Confessions of a Self-Important Man

Brief Update

2012-02-01T23:39:00.002-05:00

Last weekend went as well as anyone could have expected, really. I went through a fair amount of gut-churning on the drive north towards my grandparents' place, and the fact that their Mennonite retirement home forbids alcohol on the premises meant that I wouldn't even be able to drink my way through the awkwardness.

But I was greeted warmly at the door by my mom's brother, and the cousins were glad to see me. My grandfather had left the room briefly to fetch my great uncle from down the hall, but I went up and greeted my grandmother, who seemed stronger than I expected her to look. She also seemed glad to see me, and glad to have everyone* around her.

On my grandfather's return, he got a quick hug and we exchanged a few words. I talked with grandmom about our new house and the improvements we'd been making. My cousin B and her husband have three adopted kids from Liberia. One's in fourth grade (J), one in second (P), and one in kindergarten (G). J started playing around on the piano in the corner, and someone mentioned to him that I played. He came up to me where I was having a conversation with my cousin, K.

"Excuse me, but can you play the piano?"

"Sure. Let me finish this conversation and I'll come over and play."

"Okay." He waited patiently for about ten seconds while he studied my hands, which were at eye level.

"You look like you're married."

There was a moment of silence while I considered what to say and K waited. J looked at the ring on my right hand. I pounced on the opportunity to divert.

"My parents gave me this ring when I graduated from high school."

"What about this ring?" he asked, pointing to my left hand. Diversion failed.

Another moment of silence, and then, "Well, that is my marriage ring."

He considered. "So... where is your wife?"

More silence. I thought K was going to crack up.

Finally I caved and lied. "Couldn't make it."

"Oh," J said, and glibly trotted away.

"Good answer," K said. "I think he actually does know about you in theory. I just don't think he's made the connection."

It's the second time I've been asked by someone that age about my marriage. The first time was the neighbor boy at my parents' house. I briefly tried to explain my marriage to him, and when he looked like he thought I would next say say that his pet dog was a spy sent to murder him in his sleep, I ended the conversation with, "You can just think of us as friends, if that's easier."

I hate lying. I hate lying about my marriage, and I hate lying to children. I want to practice authenticity and truth, and somehow pulling the wool over kids' eyes, while immediately convenient, seems to miss an opportunity to make a positive change for the world's future at its beginning. At the same time, I don't want to be disrespectful or presumptuous about what other people's children should or should not know. Lord knows I won't want someone else to do so with mine some day. So, for the moment, I'm stuck.

Anyway, the day went pretty well, and my mom thought my grandparents were glad to have me there. I know my cousins were.

On my way out the door, I gave my grandfather a hug and told him I loved him.

"I love you too," he said, and he took my shoulder firmly and looked me in the eye. "But sometimes I get so angry with you for the pain you're causing your parents. You're causing them so much pain."

I didn't know what to say, so I just said, "I hear you."

It was really uncomfortable. I felt scolded, which may be less his intention and more my perpetual-child complex. I guess it's good that he was able to express himself honestly for a moment. It's progress, considering he hasn't expressed himself at all to me in three years. I'd love for him to be open to me expressing myself at some point. He heard me say, "I'm gay," but that's when he stopped listening. I want to tell him about the journey I've taken to be where I am today, but I fear it will sound like equivocation and attempts to justify. If it can't be communicated in a thirty-minute sermon, it's probably not "truth." And there's no way I'm going to effectively communicate my story in three bullet points.

* My mom's sister and her family did not attend. When they heard I would be present, they apparently gave my mom a pretty hard time about feeling "excluded" from grandmom's birthday because I had been invited. Their solitary self-exclusion is so sad that I can hardly feel angry at them. I think they're realizing how a policy of shunning and excommunication finally ends, but I don't know if they actually see where the problem lies.

Seeing Grandmom

2012-01-23T21:39:00.002-05:00

I'm going to visit my grandmother this weekend. This is the grandmother I haven't seen since I came out to her and my grandfather in 2009 and they told me... well, they said some things I'd rather forget. Their hard stance, along with that of my aunt's family, have meant that I haven't seen that side of the family since Christmas 2008. (Well, that's not true. We all saw each other at my brother's wedding in 2010. But that's about all we did with each other.)

Since that time, my grandmom's health has declined significantly, both physically and mentally. Her memory has been fading for several years, and each physical setback seems to disrupt it even more. She's been in something of a downward spiral now for about six months. It's been hard to sit back and hear about it second-hand without really being able to be involved. I've spoken to her on the phone a couple of times, usually when she's landed in the hospital during one of the setbacks, and these talks are cordial and pleasant. Honestly, I don't know how much or how often she remembers our last face-to-face conversation. Despite the fact that she and my grandfather said they wouldn't see me, she always asks when they'll see me next, or whether I'll be at the upcoming family function. I sometimes wonder if she even remembers that I'm married or gay. Does she live in a perpetual state of thinking, "Gee, it's been a while since we've seen Heath. I hope he'll be at Christmas"?

I wouldn't say I'm nervous about seeing her. If she does remember the details of my life, I doubt she'll bring them up. She's not confrontational. I imagine it will be difficult seeing her in a wheelchair. I think she's lost a lot of ground since I saw her last, and I'm trying to prepare myself for a different woman than I remember.

I'm a little more nervous about seeing my grandfather. He gave his consent to my visit, but I don't think he's excited about it. I don't think he knows how to interact or respond to me. I'm hoping there will be enough people around that we don't have to interact too much. I think it will be useful for us just to be in the same room, so that he can see that I haven't changed so much.

Thankfully, there should be a lot of people there. My brothers will probably join my parents, and my uncle's family may have several people there. Since it's grandmom's birthday this weekend, it seemed like a good idea to get everyone together. Which raises the question of what my aunt's family will decide to do. My mom is telling them about the get-together and leaving their participation to them. Three years ago they wrote me and said that if I attended family Christmas, they wouldn't. Primarily out of deference to my grandparents who had said the same thing, I didn't show up. But now the tables have turned. Grandmom and Grandpop want to see me. Most of my other cousins have expressed that they really want to see both me and D. And so we're all getting together, and my aunt and her husband will have to decide whether it's worth it to take Paul literally when he says, "With such a one, do not even eat" (1 Corinth. 5:11). The problem with holding principles over people is that you eventually end up hurting those you love. So now they are forced to choose between boycotting my grandmother's 83rd birthday party so they can keep a clear conscience, or bending in love towards me, her, and the rest of our family.

It should be an interesting weekend.

Unfriend? Defriend?

2012-01-15T16:04:00.001-05:00

I Hope, Sir, that we are not mutually Un-friended by
this Difference which hath happened betwixt us.

T. Fuller Let. P. Heylyn in Appeal Injured Innoc. iii

Dictionaries made headlines a few years ago by deciding to add "friend" as a verb. Purists and fuddy-duddies bewailed the degradation of language in the face of tyrannical technology, forgetting that the word had been (albeit somewhat infrequently) used as a verb since the thirteenth century. So while my conscience is somewhat eased in using it (I won't tell you whether I'm a purist or a fuddy-duddy), I still grieve a little at the passing of befriend, and similarly-prefixed words that are just more fun than their more straightforward counterparts: bedazzle, bemoan, besmirch, bebloody...

But the OED is decidedly less progressive when it comes to giving us the opposite of this verb. Does one defriend someone, or unfriend them? Random House, and other apostate collections of words, tell us that to unfriend someone is to remove them from one's list of friends on a social networking site, which of course we all knew. But if I want to know what it actually means to unfriend someone, I'm bemused.

I recently discovered that I have been unfriended by someone I've written about before. I used to feel relatively close to this person, but when his marriage fell apart and he started seeing someone else fairly quickly thereafter (IMHO), our friendship hit a rough patch, too. We didn't see much of each other for a while (partly because I was gone all summer), I missed two social events at his new home (due to prior obligations), and our last conversation was about my discomfort around his new beau. I tried to make it very clear that I was (A) not avoiding him, and (B) not saying I would not accept him in his new life journey. I merely tried to be honest and say that I was not moving as quickly through the aftermath of his divorce as he was.

So now I'm unfriended. I don't know exactly what this means. I sometimes laugh about how people who've known each other for years aren't "officially" friends until they're friends on facebook, mocking the idea that our online status somehow measures up to a real (i.e., in-person) relationship. But the fact of the matter is that it does hurt in real life to find out I've been cut off. And I don't know what to make of it. Are we no longer friends at all? If so, what did I do to deserve this? Are we still friends, but somehow not close enough for me to be part of your friend list? If so, what great feats of friendship does one have to perform to merit a spot on such an elite list? I know people have different criteria for maintaining their list of friends, but I really feel like I would qualify under most people's standards.

The last explanation I can think of (and the one that seems somewhat likely for this individual) is that I've been slashed as part of a "new chapter in his life" culling of relationships. I haven't been particularly involved in his life since his divorce (for the reasons above), and maybe my lack of involvement simply unfortunately coincided with a moment of relational simplification in his life -- a cutting down the emotional output to the essential people. If that's the case, I think it's unfortunate, but perhaps necessary. Because if I'm honest, part of the reason I've had little contact with him lately is because his own journey and decisions have required a level of emotional engagement from me that I have been hesitant or unwilling to deliver. I have, perhaps, not met his requirements for what a good friend should be at this moment in his story, and perhaps he's just willing to pull the plug on something that I would've let go for a while longer.

At any rate, it saddens and confuses me.

Oh, and I think the OED should form a committee to determine the exact meaning of "unfriend" for it's next edition.

Discovery of the Day

2011-12-30T12:03:00.002-05:00

In 2005, my family took an unprecedented trip to Italy. We spent three days touring Rome, and one magnificent week in a villa in Panzano in Chianti in Tuscany. The village was tiny, and we were practically the only Americans there. It was lovely.

One day toward the end of our week, we bumped into another American couple who were also roaming the streets. We got to talking with them, and the wife and I connected over our shared interest of Creative Writing. She tore off a small strip of paper and wrote her name, Louise DeSalvo, along with some books she suggested I look up, and then we parted ways. When I got home, I researched her and discovered that she is one of the bigwigs at the Creative Writing MFA program at Hunter College in NYC. I ordered one of her books, Writing As a Way of Healing, and it has been invaluable to me both in my own writing and as I teach others how to write creative nonfiction.

I connected with Louise by letter in 2007 as I was going through a challenging time of self-definition. She remembered our Italian meeting fondly. Now, as I think about what lies in my future, I was reminded of Louise and her career as a Virginia Woolf scholar, a writer, and a teacher. This morning I wrote her another letter thanking her for her continued influence, along with several questions about her own life.

I also discovered her blog, where she is currently detailing her struggle against cancer. I've only read the first few entries, but they instantly reminded me of why I love Louise's writing: she has a gift for incisively cutting to the heart of human experience - the "shoulds" that govern our daily existence, the delicate balance between preparing for life and realizing that we can never be prepared for life. I was also pleased to read her brief quote from Joseph Brodsky's Watermark, wherein he describes his own career:

By the cumulative effect of what I’ve been doing over the years, I am a writer; by trade however, I am an academic, a teacher.

Maybe that will be my own story when all is said and done.

At any rate, I was so pleased to find Louise's blog, that I thought I would share it with you. May it inspire, challenge, and comfort you the way it has me.

