons when I drifted far from the man I was called to be.

But, honestly, I guess that’s the point.

If my identity depends entirely on how well I perform, then I am always one bad decision, one failure, or one terrible season away from losing myself again.

And this is where my faith matters so deeply to me. I believe that underneath all of the other names I carry; husband, dad, grandpa,  pastor, counselor, friend, there is one that I definitely didn’t earn.

I am God’s son.

I don’t say that because I have always lived like it. I haven’t. I don’t say it because I have somehow earned His approval. I haven’t done that either. I say it because His grace promises that my worst moments don’t get the final word about who I am.

Maybe that is what remembering really looks like. It isn’t pretending the failures didn’t happen. It isn’t going back and becoming the person we were before life went awry.

It certainly doesn’t mean we convince ourselves that we have been the hero in every chapter of our story.

Perhaps it is remembering that underneath the scars, the mistakes, the shame, and even the accomplishments, there is still someone there worth finding again.

Mae walked into that dressing room and reminded James Braddock that he was still the Bulldog of Bergen. Mufasa reminded Simba that he was still the son of the king. Maybe sometimes we need someone to do the same for us, to look past everything that has happened, everything we have done and everything that has been done to us, and remind us of something we have forgotten.

I think that is why that scene in Cinderella Man gets me every single time.

Because I understand what it feels like to forget. I know what it is like to lose sight of the man I wanted to be and, at times, even the man I already was. And I know what it feels like to need someone who knows me well to look me in the eye and help me remember.

Maybe that is something all of us need from time to time. Not someone to tell us that we have never failed or that every choice we have made has been the right one. We need people who know our stories, who have seen our best and our worst, and who can  remind us that our worst chapter is not the whole story.

And for me, somewhere underneath all of those reminders is the voice of a Father who has never forgotten who I am, even during the times when I have.

Maybe that is why the questions I started with still matter so much to me.

Who am I really? And what have I forgotten?