WritingALife

Christmas Song

2011-12-27T19:35:00.002-05:00

Favorite Christmas song for 2011: Dave Matthews Band, "Christmas Song"

She was his girl; he was her boyfriend
She'd be his wife and make him her husband
A surprise on the way, any day, any day
One healthy little giggling dribbling baby boy
The wise men came, three made their way
To shower him with love
While he lay in the hay
Shower him with love love love
Love love love
Love love was all around

Not very much of his childhood was known
Kept his mother Mary worried
Always out on his own
He met another Mary who for a reasonable fee,
less than reputable was known to be.

His heart full of love love love
Love love love
Love love was all around

When Jesus Christ was nailed to his tree
Said, Oh, Daddy-o, I can see how it all soon will be
I came to shed a little light on this darkening scene
Instead I fear I've spilled the blood of our children all around
The blood of our children all around
The blood of our children's all around

So I'm told, so the story goes
The people he knew were
Less than golden hearted
Gamblers and Robbers
Drinkers and Jokers, all soul searchers
Like you and me
Like you and me

Rumors insisted he soon would be
For his deviations
Taken into custody
By the authorities less informed than he.
Drinkers and Jokers all soul searchers
Searching for love love love
Love love love
Love love was all around

Preparations were made
For his celebration day
He said, Eat this bread and think of it as me
Drink this wine and dream it will be
The blood of our children all around
The blood of our children's all around
The blood of our children all around

Father up above, why in all this anger do you fill
Me up with love, love, love
Love love love
Love love was all around
Father up above, why in all this hatred do you fill
Me up with love, fill me love love love
Love love love
all you need is love
you can't buy me love
Love love love
Love love
And the blood of our children's all around

Tea

2011-10-14T21:11:00.001-04:00

I know that tea is no minor beverage. when tea becomes ritual, it takes its place at the hear of our ability to see greatness in small things. Where is beauty to be found? In great things that, like everything else, are doomed to die, or in small things that aspire to nothing, yet know how to set a jewel of infinity in a single moment?

The tea ritual: such a precise repetition of the same gestures and the same tastes; accession to simple, authentic and refined sensations, a license given to all, at little cost, to become aristocrats of taste, because tea is the beverage of the wealthy and of the poor; the tea ritual, therefore, has the extraordinary virtue of introducing into the absurdity of our lives an aperture of serene harmony. Yes, the world may aspire to vacuousness, lost souls mourn beauty, insignificance surrounds us. Then let us drink a cup of tea. Silence descends, one hears the wind outside, autumn leaves rustle and take flight, the cat sleeps in a warm pool of light. And, with each swallow, time is sublimed.

The Elegance of the Hedgehog
Muriel Barbery

R.I.P. Steve Jobs

2011-10-05T21:21:00.002-04:00

Steve Jobs, founder and resuscitator of Apple, Inc., passed away today at the age of fifty-six after a long fight with pancreatic cancer. The news came out of nowhere this evening, as Jobs has been publicly invisible since he stepped down from Apple in August. Perhaps the surprise is one reason why it hit me (and to judge from facebook, many others) so hard. As I read the brief, monochromatic press release on Apple's website, I felt the kind of gravitous grief I can imagine feeling if the President had suddenly passed away (without all the accompanying anxiety, for obvious reasons).

Steve Jobs impacted the life of every American (and people from most every other corner of the world) in the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries. Whether, like my family, you owned one of the original Apple computers in the '80s, or you came to them in their iIncarnation, or you take advantage of the mobile technology Apple pioneered, or you merely enjoy the GUI (graphic user interface) technology that Microsoft later stole for Windows, the way you do business and interact with the world at large is what it is because of Steve Jobs.

Apple's technology is awesome, but their comeback is even more impressive. Jobs' leadership there before and after his twelve-year "hiatus" (and the company's struggles in his absence) should be standard studies for every business school in the nation. Of course, few would deny that Jobs possessed a spark of genius, the kind that isn't replicated in business classes or textbooks. Apple users attest to the joy of working with devices and software that "simply work," to quote one previous marketing campaign, and make us wonder, "Why is it so hard for other companies to do things like this?"

Maybe it's our love affairs with our Apple devices that makes us feel Steve Jobs' death as if we were somehow connected to him. Not unlike our President, his influence is felt in nearly every home in America and beyond. His death marks the end of an era; Jobs has been one of the founders of the personal computing epoch since its inception. We know it will go on, but what it will look like, no one knows.

So rest in peace, Steve Jobs. Thank you for the beauty you brought to this world. May your passing inspire us to emulate your creativity.

Rowan Williams gets it right

2011-02-19T10:32:00.000-05:00

Stumbled upon this thanks to my friend, Christopher. I think Rowan is right: If get in the habit of hanging absolutely everything touching orthodoxy or acceptability on one theological tenet (sexuality or otherwise), we will cut short all meaningful theological dialogue, the kind that gave birth to many of the very orthodox beliefs we hold today.

Ours is a time in which it is depressingly easy to make this or that issue a test of Christian orthodoxy in such a way as to make wholly suspect the theology of anyone disagreeing on the issue in question; in other words, the possibility is neglected that Christians beginning from the same premises and convictions may yet come to different conclusions about particular matters without thereby completely voiding the commonness of their starting-point. It is really a matter of having a language in which to disagree rather than speaking two incompatible or mutually exclusive tongues. Of late, attitudes toward sexuality have come to be seen as a clear marker of orthodoxy or unorthodoxy in many circles; and it is true that there are plenty of people for whom the casting of ‘traditional’ or even scriptural norms to do with certain kinds of sexual behavior is part of a general program of emancipation from the constraints of what they conceive to be orthodoxy, part of a package that might include a wide-ranging relativism, pluralism in respect of other faiths, agnosticism about various aspects of doctrine or biblical narrative, and so on. However, it seems to me that the St Andrew’s Day Statement, beginning as it does with proposed principles for theological discussion, recognizes that the assumption that revisionism on one questions entails wholesale doctrinal or ethical relativism is dangerous for the future of reasoned Christian disagreement of a properly theological character.

From “Knowing Myself in Christ” in The Way Forward?: Christian Voices on Homosexuality, edited by Timothy Bradshaw

Visions of Folly Dance in My Head

2011-01-02T19:21:00.001-05:00

I've just launched a new, nutty endeavor over at my other, formerly-useless blog. Feel free to check it daily, sometimes, or never. For mercy's sake, I decided not to make this blog the host of my daily dish.

Happy new year, everyone!

2011-01-02T15:21:00.000-05:00

A squirrel on a wire

racing me (walking my dog)

knocks drops on us both

Honeymoon: Day 5

2010-12-26T22:19:00.000-05:00

Saturday, August 21, 11:30 p.m.
Rochegude

    Another full day! Every day we start off by saying we will take it easy, then we come up with what we think are modest itineraries, then we spend the entire day finding one little side road, one little hilltop village, or one little vigneron after another, and pretty soon the day is gone and we’re on our way back home! This surprisingly active agenda has an upside: we’re finally ready to eat dinner around 8:00, instead of 6:00! It’s nice feeling hunger pangs and realizing that there are actually places open!
    We started off today at the town of Orange — a real town, instead of the villages that pepper this countryside. The town came complete with traffic jams (the first we’ve seen in France), so we spent about a half-hour crawling into town before we parked and hoofed it into the old historic center. Orange has two main attractions: le théâtre antique and l’arc de triomphe (the original, after which l’arc parisien was modeled). Both date back to the Romans, and both are amazingly preserved after 2000 years! The theater is still in use, and people gather from all over the world to come and watch operas (or Pink Floyd reviews, as all the posters around town were advertising). The arc depicts scenes of conquest and Roman influence, some of which can still be seen along the panels of the massive arc. And at the rate of traffic around the arc, drivers should have plenty of time to appreciate every angle!
    Next it was off to Chateauneuf-du-Pape, the celebrated wine domaine named for the popes who summered at the chateau and contributed to the cultivation of the wine there. Not much remains of the chateau itself (about one and a half exterior walls), but the village just below is as perfectly quaint as one could hope for! Half the streets are impassible for cars, and you can’t go half a block without running into at least two salles de degustation, the wine tasting and sales rooms of the 300+ vintners that make up Chateauneuf-du-Pape. Our biggest challenge of the day (aside from trying to find a patisserie in Orange at the moment we wanted one, strangely) was deciding which of the wineries to try! We planned to taste just two of them; we ended stopping in at four before they all closed for the evening! We also made a stop at the musée du vin, a small gallery of exhibits on viticulture and the history of French winemaking.
    Toward evening, we hopped back in the Panda and made our way back to Rochegude. We decided to try out the local, moderately priced Café du Cours, which, we had been told, had decent food, but terrible service. The judgment was well-deserved. We arrived at the restaurant around 8:15 and didn’t pay for our check till after 10:15. Two waiters seemed to be responsible for the entire restaurant, and they didn’t seem to have any kind of system for checking on tables regularly. Thankfully, we were in no hurry, and the extra time merely gave us a chance to appreciate and digest our meal à la française, as well as look at our pictures for the day. Our tummies were tickled with the brouchette (skewers of chunky pork and pieces of sausage), frites (fries which were surprisingly good), and salad with a Dijon dressing. That was followed by a small plate of cheeses, and a magnificent dessert of peaches over top vanilla ice cream, covered by Chantilly cream. All was accompanied by a half bottle of wine, of course! Scrumptious!
    Midnight, and time for bed! Tomorrow, it’s up to Mont Ventoux, the second-highest mountain in France! Let’s hope the Panda (and my manual transmission skills) are up to it!

On the benefits of sleeping together

2010-12-26T22:04:00.000-05:00

(This post is not about sex.)

D and I slept together this weekend. This is, perhaps, hardly remarkable for a couple still in their first year of marriage, until you consider that we spent this weekend at my parents' house.

I'll let that sink in for just a moment.

Our society doesn't talk a whole lot about the phenomenon of sharing your sleeping space with someone. This is probably because the only time the actual sharing is worth writing home about (or, actually, not) is when it serves merely as a precondition to sex, and is therefore overshadowed by the act. Public opinion would seem to hold sexless sharing as a nonevent.

Nevertheless, the vast majority of time in shared sleeping space is spent doing things besides having sex: primarily lying unconscious, but also a significant (if brief) window of time in which two people lay next to one another in dark or light, in silence or speech, and simply share space consciously. This window generally goes by the name Pillow Talk.

I never really knew how important Pillow Talk was until I missed it. I grew up with my own bedroom, so chatting till I dozed off was never an option, and even now I'm typically a 11:00-shutdown kind of guy. I'm sorry to say that anything deep or meaningful you wish to share with me will need to be wrapped up by about 10:50, at which time I will gradually and involuntarily stop caring.

But in that short space of time before I pass out, so much can happen! Resentments get aired and healed, suppressed anxieties find expression and relief, appreciation and love are voiced, and partners can luxuriate in the quiet, steady rhythms of shared breath and heartbeat. These are deep communications that we share with no one else, often at no other time than when the frenetic buzz of life quiets and people sequester themselves from the rest of the world behind heavy doors and down comforters -- a moment when we may realize that underneath all the noise and glitz, there are foundational elements of existence -- physical, emotional, spiritual, and relational -- that can only be shared against a backdrop of silence.

In the first years of my relationship with D, visits to our parents' houses necessitated separate sleeping quarters (a reasonable request, given our unmarried status). But as we marched closer and closer to our wedding day and became, for all intents and purposes, married, the imposed separation felt more and more a burden, primarily because visits home (particularly to my home) were stressful and taxing on us as a couple. There were often long, four-party talks with the parents about theology, sin, emotion (expressed or suppressed), or extended-family angst about the fact that D and I love each other. After these negotiations, the mind wants a space to be with your strongest ally and partner in order to recuperate and re-energize. But without Pillow Talk, carving out that space meant awkwardly separating yourself from the rest of the group to process quietly somewhere, an option which is largely dependent on weather.

My brother's wedding was probably the most stressful family gathering I've ever experienced, if not in the actual play-out, then at least in the lead-up. It was the first time I saw my mom's parents since they cut off contact with me after I told them I was gay. It was the first time I saw my mom's sister's family since Christmas 2008, after which they, too, had severed contact. It was the first time D would see any of them (I would say meet, except that no introductions occurred). And somehow we would all stay together in one (albeit very large) house for the weekend and be happy for the couple.

I had all kinds of anxiety going into that weekend, but one major arrangement alleviated a great deal of pressure: upon arrival, we learned that D and I had been placed in the same bedroom of the mansion... with three other cousins, yes. But in the same room! We could handle whatever drama would surface that weekend if we knew we could just process it together at the end of the day and put it behind us!

In the long run, the arrangement worked out better than anyone imagined: the band had bailed at the last moment, leaving one bedroom unoccupied, and other people had migrated into our assigned room, leaving us with the appealing option of commandeering the band's room. At the end of the day, we had our own room and bathroom, a real bed, and the privacy to unwind and decompress with Pillow Talk. I still marvel at how good it felt to be treated like a real couple (even accidentally).

After the wedding and honeymoon, I thanked my brother for putting us in the same room and told him how much it meant to us. He surprised me by saying that it was my mom who had placed us!

I confess that I don't really know what to do with the generosity my parents show us these days. Sad to say, I had grown accustomed to battling them for every ounce of acceptance of our relationship, and had learned how to live on tidbits and morsels of recognition of us as a couple, such D being included in the family gift exchange, a brief hello via me on the phone, etc. But since our own wedding, my parents have not just improved their treatment of us incrementally; they've treated us like we're a whole new couple -- like a real couple. It sometimes leaves me feeling awkward, uncertain of what to do with the gift they've just placed in our hands. Like an abused animal, I shy away from unexpected kindness, fearful of accepting it for what it is, afraid to let my guard down.

We had no expectations of sharing a bed this weekend. After all, there were nine people (four couples + 1), three dogs, and three cats in my parents' three-bedroom house. I expected that we would be crashing on sleeping bags on the living room floor, probably in the company of my brother and 1-6 animals. So when bedtime came on Friday and my parents suggested that D and I take the double air mattress in my brother's room, I was shocked. Again, afraid of the gift, I demurely accepted and we settled in upstairs, leaving the living room to my brother and his wife. (Don't worry bro, you can have the mattress next time.)

As we lay there in the dark, falling asleep, we took moment of our Pillow Talk to appreciate the significance of our situation. There we were on Christmas Eve, sharing a bed in my parents' home. And I hadn't even had to ask for it.

A few more pieces of my sometimes-fractured world came together that night as I drifted off.

Soul Forecast

2010-11-28T21:13:00.000-05:00

I’ve been feeling moody for the past 24-48 hours. Why? Great question.

It seems to be the case that other people have always known me better than I know myself. I say “it seems” because that realization (like every other) came slowly upon me, and I still hope from time to time to discover that I’m really ahead of the pack on the one subject that matters, that I can will someday be able to say to my challenger, “Aha, you see, you don’t know me very well!” or to say to my partner, “Let me explain why I am feeling so upset.” But I am currently caught behind a tide of information that seems to break on everyone else so early. In high school I was left defending myself to the bullies, denying their jeering allegations that I was gay, insisting (and honestly believing) that my single and untemptable status was the product of either my superior morality or God’s superabundant grace toward me. I was left to discover, a good decade behind the rest of the bunch, that indeed, I was neither straight nor supremely untemptable, and that my self-ignorance was making my morality into a mockery.

Nowadays I’m no longer trying to hide my crossed legs or my French scarves, but I am still caught unawares by the unpredictable patterns of my own spirit. Better than any meteorologist, D is consistently able to pick up on any perturbance in my heart a good three days before the storm finally breaks. But for those three days, when he asks me, “It's going to storm, isn't it?” I blithely respond, “No!” because it’s not pouring at that exact second.

It’s inexpressibly frustrating to be consistently wrong about yourself. To have someone be able to predict not just your next move or next mood, but to be able to identify a core characteristic of you before you have any clue.

Maybe I have too much invested in knowing all the answers. Maybe the reason this bothers me is not because people know things I don’t (after all, I make the same judgments and predictions about other people, and I’m often right), but because I pretend to know the answer. When my classmates asked me, “Are you gay?” my response was not, “I’m on a journey to answer that question,” but instead an emphatic “No!” When D asks me, “Are you upset about something?” most often the answer I give is, “No! Why?” I feel a pressure to be generally agreeable unless something explicit is bothering me.

But the problem goes deeper than just not knowing the source of my moods. It’s not just that I don’t know why my skies are clouding over. (After all, I may not know why the actual sky is darkening, but I can generally tell that it is doing so.) But to the weather of my heart, I seem incomparably blind, unable to sense a hurricane until the moment I feel the first drops of rain.

This bothers me for two reasons. First, I’ve always prized self-knowledge. My Myers-Briggs type is an INFJ, but sometimes I feel like the most dimwitted NF on the scale. Not only is there some secular, Delphic value in knowing yourself well, but there’s also a Christian virtue attached to the concept. The actions of repentance and the process of redemption and growth necessitate some amount of self-knowledge, since I can hardly “rethink” the patterns of my life unless I know them. David prays several times that God would search him and know his heart, and I used to think that he did that out of some kind of challenge to God, a sort of, “I’ll bet you can’t find anything askew in me!” But now I wonder if when David prays, “Search me, God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me” (Ps. 139) there shouldn’t be a parenthetical claim, “(‘cause You know I haven’t got a clue, God!”). David was called a man after God’s own heart. Did he know that’s what he was? I feel like I can probably identify with David after he sleeps with Bathsheeba. My guess is that his first thought after his conversation with Nathan was, “WOAH! Where the hell did that come from? Am I so blind to the skies of my heart that I couldn’t see this deluge of passion coming?”

The second reason my self-ignorance bothers me is that I unconsciously take out my unacknowledged frustration on others (read: D). It would be one thing if the foretold storms didn’t affect me until they actually broke, but the fact is that they begin oppressing the atmosphere of my soul well beforehand (which is why D notices them). Like in the rising humidity and barometric pressure before a massive summer storm, I become increasingly uncomfortable in my own spirit a few days before the thunder breaks and we see what is causing the discomfort. But during those few days, I’m a fairly miserable human being to be around. I get cranky, irascible, and anti-social, but without any identifiable cause. I don’t know what I’m upset about, and in general (like in the unbearable summer humidity), I feel upset at the world at large. (This, of course, gets directed at the easiest target, which happens to be D. Lucky boy.)

Usually, when I’m feeling vaguely upset about something, it’s because I’ve been mulling over family issues in my subconscious, and the stress is finally starting to bubble to the surface. And maybe that’s what’s happening this time, too.

Last winter I spent the better part of four months in the biggest funk of my life. I was perpetually moody, unable to discover why, and impotent to shake it off. I feel a bit ridiculous in saying so, but the possibility of S.A.D. has crossed my mind a few times. I’m hoping and praying this current bout isn’t my psyche’s reaction to the colder weather and shorter days. I won’t be spending another winter languishing like last year. Maybe it’s time to pick up some St. John’s Wort...

Honeymoon: Day 4

2010-11-26T11:31:00.000-05:00

To my dear, faithful readers (all three of you):
I'm sorry I've been lax about posting the remainder of our honeymoon log. The rest will be coming over the next few days, and then I'll work on some non-honeymoon related things. For now, here's Day 4, told from D's perspective.

HF

     We’ve just returned from a rather full day in which we managed to accomplish everything we set out to do, and without Heath getting grumpy! To be fair to my dear husband, he is the one who has had to shoulder the better part of the grunt work, being the only one who can drive stick (and there’s no way we were going to get an automatic with its considerable expense), and who can speak French fluently. I, on the other hand, must sit back, and trust him to get us where we need to be, and get us the things we need. I was ruminating last night about how frustrating this is for me, as Heath was going on and on and on with the 2 clerks at the pizzeria, while I’m just standing there looking stupid. Eventually, I grew weary of attempting to pick up the thrust of their conversation, as they were droning too fast. I gave up, sat down, and waited for my report. Despite the fact that they had a nearly three minute conversation, the snapshot Heath gave me was about 5 seconds. Major frustration. I feel so out of the loop. But I suppose it’s a lesson in humility for me. And it’s also great motivation to learn French! I really hope to take some classes at the community college or something.
    It’s not all frustration though. For the first time today, I felt comfortable ordering my food (I got a very yummy crepe, which I’ve been craving for some time!) It was at this point that I started to recognize that I generally can figure out what’s what when I read (I’m a visual learner, so this is no surprise . . . I read Spanish fluently!) But I’m also starting to understand a little bit of what people are saying, especially in context. Again, no surprise here. The receptive language centers of the brain are highly developed, so people generally start to understand a language before they are able to speak it. But I still really on my dear hubby to do nearly all the communicating, and he’s been doing a great job of it! It’s so sexy to see that most people assume he’s good with the language. It’s only after they see him speaking with me that they wonder whether or not they should start using their English.
    Anyway, the day was jam-packed with cool things! We set out to Suze la Rousse in search of their open market, which was disappointingly small. Then we got some brunch (very nice chicken panini from a boulangerie/patisserie. We wanted to visit the glorious Château Suze la Rousse, but it was closed - as has been our luck all along. We cannot get used to this French time system! It would be reopening in a couple of hours, so we walked through the massive campus, then through the town a bit. A very cute village marked by the typical ancient structures, and a few upgrades throughout to fit the modern inhabitants. Next we went in search of a famed Stone Age village somewhere around Saint Paul Trois Chateaux in a village called Barry. We, of course, got lost, but managed to glimpse a good vineyard we hoped to return to, and got some groceries along with the aforementioned crepes. We eventually found our way up the mountain, to the village. It was - in a word - EXQUISITE! Not only did we get a good workout with a decent hike up through the various trails, but Heath also managed to get me to conquer my maternally-inherited anxiety, and do things I never would have done without him! For example, the circular trails all pretty much led to the same place, but the way in which we started off was a bit too sinuous without much visual return for the work. We decided to go the way which was marked prohibited, due to rockslides. There’s no way in God’s green earth that I would have ever done this on my own (or with anyone else prone to precaution as I), but Heath - in an uncharacteristically brazen bucking of the law - had us go up that way.
The views were - as you can imagine - breathtaking, but what was most fascinating of all were the cave structures! You can literally trace how man had lived in the region starting some 20,000 years ago in the Stone Age (with simple, carved out structures in the rock), to protohistoric villages built into the mountains! And even within the villages, you see how they start off as less sophisticated dwellings, to more modern fixtures like hearths, and roofs, and churches! Out of this world amazing!!
    By the time we hiked back down, we figured there’d be no way there would be any vineyards open for wine tastings, but to our amazement, the place we had scouted earlier (the Chateau de Borie) was indeed open, and we tasted some delicious Cotes du Rhones! And then we bought two. Our plan is to go to a vineyard every day until we leave, and buy 2 wines: one for dinner later that night, and one to take home :)
    Finally, we drove back through St. Paul Trois Chateau on our way home, and wondered whether the chateau was still open. We arrived at the gift shop to purchase tickets, and asked whether we had enough time to tour the castle. She stated we did, and we both wondered if we’d really get our money’s worth (7 Euro) with only 20 minutes left! But we blazed through that place like California wildfire, and managed to git’er done! It was actually a very lovely tour, complete with one of the most detailed, ornate courtyards in all of Provence, and we left feeling like we hadn’t wasted a single dime.
    All in all, this has been a fantastic day! We’re both bushed, so it’ll be nice to have a nice meal at home (mushroom ravioli with gorgonzola cream sauce - which we got from the grocery store earlier today) with a nice bottle of whine (one of the previously mentioned Cotes du Rhones).

Ravine

2010-09-30T11:23:00.001-04:00

An empty ravine marks the path

where inspiration once flowed.

I see evidence in the grooves on the banks,

in the exposed roots

of trees that once drank their fill

of its riches

and rose up as giants in the world,

strong and confident in their ability to make a change.

Now the ditch stands dry --

Vines and ferns clog its once-clear course

and the trees that so proudly proclaimed their place

have lined its bed with their dead leaves,

or fallen down, mossing into decay.

And I sit quietly beside

the memory of live and verve and being.

I rustle my leaves, take out my pen, and write.

Postcarding for Equality - A Lesson in Judgement

2010-09-20T19:27:00.000-04:00

This past week, D and I spent Tuesday evening with our state LGBT organization, volunteering to meet voters at the primaries and gauge their support for same-sex marriage. Our script was simple:

"Do you support marriage for same-sex couples?"

(If NO): "OK, have a nice day!"

(If YES): "Great! Would you be willing to sign a postcard that we could send to your legislator telling them of your support?"

This was the first activity like this we had ever done, something that was simultaneously so political and and so personal. I was really feeling some trepidation on my first few encounters, but it got easier as I went.

We were postcarding in a pretty red portion of our state. But that's not really the issue. I know lots of people who oppose same-sex marriage for some really well-articulated reasons, and I respect their educated opinion. But this poll station was in a very uneducated locale, one in which the incumbent legislators are vehemently and often unreasonably anti-gay.

Suffice it to say, there was a lot of judgment going on that day. We got responses from people that ran the gamut from "Hell, no! That's ridiculous!" to "I thought I was the only democrat in this area!" It was difficult to take the rejection from people who refused to sign, realizing that those who politely said, "Nothing personal, I just don't support it," had no idea what they were saying to me and my husband. I had to learn how to divorce myself from the personal, emotional aspect of the question very quickly, and soon learned how to ask the question like a dispassionate telephone surveyor.

There was also a lot of judgment going on in the opposite direction. It became a game among us volunteers to place bets on whether an approaching voter would be a supporter or not. Bets were made according to physical appearance, vehicle driven, choice of clothing...

And it was shocking how often we were wrong.

There were several people we had pegged as the red-neckest folks in the state (and perhaps the were), but they signed! My favorite was a couple who rode in together on a motorcycle. The guy's leather jacket had some sort of insignia on it that was designed to look like a flipped middle finger. As he approached, I asked, "Sir, do you support marriage for same-sex couples?"

He looked at me for a moment and said, "I support people mindin' their own damn business and lettin' other people do what the fuck they want."

"Umm, would you be willing to sign a postcard to that effect?"

"Yes, I would." And he signed, taking a good look at the red pen I handed him and asking, "Is this as close to pink ink as you could get?"

My favorite rejection of the evening was from an elderly couple who reminded me so much of some folks at our church. I walked up and asked, "Do you support marriage for same-sex couples?" The wife smiled and said, "No." The husband said no, then stopped and asked, "And what if I said I did?"

"Well, I'd have a postcard for you to sign to send to your legislator saying you supported it."

He looked at me confusedly. "So, are you for it, or against it?"

"For it."

He started back a bit, looked at the ground as he walked away, and muttered in a flabbergasted voice, "Well, that's terrible!" as if it had never occurred to him that someone who probably reminded him of his grandson would actually support such a thing.

And finally, my longest conversation of the evening ran with an older woman who had recently moved to the state from Arizona. We made a point of talking to voters as they left the polls, but she approached me before voting and began to rant about the poor system of informing voters in this state. She went on about how much easier it was to get information on the candidates and their issues in Arizona, and dropped that she was a registered Republican. As I chatted with her, I again felt like I was chatted up like her grandson. When she came out of the polls later on, I approached her, and asked her my question. She seemed to have a moment of understanding that this person she had just made a connection with was gay, and then told me that, while she didn't agree with gay marriage, she thought gay couples should have equal rights. She considered the postcard for a moment, and then signed.

It was a really good experience overall. I don't know how much of a difference we made, but I felt like we had done something for equality. I hope we see some results!

P.S. A final thought on judgment: I realized the next morning that part of my self-protective distancing from the personal aspect of the situation was the fact that I could judge all the people who said no and dismiss their refusal as a result of their uneducated ignorance. I got to wondering how I would react if I were doing the same activity in my own, higher-class neighborhood. How would I handle the refusal of people who looked, talked, and conducted themselves like me, yet refused to support my marriage?

Hope

2010-09-06T11:54:00.000-04:00

Yesterday at church we talked about hope. It was the second part of a two-part miniseries on the subject, centered around Romans 5.2-5:

And we rejoice in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us.

As I have listened and thought about this subject for the past few weeks, I've realized that I feel out of touch with hope in my life. Not that I feel despondent; but I guess I feel practical, rather than hopeful about life. When I think about the things I hope to see achieved or accomplished in my life, I don't feel a sense of hopeful dependence on God to bring those things about; I feel practical, like I need to analyze life in order to figure out how to make them happen. I feel cautious about that mindset, for I'm not one of those Christians who believes that God expects you not to take a step in life without first asking, "Is this your will for me?" Not that God is dispassionate or uninterested in our daily lives, but I've come to believe over the years that God expects us to develop a certain amount of maturity and perspicacity so that we are gradually living more and more in his will not because we stop and question every move we make, but because our very movements are increasingly modeled on the life and way of Christ.

I guess another way of saying it is that sometimes I feel like Christianity encourages Christians to shut off their brains and do nothing unless they have a firm mandate from God. I believe that God encourages us to use our brain towards our growth as Christians. So there's a certain element of practicality that I think is appropriate in the Christian walk. There have been times where I've said to God, "I'd like to see this happen," and I feel like I've heard God respond, "Well, how can you make that happen?"

But the realization that my current relationship to hope is distant was surprising to me. After all, I've just gone through a fairly long period of hoping and waiting on God to bring about a change of heart in my parents in time for our wedding. And there is, I think, the key to why I don't feel hopeful. My parents didn't come. And I don't feel like I've responded in a pouty way toward them or toward God, a kind of, "Well, since you didn't do what I wanted, I'm just not going to talk to you anymore!" But there was a certain point, a month or two before the wedding, when I came to terms with the fact that my parents were probably not going to be present, and I realized that I'd better grapple with the emotion of that before the wedding rather than during. And so, in order to survive the emotional pain that that brought, and to be able to enjoy what is supposed to be one of the happiest days of our lives, I gave up on the hope that my parents would be there.

I've written before about how the issues and questions of spiritual unity surrounding my orientation affect my perception of the progress of the Kingdom of Heaven: If a family can't come together despite their differences, how the hell will anyone else in the world? So my parents' non-attendance was more than just a personal or emotional disappointment; it was a spiritual disappointment. I was really hoping that our wedding would not just be a day of personal rejoicing, but also an occasion for celebrating the triumph of the way of Christ.

When I look honestly at the day, I cannot say that my parents' absence precluded a sense that the Kingdom was among us. There was certainly an awe-inspiring realization that friends, family, church family, and loved ones had gathered because they loved us. Some were there with reservations; some were there whole-heartedly. But we were well aware that the unity we experienced that day was something from God.

Nevertheless, as I sat in church yesterday, I realized that part of me had given up on hope. I felt like my main job was to figure out how to get through whatever opposition my parents or other people might put forward, but not to hope for their transformation or our reunion. And as I realized that, I wondered if I had sold God short.

For hope to mean anything, it must be long-suffering. My hope that I will get a new car this week is really no hope at all. It's just holding my breath in anticipation. There must be a deeper reality to hope, one that is prepared to weather the test of time, one that does not expect its fulfillment around every corner, and then collapse in despair when it is disappointed. I'm not used to this kind of hope. I'm so used (aren't we all?) to achieving my goals or attaining my desires within a relatively short time frame. Even if it's going to be somewhat of a long time, I'm working towards a fulfillment that I can expect at a more-or-less fixed date. But what does it mean to hope for the transformation that God brings to a heart? to a family? to a church? or to the world? How can I hope for that in a real and meaningful way even though there is very little I can do practically to achieve it within my lifetime?

I don't have the answers to these questions. But as I took communion yesterday, I realized that the challenge before me now is to continue hoping -- to hold out faith in the Kingdom of God and way of Christ despite my disappointments. Romans says that our hope is in the glory of God. Not in the transformation of my parents, or the changing of their hearts, or even in the complete unity of our church. Our hope is in the glory of God. What exactly that glory is remains difficult to pin down. I believe that, among other things, the glory of God is man fully alive (St. Irenaeus of Lyons). And full life means living from the deep wells of human emotion and feeling, including the depths of sadness and disappointment. And perhaps my impression that the Christian testimony is destroyed by the division I see in my family and church is not wholly correct (to be sure, it still ain't pretty); perhaps the Christian testimony is what happens when I continue to hold my faith in the redemptive, restorative way of Christ and his Kingdom in the very midst of this disappointment. Perhaps our current situation is not the disappointment of my faith and hope, but the opportunity to exercise it. As Paul says later, "Who hopes for what he already has?" (Romans 8.24).

I had my first opportunity to exercise that faith again immediately after church, when we had a conversation with the second couple to leave the church (that we know of) over the leadership's stance on same-sex marriage.

::sigh:: And hope does not disappoint us...

Honeymoon Log - Day 3

2010-09-06T11:11:00.000-04:00

Thursday, August 19, 11:00 p.m.

Rochegude

It is now almost three days since our last entry. Our itinerary has been so packed that we return to our lodgings after a long day — still not quite adjusted to the time change — and collapse into bed. Tonight my (Heath) internal clock has me wide awake, and while I wait for the Benedryl to kick in, I thought I’d catch up on our log. D is fast asleep upstairs.

We spent yesterday touring Chateau d’If and the isle of Frioul. After nagivating our way into the vieux port of Marseille (which was a challenge given all the construction) and finding parking (another challenge), we hopped on the first ferry to the two islands. Our first stop was Chateau d’If, the fortress made famous by Alexandre Dumas (The Count of Monte Christo). The site itself is fascinating for its legendary status, but there really isn’t a whole lot to the island or even the castle itself. There was sadly little information provided about what we were looking at, and most of the castle itself consisted of barren rooms, which we were unable to determine whether they had been prison cells or lodgings (if they were all cells, they were the best prison cells we’ve ever seen!) BUT THE VIEWS from the top of the chateau were spectacular! Marseille is an amazing city, and the mist rising off the Mediterranean, obscuring some of the cliffs near the city, gave it a mystical air as if we were looking at some enchanted isle undiscovered by the outside world. Magnifique!

We then took the ferry to our second destination, the isle of Frioul. This was more inhabited (they even had a sad little hospital (mostly roofless) and fire station), and offered more exploration than the chateau. D and I braved the mountain and hiked in our sandals up to an old fortress at the top of the island. From there we took in breathtaking views of not only the tableau of Marseille, but also Chateau d’If against it. The ancient fort with its stone walls, looked like it had been repurposed at some point in the ‘70s, for there were the ruins of steel cable/cement columns marking the remains of more recent buildings in the fort. We thought it ironic and telling that the ancient stone seemed to have weathered time better than the more recent cement.

There was a gorgeous beach on Frioul, but as we had not brought our suits, we splashed around up to our knees a bit, then took the ferry back to Marseille.

Getting dinner was an adventure! We had decided to try out a place, Café des Epices, recommended by our Guide Michelin — a wedding present from some friends in France. We managed to find the place (not easy in itself), only to discover that it was closed. So we opened the guide again, found another place that sounded decent, and hiked halfway across town, only to discover that it (and most every other restaurant in France) did not open for dinner till 8:00. (It was then about 6:15 and we were starved.) We slipped into a grocery store to slake our hunger and thirst, walked back to Café des Epices to see if it was open closer to 8:00 (it wasn’t), and finally ate at what is probably one of the most touristy restaurants in Marseille, complete with street musicians playing La Vie en Rose on accordion above your table. The food was fairly tasty though, and we had our first kir of the trip, along with a half bottle of wine.

This morning, Thursday, we tried to wake up earlier so as to get some good time at the beach before we left Marseille, but it seems the time change wasn’t done with us. So we dragged ourselves out of bed around 10:00, made a quick breakfast to use up some of the food we had bought, packed most of our bags, and took off for a few quick hours at L’Estaque once again. It’s a small community just to the west of Marseille, and it goes down as one of our favorite spots in Marseille, simply because it’s sans tourists!The water was warmer than it had been on Tuesday, which made for great swimming, and our shortened visit meant we could do without sunscreen. A quick nap, broken by the laughing of children. (My favorite interruption was one young boy who proudly claimed, “Je crois que les dinosaures existent ici!” — I believe there are dinosaurs in existence here!) Back to the apartment, our bags loaded into our little Panda rental, and we said goodbye to Marseille!

An hour and half up the Autoroute du Soleil, we found our new home for the week: the village of Rochegude, population (maybe) 1600. After locating our house, and knocking on the closed shutters, we were informed by the neighbors across the street that the house was fermée. I responded that we were renting the house for the week, so it could not be closed. The old gentleman leaning out the window said, “Je ne comprends pas,” so I again explained that we were renting the house for the week. His wife then leaned out and said that the cleaning lady was not there, at which point I again explained that we were expected. Finally, in a British accent, the woman asked, “Do you speak English?” After responding that we did, she retorted “Oh, thank God!” at which point we all laughed. The couple very kindly invited us in, offered us drinks, and let us use their phone to call the housekeeper, who met us around 5:00 and showed us around the house. In the meantime, we staked out the town a bit, and found our way to the only open establishment at that particular hour - a little bar called Café du Cours, where we got some ice cream bars to tide over the hunger, and a drink called the Monaco (beer + lemon + grenadine = yummy!!)

We returned to the house at 5pm to meet Ruth (the housekeeper). It’s a beautiful little three-story place, on a quiet, one-way street. The house, they estimate, is 300-400 years old, and has the quiet, cool feel that the thick, stone walls provide. There are three bedrooms, and it would be a fantastic place to rent with a group of people, except for having only one bathroom.

We decided not to wait around on the French dinner schedule, and instead bought a pizza to go from the local pizzeria. We set up the cafe table and chairs on the front stoop of the house, opened our local, organic wine (which we bought in Marseille at the grocery store), a round of La vache qui rit and some jam, and set to work. It was a perfectly relaxing meal! Our British neighbors, Anne and Keith, came by later and invited us to dinner next Monday, which will be a real treat! They’re also giving plenty of helpful advice about where to find things, what to see, etc.!

Well, it is nearly midnight. I’m hoping the Benedryl will have taken effect by now. And, having just stopped typing to flush a scorpion down the toilet, I think I will leave the house to the lesser creatures and go to bed. Tomorrow it’s up early for the village market at Suze la Rousse!

Honeymoon Log - Day 2

2010-08-29T15:50:00.000-04:00

Tuesday, August 17, 5:00pm

Marseille

Last night, we caught up on some much-needed z’s, slumbering from about 9:30pm until 9am this morning. After a little morning activity, we decided to head to the beach. Considering the previous evening’s harrowing travel through the narrow roads etched into the hills, we made sure to have our route all mapped out in our heads and on a Google map long before Heath ventured behind the wheel of our modest Fiat Panda - a car that (at least from the passenger’s chair) seems without much pep, though nimble.

It’s not clear whether we actually followed the Google route we originally traced, considering street signs in this area are rather sparse, but the myriad traffic circles do a very good job of pointing the way towards various destinations. So long as one of the markings said L’Estaque, we kept following it. If we’d had big breakfasts already, we no doubt would have vomited at some point traveling around those circles, but we (fortuitously, apparently) opted to eat once we got to the beach. The coastal roads were absolutely gorgeous. I (D) stared at the high cliffs and old bridges as much as possible, steeling myself for our impending car accident given the Mexico-like driving skills of the marseillais. However, we finally managed to park at the Plages de Corbières, where the highway overlooked the most beautiful, tiny beaches we could have ever imagined! And the weather was absolutely perfect today! It felt like it was in the high 80’s, with a steady, light breeze. The water was crystal clear, though practically frigid. We didn’t spend as much time in the water, but I find that as I age, I simply don’t need the same amount of time I used to in order to leave the beach feeling peaceful and satisfied. Frankly, it was nice to spend so much time under the warm sun, feeling the wind traipse across my skin, and being lulled to sleep by God’s creative hand in it all.

We’re back home now, getting showered and dressed. Tonight, we shop! We found the local Devred at the mall last night, and did a little reconnaissance :) I’ve already mapped out which areas of the store to hit, and the items I’m going to try on! Right now, we’re feeling very pleased with all those folks who purchased us Honeyfund shopping sprees!

Honeymoon Log - Day 1

2010-08-28T19:24:00.002-04:00

Monday, August 16, 11:12 a.m.
Somewhere over central France

We’re on the last leg of our journey into Marseille — a one-hour flight from Charles de Gaule airport down to the Mediterranean coast where, they promise us, it is significantly warmer and drier than the 50-degree, sopping wet Paris that welcomed us. Our flights have been on time, mishap-free, and relatively restful — well, for me, anyway. D barely slept at all overnight. I think we’ll both be ready to turn in early this evening.

We had the unexpected pleasure of connecting once more with our friends, J and C, who were also connecting through Atlanta on their way home. I love airport rencontres (not the kind that happen in the bathrooms) — the reminder that we’re all not too far away from one another, and the chance that we might just meet up with someone we know far from home. I remember bumping into family friends twice in one day, in two different parts of Paris: l’arc de Triomphe, and Montmartre. I wonder if we’ll know anyone in Marseille…

I’m already experiencing the jitters of plunging back into the language — the anxiety as flight attendants speak rapidly, the worries about finding our rental car, and then our apartment. But at the same time, the phrases and the terminology — carte d’embarquement, cabine telephonique, crème solaire — are starting to come back as I dust off that slightly hardened portion of my brain.

We’ve begun our descent into Marseille, so away goes the laptop. A bientôt…

* * *

Same day, 8:01 p.m.
Marseille

After 35 kilometers spent traveling the wrong way on the autoroute, two tolls that we needn’t have payed (5 Euros in total), and countless wrong turns down unlabeled one lane roads leading up and down the hills of Marseille at impossible angles, we found our new home for the next few days. The architects of this neighborhood were creative. Rather than build one large house in the center of the hill and try to make it work with the incline, the designers decided to split up the residence into terrasses: the top level houses the main house; about a meter down into the hill, our little one bedroom apartment sits, a stand-alone, but ever aware of its dependence on the main house for things like the high-speed internet cord, which the owner swaps out for his own computer whenever he decides he needs it more than we; below us is a small patio housing the laundry facilities (a trek which almost negates the benefit of having your own lavelinge); below the laundry, a small studio where the owner rehearses with his fusion band; and finally down one more level, the garage, which opens onto the negligible rue Berger. The effect of such a layout is that it keeps one outside much more than a normal day of household chores would in America, which obviously has it’s benefits and drawbacks.

Our plan for the day was to buy a quick lunch and sunscreen, then hit the beach. Unfortunately, by the time we made it through the two-level Carrefour supermarket, discovered that we had no reliable map of the region, and realized that it was already going on five o’clock, we decided to buy dinner and call it an early evening. Unfortunately, in all my theft-preemptive forethought, I had only brought enough cash for sunscreen. Another quick trip up the torturous rue Berger, then back down to Carrefour, and we finally had our dinner: one white baguette, a wheel of delicious chèvre cheese, a bottle of Chateau du Dauphin 2008 Saint-Emillion wine (a Bordeaux), a few slices of saucisson pavé de poivre, and three of our landlord’s garden tomatoes (the tastiest we’ve eaten all summer!). Every time we go out in our rental car, we see another near-accident which seems to be the way of life for the marseillais. Every time, we pray it doesn’t involve our limited rental insurance.

I (HF) have found few dishes more powerful than the simple staples of French cuisine. Were I to eat nothing but a baguette, a wheel of cheese, and a glass of inexpensive French wine every meal for the rest of my life, I’d live a long, happy, and healthy life. This was pretty much my steady diet when I lived in Troyes a few years ago (unable to afford much else, the second half of the baguette would become my breakfast the next morning), and, as might be expected, I lost weight. However, I (D) would probably need a little more spice to life! (Though admittedly, I don’t think I’d be complaining too much about the savory simplicity of French staple.)

We ate our simple meal tonight out on the terrasse, under the drooping grapes, soaking up the late afternoon sun reflected off the red roofs of Marseille and the Mediterranean, which we can see from the apartment. Does life always seem to move more slowly in Europe simply because we only vacation here? Do les français feel as harried in their daily routines as we do? Or does the fact that they live in a nearly-timeless environment somehow temper the tyranny of the urgent? Are there whispers of ancestors that tell them to drink wine at lunchtime as well as dinner? And do we have any access to similar voices of our own ancestors, or is our new society doomed to its continually recreated and renovated voices of the future to tell it how to live? Ahhh, the blissful musings of two Americans on a French honeymoon...

Open letter to a couple (one member ex-gay) leaving our church over homosexuality

2010-08-28T18:21:00.003-04:00

Dear friends,

Your letter was deeply painful to us. I am, first of all, so sad to lose contact with two people who, within such a short amount of time, struck me as terrifically genuine, loving people. I wish we could have spent more time getting to know each other at [Church].

But beyond that, I must confess that I felt somewhat hurt and betrayed by your decision to leave [church] over this issue. Let me be clear: I am not laboring under some malformed egocentric idea that D and I somehow caused you both to leave the church (though the temptation to feel that way is there); I take your word for it when you say that your decision is based on the direction of the church as a whole, and not on us as particulars. Nor am I a stranger to the distance imposed by those who feel they cannot be a part of a practicing gay person's life; half my family has estranged me since I came out to them. So I am not reeling in some kind of shattered-naivete about personal rejection.

My disappointment and hurt over your decision have roots more spiritual than emotional. As our friendship really began to coalesce around our involvement in the sexuality panel discussion, I reflected often about how glad I was to go to a church where your family could worship side by side with my family, where we could be friends and laugh and build a relationship around other facets of each other besides our different views on sexual orientation. (That sounds simple, but it is exactly what that other half of my family seems unable or unwilling to do.) Was it uncomfortable knowing that we disagreed on that issue? Absolutely! Did I wonder whether I were being judged? (And was I tempted to judge you?) Of course! Would it have been easier to attend a church that hung out its rainbow flag and I didn't have to worry or wonder how I might be received and perceived? YES!

But the source of my joy in being fellow disciples with you at [church] was based on the fact that I have come to believe that the Kingdom of Heaven, this side of eternity, will not be built on unanimous opinions. Protestantism has shown us that the road of total agreement is short and eternally splintered. The Kingdom, then, must be built of different stones. And over the past few years, as I have watched [church] find its identity, vision, and mission (to be sure, not without some dissension and departures), I have been encouraged in seeing what I believe to be the beginnings of those Kingdom foundations -- a community which values its relationships far higher than its theories; a group of people who understand that they will differ over some very big things, but that if the gospel is true, then we must allow God's grace to be bigger than even those things, and humbly hold each other with care, knowing that we all see through a glass dimly. That feeling of seeing the Kingdom be built among us grew to a feeling of confidence at the sexuality panel. I am unaware of any communal conversation like that ever taking place before. To be sitting on stage with one another, facing our disagreements, and to be held so prayerfully by that roomful of people (of varying opinions, too), was like watching the lion lie down with the lamb. It was beyond encouraging; it was faith-building to see our church pull together over this issue that has split so many communities before us, and to watch us be closer and stronger for it. I felt the Holy Spirit among us that night.

That is why it is such a blow to hear that you cannot keep communion with us. I will not say that my faith is so weak as to totter over this (this is, after all, not my first experience with rejection), but I am deeply saddened to learn that our unity at the panel was more imagined than real. I am also frustrated (mostly with myself) for believing that you felt similarly about what happened that evening. It was my understanding that you felt the Spirit as present that night as I. I'm sorry if I misinterpreted your response.

We wish you both peace as you leave this community. We continue to believe that God's grace is big enough to envelop us all on a Sunday morning (and every other day), even if it is in separate congregations. Our community, and our lives, are poorer for losing you.

Yours in Christ,
HF (and D)

Wedding Schmerz

2010-06-20T19:47:00.000-04:00

My brother's getting married on Saturday. It will be the first time that I've seen my mom's side of the family since they found out I was gay. For my grandparents, that means last November. For my aunt and uncle's family, that means Christmas 2008. For the holidays last year, both groups told me that if I planned on attending the family festivities, they would not. Taking the hint, D and I stayed home.

I feel really nervous about seeing them this weekend. My brother has played the role of diplomat, and has spoken with both us and them, respectfully requesting that they not create a scene, and that D and I not incite one by touching each other over the course of the weekend. I understand where he's coming from, and I am perfectly willing to comply with whatever requests he makes of us on the day of his wedding.

What makes me scared about this is the feeling that I'm walking into a hostile situation essentially blind as to how things stand. I have the word from my brother, giving me some assurance that we won't be attacked during the course of the weekend, and part of me believes that everyone will be grown up enough to put all this aside for 48 hours for the sake of the happy couple. But I also thought last Christmas that everyone would be grown up enough to coexist for 48 hours for the sake of Baby Jesus, and I was wrong.

I don't imagine anyone really creating a proper scene in public, but everyone will be staying the night in the inn my parents have rented for the occasion, and there will be plenty of opportunity for small, private interactions. How am I to respond when we bump into each other on the stairs? When we walk past each other in the halls? Can I stop and hug my grandparents, whom I've loved dearly as long as I can remember, and from whom I was ungracefully cut off seven months ago? Can I say hi to my cousins and ask how school is? how graduation was? what they're doing with their lives? Can I look at them and smile? I don't know how to be at odds with them.

D said earlier today that he was feeling nervous because he had no frame of reference for interacting with them; having never met them, he didn't know what to expect. Then he observed that I must be feeling even more strangely, since I did have a frame of reference for interaction with them: I've had 25 years of history with these people, but sharing the truth of whom I love with them evidently pushed the reset button on our relationship, and now I find adversaries where I expected loved ones.

It's surprising to me how quickly my anxiety rose over the course of the day. On the way to church I was thinking about how happy I felt, and by the time I left church, all I could think about was what on earth was going to happen this weekend. Between now and then, I've got seven weeks worth of packing to do, 1300 miles to drive, and books to read for classes that start Wednesday. I'm going to have to make sure I pack my flask...

Wrong

2010-06-07T12:54:00.001-04:00

You're wrong.
How many times will I hear that in my life?
How many people - good, caring, concerned people - will go out of their way to tell me I am wrong?
I have been told "You're wrong" more times in the past three years than in the previous 23.
I wasn't wrong when I chose the liberal school over a Christian one.
I wasn't wrong when I took my liberal arts education and decided to open a coffee shop.
I wasn't wrong when I jettisoned the coffee shop and took off to live in France.
I wasn't wrong when my theology shifted and I questioned the words heaven, hell, and redemption.
I wasn't wrong when I wondered aloud if the true good news of the gospel is that, in Christ, no step made in faith is a misstep.
No, through all this I wan't wrong.
I was wrong, somehow, when I said at six that I wasn't going to marry. You said I was too nice not to marry.
I was wrong, somehow, when I said at 20 that I saw myself staying single. You said it was too lonely being single.
I was wrong, somehow, at 23 when I said I didn't like girls. You said I was just having normal relationship difficulties.
I was wrong at 24 when I said that I loved my friend, D. You said attraction isn't love.
I was wrong at 25 when I said that God wanted me to love D well for the rest of our lives. You said God hadn't spoken to me.

What I find so curious is how I could have been so right about all the rest of it and so wrong about this.
How do you think I got here?
The road that led me here is the road we walked together.
That afternoon in France - our last day there - as you and I sat on the side of the empty pool watching it fill (black leaves swirling)
I told you, "If I step out in faith, and God is faithful to catch our fall and redeem our mistakes..."
What did you think I was talking about?
You said, "Yes, the power of sin is broken."
Why, when you realized the truth about me, did the power of sin make such a comeback in your theology?
Is Christ dead because I'm gay?
Do your beautiful truths of faith and redemption become weak platitudes when I say I love D?

How, oh how, did the anatomy of my partner come to unhinge the gate of your theology?
Why, oh why, if you grant for a moment that God calls me to love D, is the entire house of your faith shaken?
Is Christ so weak?

Let me tell you what those words of yours, "You're wrong," do.
Imagine for a moment that I am on my own spiritual journey.
Not yours. Not an extension of yours.
I am faced with my own risks, my own challenges, questions, and choices.
Imagine that all the signs in my life point to a road.
And all the choices I've made till now seem to culminate in this road,
and every turn along the way seem to be for the purpose of bringing me to this road.
Now tell me I'm wrong.

About what?
The existence of the road? But it's there, clearly in front of me.
The fact that I should walk it? But where should I have gone differently?
That God should lead me on such a road? But this is the God you trusted to lead me on every step till now.

If step one leads to two, and step three to four, and step 12 to 13, and the math adds up,
why should 99 not lead to 100?
Why does the expansion of our minds by the addition of a digit cast the entire line into doubt?
How far back should we go until we're sure we're back at the truth arithmetic? How should we count the numbers this time to keep from exploding our two-digit paradigm?

Isn't it better to question our preconceived ideas about the limits of an infinite system?
Isn't it better to accept the extra digit, the extended dimension, the expansive grace of an infinite God,
and let the system do what it was meant to from the beginning:

Include everything?

The Panel

2010-06-07T01:07:00.000-04:00

Tomorrow evening (actually tonight), our church will host a panel discussion entitled "Perspectives on Sexual Orientation." We recently finished a sermon/discipleship series on the topic of sexuality as a whole, and this panel is a chance for our church to look at the specific issue of "non-straight" sexuality and what the church does with it. As you might have guessed by my being up at this hour, I've got the conversation on my mind.

D and I are both speaking on it, sharing different aspects of our stories. So is the Other Gay Couple (OGC) at church, and the fifth speaker is a woman who has struggled with same-sex attraction (SSA), gone through Exodus ex-gay ministries, and is now married to a man at our church. To all outside observers, their marriage is happy and authentic.

This morning at church, the six of us (including the woman's Supportive Husband) had a meeting with our two pastors to talk about how the panel would play out. I went into the meeting with a bit of anxiety: D had previously expressed strong reservation about sharing on a panel with any "successful" Exodus stories, primarily because of his own Exodus experience and the damage he feels the group does. I didn't know the attitudes of anyone else going into the meeting, and I was nervous that we would go in with competing "agendas" for the panel.

Once we got in there and realized who would be speaking, I immediately dropped my own defensiveness and started empathizing with the only woman who would be sharing the only perspective that wasn't completely affirming of gay relationships. I could tell she was nervous, and throughout the meeting I and others tried to put her at ease, to let her know that we were not hoping to overpower her message; indeed, that we didn't even really see the situation as adversarial, but instead, that we were all taking risks to be open and honest with our church community, hoping that our stories would make the church a safe place for other people, and that straight people in the church (and the world) would learn how to listen to gay people, rather than simply prescribing a course of action for them.

At one point in the conversation, one member of the OGC shared that he felt that the viewpoint that says that he, as a five-year-old boy, would choose his attraction (much less, as an adult, choose to make the sacrifices he did) was "ridiculous." This was picked up on by Supportive Husband, who responded that he felt the speaker was being prescriptive in labeling other viewpoints as "ridiculous." There was a bit of tension for a moment, but our pastor seemed to do a good job of defusing it... I thought.

After our meeting, I found out that the OGC member had been tremendously hurt and felt very invalidated when Supportive Husband questioned his language. As a matter of fact, if Supportive Husband was going to sit onstage with the panel, OGC would pull out.

This hit me in the gut. I understand why Supportive Husband made his comment, and I understand why OGC found it inappropriate. And I understand that this panel is not about my needs. But to be frank, I feel like I've got a lot riding on this panel spiritually -- for better or worse. I've mentioned before how part of the pain I feel with regard to my family situation is that I feel ashamed to tell people that my family's response to my sexuality is a function of their faith. We Christians do so much to blacken the name of Jesus, and it pains me to add evidence to the argument that faith in Christ never did much but make people more opinionated, prejudiced, ignorant, and bull-headed. I not only feel ashamed, I feel hopeless sometimes about the state of things. If the Kingdom of Heaven is real, and is truly at hand, then I feel like we should see evidence of it. And I know we do from time to time, but when so much of my life feels negative, precisely because of religious hang-ups, I begin to feel like the Kingdom is too small a seed to make any real difference.

That's why this panel is so important to me spiritually. We have heard so much drama from churches across the world and across the spectrum, churches that have been ripped apart by the issue of sexuality. (If the Anglican Communion splits, God helps us all.) And our vision at our church is so Kingdom-focused, that I want to believe things can go differently. I want to believe that straights can live next to gays, that the rich can commune with the poor, and that the lion will lie down with the lamb. But if we five people in one room cannot keep ourselves together (let alone what will happen today before the church as a whole), then I don't see much hope for the Kingdom.

So here's to "progress"! We'll see who shows up to the panel!

Upset

2010-05-16T18:19:00.000-04:00

My parents visited this weekend. I wasn't sure they would. We invited them knowing that the action of accepting hospitality (or any other kindness) from someone with whom you are in conflict is a small, unspoken way of giving up any moral high ground you may think you have. The willingness to step down to the other person's level, to be uncomfortable in their space, where they call the shots, was the risk we've taken each time we've gone to their home, and it's the risk they took this weekend in coming to ours.

Friday evening, despite their late arrival after a harried, hail-driven drive, was wonderful. D's parents also came over for the evening, and the night was marked by wine, warm conversation, and watching D's mom try to keep the dog from sniffing her crotch or licking her hands or eating her food. As we sat next to each other at the table, there were a few times that I wanted to reach out and put my arm around D, or be close to him in some other everyday way, but I found myself holding back, not wanting to "rub our relationship in [my parents'] faces" so early in the weekend. D and I (surprisingly) didn't really talk about our level of PDA this weekend, and I didn't know how I felt about catering to their discomfort in my own home. On one hand, I feel like we do enough catering in their home and in those of my aunts and uncles. We certainly could just say that we're not going to change our behavior in our own home. But to respond so adamantly to what I know is a very painful event to them seems a bit insensitive.

Part of our reason for inviting them down was to give D and my parents a chance to talk directly -- to give D a chance to understand their reasoning for not coming to the wedding, and to give them a chance to hear directly how hurtful their treatment of D over the past few years has been. I spent most of the week stressing out in preparation for this conversation. I hate conflict. I hate confrontation, and I spend a great deal of energy in my life finding ways to avoid it. This makes me a peacemaker. It also makes me a coward. So far, I have acted as something of a mediator between D and my parents, communicating thoughts, feelings, and questions as best I can, since it seemed that having those conversations was, until now, too painful for my parents. While I don't like being caught in the middle, there is a certain amount of security in being able to edit and temper those messages before I deliver them. My greatest fear is that the two parties I love most in this world will find themselves unable to coexist in my life, and I will be left torn in two. So being the middleman helps to ensure that both parties are held together. This weekend that ended.

I let D run the conversation, as it was largely his desire to have it, and since by the time we reached the fretful event, I was so anxious that I started quivering. After we made a few drinks to ensure a smooth process, we went out in the backyard in the sun and started to chat. The beginning went well. D said that he really wanted to understand their reasoning in not coming to the wedding, so as to make peace with their decision. My parents weren't really able to give any argument per se, but my dad said that he had a sense that God would be grieved if they were to attend. "It's not an issue of conviction," he said. "The fact that I think what you're doing is wrong is not the reason I can't come. But I can't do something that I think would disappoint God. The moment I sense that it's OK to come, I'll be there, despite my disagreement. But until then, I can't."

This is as much of a reason as I can really ask for. Throughout this whole process, I have asked my parents for the grace and trust to follow God's calling as I understand it. I must now grant them that same trust and give up my need for them to follow my wishes.

Then the conversation took a turn for the tense, as D started to share how my parents' responses to him and to our relationship over the past few years has hurt him deeply. From the year or so when D was not invited into their home, to the restrictions on how much we can be ourselves around them, to the Great Stuffed Chair Debacle of New Year's 2010, D shared how he has found it difficult to trust my family. My dad started to get riled at this questioning of his heart, and started to defend all the decisions they've made along the way. D, feeling invalidated after a very vulnerable moment, started to push back, and very quickly the conversation felt like it shifted toward assigning blame and hurt. They're not hearing each other, I thought. Time to translate.

I jumped in and reminded everyone that our goal in this conversation was not to point fingers or make sure that every guilty party owned every single ounce of fault over the past three years. Nor was our goal to convince each other of our viewpoint. Rather, we wanted to understand where each was coming from. My dad has spoken several times about wanting to have a relationship of the heart. "Throughout all the conflicts in our marriage," he said, "I have always sensed that your mother's heart was for me. We trusted that whatever fights or miscommunication we might have, that we were ultimately for one another." "That is," I said, "What D is trying to do here. He wants to share with you the obstacles that he faces in growing closer to you."

Then, sensing our conversation was coming to a close, I took the opportunity to address what I believe is one of the root issues dividing my family right now. "Dad, you say you had faith that mom's heart was for you throughout your conflicts, and that that's what kept you together through it all. One of the greatest obstacles that faces us all is the fact that D and I do not have a sense that your heart is for us. Instead, we keenly sense that, in your heart of hearts, you want to see us separated -- that you pray for it, hope for it, and that part of you would celebrate it if it happened. That makes it VERY difficult to trust you in the way you want, simply because we know that, while your heart may be for each of us as individuals, it is not for us as a couple."

It seemed like my dad understood that. Of course, calling him out on it does not change anything. The fact is that he's not stubbornly resisting supporting us as a couple; he just can't right now. Though I want to just show him the light of reason and have him change his ways, I can't, and I have to trust that God is working on my parents' hearts in his own time, even if it doesn't happen in time for the ceremony.

There were some good points to our conversation:

D understood why and accepted that my parents aren't coming to the wedding.
I think my parents, for all their resistance, heard and understood why it is difficult for D to trust them and be himself with them.
My parents acknowledged that our relationship is based on love and affection (though inappropriately expressed).
My parents admit that they don't feel qualified to make recommendations about what we should best do with our sexuality. They say we have to sort that out with God (We are.) and that they have to trust us to do that, even if they disagree with our decisions. I was surprised to hear them back away from counseling celibacy as the categorically "right choice" (though I would guess that they would still see it as the better choice).

So, I've spent most of the weekend since that conversation waiting for an opportunity to unpack my feelings about the whole discussion, and now I have it.

Why am I angry about the conversation?

I spent most of this morning fuming about the whole thing. Why? It actually went pretty well, we left and went to dinner and laughed and enjoyed each other's company again, and I would say that it was very productive.

So why am I angry?

I'm not truly angry at D or at my parents, thought at first flush it seeks them out as easy targets. No, I think I'm simply angry at life, or at the situation. I'm angry because I am upset. I know that sounds redundant, but they're different. The conversation was conflict. Conflict upsets me, because in fighting, I am forced to drudge up all my own unpleasant emotions, which I have heretofore managed to sublimate, and face them for what they are. These emotions, once stirred, take over my entire consciousness for a time. When I'm upset, I can't think about anything else in life. I'm a zombie at school, I'm a ghost at home, and I lose hours and days of my life to this upset. And so I avoid situations and conversations that can upset me to any significant extent. Which is why I feel so angry when I'm finally forced to confront those feelings in a conflict. I feel leveraged, or manipulated, into facing the feelings I don't want to face. I feel like whatever is forcing me to face them is not only robbing me of my comfort for the moment; it is robbing me of my ability to be fully present in life for the next few days. I feel like I am robbed of my steadiness and stability, not because I need to process whatever unpleasantness is lurking, but because other people need to. And so I'm left investing days of my emotional energy into an hour-long conversation for the benefit of other people, who then go off feeling better about the outcome of the conversation, and leave me to slowly replenish my spent resources.

That's why I'm angry.

And, yes, I understand that what is "manipulating" me is not D or my parents, but the nature of life itself, and that if I want to avoid conflict all my life, I'd better give up on any kind of relationship with anyone and move to the desert. And I understand that the "investments" of emotional energy that I make benefit me in the long run, if not today or tomorrow. And I'm willing to go on making them because that's what life is, damn it. So suck it up, or give it up.

But is there some way that I can move through life without being angry every time a wave comes and upsets my calm, little boat? Can I find some way to be upset without adding anger to the upset?

My guess is that the answer lies somewhere in giving up on my cute little dream of a peaceful cruise through the blue waters of the Pacific, and just accept the fact that I'm caught in the high seas of the Atlantic. I suppose that I am, at root, angry that I haven't been gifted with a beautiful, serene life that would safely guide me through this world.

So my choices are, I think, to keep pouting, and to keep throwing my temper tantrums every time a wave rocks me; or to accept that this voyage, wherever it's taking me, will probably get me wet, cold, wind- and sun-burned, and half starved at various points along the way; and to trust that WHATEVER the crazy payoff of this adventure is will be worth the blood, toil, sweat, and tears.

That's what faith looks like today.

Open Letter to Philip Yancey

2010-04-13T10:50:00.000-04:00

Dear Mr. Yancey,

I thought of you this morning over breakfast as I scanned the week's mail on the table in front of me - a letter from Mel White's SoulForce among them. I was reminded of your friendship with Mel, and particularly your discussion of that friendship in the book of yours that had the most profound impact on my faith, What's So Amazing About Grace? I read that book as a high school student in rural Pennsylvania several years ago. In that somewhat homogeneous and restrictive atmosphere, your discussion of your friendship with Mel throughout his coming out process, and your unwillingness to support him in his ministry, was the first serious conversation I was exposed to about the difficult situation of gay Christians, as well as how the Christian community can and should respond to them.

In the intervening eight years or so between then and now, I experienced my own coming out process, which, in my evangelical family, has been met with considerable pain and opposition. I have also met, grown close with, dated, and proposed to a wonderful man from my church in Maryland, and we are engaged to be married this summer. Much of my family will not be in attendance. The responses range from the absolute refusal to communicate, to the resigned and limited acceptance of my decision to marry. My parents are in the latter category. They have made it clear to me that I am as much their son as ever, and they have made attempts to accept my partner to whatever extent their pain will allow, but that does not include attending our wedding.

In discussing the issue of their attendance, my parents have communicated to me that their unwillingness to join us is not based so much on a rejection of us (at least, as individuals), but on the conviction in their hearts that God is displeased with our union and would be displeased with their participation in recognizing it. In trying to describe his conviction, my father cited the story you tell in What's So Amazing About Grace?, wherein Mel White approaches you to ask if you would support his ordination. You regretfully respond that, while you can embrace him as a friend and brother in Christ, you cannot support his ministry. My father views our marriage in a similar light.

I confess that I am caught between the cognitive understanding of my parents' position (after all, eight years ago I would have taken a similar approach) and the emotional reality: that my parents are rejecting us as a couple. They might continue to accept me as their son, and even my partner as their son's "friend," but in choosing not to attend our wedding, they are refusing to recognize our new status as a married couple, and refusing to grant my partner the place and privileges of a member of our family.

The question that came to my mind this morning as I was browsing Mel's letter was, Does Philip Yancey ever regret his decision not to support Mel in his ministry? Please understand that I ask the question with no hint of judgment attached. However I may feel about rejection or acceptance, part of my own challenge through this process is to respect the work that God is doing in others' hearts, whether or not that work is agreeable or painful to me. I ask because I often wonder whether my parents will look back on their decision not to attend with regret, and that led me to wonder whether you do so now. (I understand that the two situations are not perfect parallels.)

Thank you for your time and consideration, and for the inestimable work you have done and continue to do through your writing.

Sincerely yours,

HF

Wuthering Heights

2010-04-04T22:00:00.000-04:00

My fascination with Emily Brontë's novel, Wuthering Heights, is one that almost no one understands. This is not only because a very slim percentage of the population at large actually feels anything but animosity toward the book, but also because my appreciation of the novel goes beyond its literary merits. (Those who notice the connection between my pseudonym and one of the main characters are not far off. Though I hope I bear none of Heathcliff's vengeful, sadistic traits, I do feel a spiritual connection to the lonely heath and broody moors of the British Isles.) I actually only began to understand my attraction to the book about a year ago myself, when I started teaching it in my 10th grade Western Literature class.

It is a sign of a good novel that as you read it, you start thinking about your life in terms of the story. Both last year and this year, as I taught the novel, I identified strongly with Catherine Earnshaw, the childhood playmate of Heathcliff and the eventual wife of Edgar Linton. As she becomes a young woman, Catherine is forced to make a choice between Heathcliff, the adopted gypsy orphan whom she has loved since they were children, and Edgar Linton, the son of the most wealthy and respected family in the neighborhood. After confessing to Nelly, the housekeeper, that she has accepted Edgar's marriage proposal, she describes her love for Heathcliff:

If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it. My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I'm well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I am Heathcliff! He's always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being.

Despite her foundational love for Heathcliff, she marries Edgar, and spends several tolerable years as the lady of Thrushcross Grange.

Three years later, Heathcliff returns after having departed at news of Cathy's marriage. He spends a few weeks hanging around Thrusscross Grange, reigniting his old relatioship with Cathy, much to the chagrin of Edgar. When Edgar finally confronts Heathcliff in Cathy's presence and forces her to choose whom she will love, she eventually goes mad. After several months of sickness (and pregnancy), she passes. Before she dies, leaving both Edgar and Heathcliff in miserable grief, she scolds Heathcliff:

“You and Edgar have broken my heart, Heathcliff! And you both come to bewail the deed to me, as if you were the people to be pitied! I shall not pity you, not I. You have killed me—and thriven on it, I think.

I understand Cathy's grief, and her anger towards the two men she loves. She is, perhaps by her own choosing, placed in an impossible situation. On the one hand she might forsake Edgar and their life together to be with her soulmate. On the other, she might betray her heart to keep the sweeter, gentler life and love she shares with Edgar. I am convinced Cathy loves both men. And though some might criticize her and say she should never have given up on her love for Heathcliff, the fact is that she did, and she is caught now in the impossible tension between the two men who each define a part of her. Her heart is quite literally divided, and as long as she can keep the two halves in relative peace, she is a whole person. When Edgar's confrontation with Heathcliff breaks that connection, her heart is torn apart, and she dies soon afterward.

Melodrama aside, I understand where Cathy is coming from. On and off for the past few years, I have felt the impossibility of my own situation -- caught between a family that defined my existence for the first 20-odd years of my life, and a man who awoke in me a part of my heart that I didn't know existed. Given that my family is Evangelical and my partner is a man, those two defining forces have not fit together nicely. I have wrestled relentlessly, trying sometimes to recall my allegiance here, and sometimes to assert my independence there, and in the midst of it all wondering where my identity in God fits among all these competing influences. I will not say that there has not been progress in many ways, but in some ways the tension still exists. Will it always?

I feel like I am caught on a see-saw, with my family on one side and my partner on the other. When things are going well with D, things with my family are shit. When my family and I seem to be making progress, that "progress" is hurtful to him, and I am left always in the middle, always dissatisfied that we can't all get off this fucking teeter-totter and move on to some game that is a little more fun for everyone.

My parents are not coming to our wedding. We've gone round and round that merry-go-round (another "fun" one), and I have accepted the fact that they're not coming. They feel as if they have heard from God on this matter, and that he would be disappointed with them were they to attend. Whether or not I agree with their understanding of God's voice (they certainly don't agree with mine), I recognize that interposing myself between themselves and their conscience is a dangerous move, and one that risks doing really damage to everyone involved. I have requested that my parents respect what I feel is the call of God in my own life, and I must grant them that same respect. At this point, interfering with what they feel to be God's will regarding their attendance is out of line.

Now, just because I understand it does not mean it isn't painful. The fact is, they are choosing not to be present for one of the seminal events in my life. Whatever their reasons, they won't be there. They will not be participating in the new chapter of life that D and I begin together. That is hurtful and painful. I don't know exactly what all the ramifications will be down the line. But in discussing it, D brought up a good point this evening: as painful as that seeming rejection is to me, it is even moreso to him. The marriage ceremony is the event in which the outsider is made an insider, where the community invites the "other" to become an "us." By refusing to attend that event, they send the message that D will forever remain an outsider in my extended family. Now that is painful. I will always have some relationship with my folks, as their son. But the wedding would be the moment where D has the opportunity to begin building those relationships with his new family (and I with his), and by not showing up, they deny him that opportunity.

So, here I am on the see-saw again: my parents and I have made peace with the fact that they're not coming, and D is just digging into the pain of rejection. And I cannot fault D, and I cannot interfere in my parents' heart, so I sit straddling the middle, wondering how long until the two halves of my heart are torn apart and I am left dying.

Incidentally, I realize that this situation is not all about me and my pain (Cathy's self-pity is perhaps her biggest flaw); but this blog is. I am, after all, a Self-Important Man.

Welcome

2010-03-30T17:19:00.000-04:00

Thanks for migrating with me. I regret to say that the process of switching blogs has used up all my technological energy for the evening, and I cannot actually post.

Be on the lookout...

Head v. Heart

2009-12-30T10:21:00.003-05:00

My emotional response to the Dunders' words has been one of pain. As I was growing up, my family was always very close. We saw both sets of grandparents about once a month (despite the four-hour drive), and we would get together with the families at large a few times a year, and always at the holidays. I have, actually, never missed a family holiday. I've actually made a point of it, sometimes rearranging travel schedules to make it. The Dunder side of my family has always been more reserved, but I never felt any less loved on that side. As I came into my identity in later years, however, I did always feel that that love was somehow false. Not that my grandparents were lying about their love for me; but that they were loving a person they no longer fully knew. I never knew what to expect from them if and when they found out about me. On the one hand, I knew that their strict conservatism would probably lead them to condemn and reject all instances of homosexuality. On the other hand, I am their grandson, and they love me absolutely. On the other hand (that's three hands, now), I could be wrong to a certain degree about both of those theories.

On the Dunder side, we don't talk about feelings a whole lot. As long as I can remember, fights always happened behind closed doors, and any open conflict was usually shushed by reproving looks from my grandparents. As a result, I have no experience communicating about my feelings with the Dunders. We tend to interact and communicate on a more or less intellectual level; even our feelings of love are quietly articulated. So my grandfather's response to me, even though I knew him to be speaking from anger, was one of deliberation. (Which actually makes his "grave" comment all the more hurtful; he had two weeks to think about it and those were the words he chose.) I responded intellectually in turn, telling him that I was disappointed and that his words were "painful," which is as close as the head comes to expressing the emotions of the heart without letting it take over.

In the days since that conversation, I've struggled with knowing how to react even for myself. I have a pathological aversion to messiness, probably bordering on some sort of emotional OCD. I don't like things to get messy for two reasons. First, I'm afraid that people won't like my mess, and consequently won't like me. (This is something D is teaching me is not true. He's stuck around for a whole lot of my shit.) Second, I'm afraid of my own emotions because I fear that they will at some point overwhelm me. I envision lying useless in bed, too depressed to get up, respond to the world, or interact with anyone, including D. My head knows that the likelihood of this happening is pretty slim, but my heart fears and avoids it strongly.

So, just to try it out, what exactly am I feeling about the Dunders' response to me? I feel rejected. I feel incredulous that my family would take such a step of essentially cutting me off just to persuade me of their will in this. It makes their previous love and acceptance feel cheap, like a tool that they use merely to accomplish their goals. It hurts a great deal to think that the love I thought I experienced was a sham - that the conditional reality of that love would be revealed when I no longer pleased them.

I don't even know how to feel about my grandfather's "grave" comment. Intellectually, I know that what he meant to say is that it would've been easier for him to deal with the news of my untimely death than with this news; that way he would've been assured that I would be in heaven. But now he can't be too sure. But on another level, his words mean that he would prefer to see me dead than gay. Should I have committed suicide before coming out? Would that have made him feel better? What he's really angry about is the fact that he knows. If he hadn't known, he would've been happier, and now that he knows, he's angry that I've destroyed his happiness. Thankfully, I am emotionally stable enough (at this point) to be able to dismiss his comment. But I'm still at a loss as to how to deal with the knowledge that there is out there, someone who, on a certain level, wishes I were dead. And that that person is my grandfather.

The Dunders' Response

2009-12-30T09:41:00.003-05:00

It's been so long since I've written here that I had to reset my Google password. Why haven't I written here? Well, I haven't been doing much writing anywhere recently. I locked down my other blog over a year ago, about the time I started teaching, since I didn't want my students finding it. But the real reason I haven't been writing is because I think I'm trying to avoid dealing with what's going on in my heart right now. There's been a lot of drama in my family lately, and even though I'm forced to live through it, there's something extra scary about writing it down and seeing the reality of it in front of me.

Quick summary of the events in the past two years: D and I are together. (D was the third person I came out to in my November 13, 2005 post.) After dating for over two years, I asked him to marry me this past August, and we became domestic partners in September. The news of our engagement has pushed my family into the next stage of response. My parents decided to tell the grandparents (so now everyone in my family knows), and my parents themselves have really started to accept D as a part of our family (or so it seems). My dad's parents take every opportunity to remind me that they don't agree with "my choice of lifestyle" but that they will not shun or reject us.

My mom's parents (as well as her sister's family) have taken a different approach. I haven't spoken to my aunt's family since they found out a year ago. I've heard through the grape vine that they're adamantly opposed, that they've wondered if I've pursued any reparative therapy, and that their response to me is that of I Corinthians 5: "With such a man do not even eat."

I visited my mom's parents, the Dunders, to come out to them in person. When I first told them, my grandmother was forcefully angry. She questioned my knowledge of scripture, and at one point, walked over to her kitchen table where a photo of her latest great-grandchild was laying. She held it up to me and stated, "This is what you will be missing out on." My grandfather's response was, I thought, somewhat more mature: "Well, we can't approve of your choice, but you're still our grandson, we still love you, and we have to accept you as you are." I left that day feeling hurt by my grandmother's rebuke but hopeful about their eventual acceptance.

A week later they visited my aunt's family for Thanksgiving. I don't know exactly what transpired in that weekend, and I didn't call to check up on my grandparents for several weeks after that. I wanted to give them time to think and respond without pressuring them to say things they hadn't thought through.

I called my grandparents last week. My grandmom answered the phone and made nice small talk about the weather and wondered whether I were going to make it for that side of the family's New Year's celebration. I told her that I wasn't sure I would make it, since D and I would be in the area the day before to visit my dad's side, and it seemed like too much driving to make the roundtrip twice in two days. At that point my grandfather got on the phone and said that he appreciated my calling, that he had been meaning to call me.

"Heath," he begins in his measured tone, "when you first told us, we were just devastated and stunned. We didn't know how to respond."

"Uh huh," from me.

"Then, as I had time to think about it, I just got very angry. Angry that you could do this to your mom and dad. If you knew how much you were hurting them, you'd change your mind."

Silence on my end.

"Heath, you know better. You know the scriptures, and you claim to have a different interpretation of them, but the scriptures clearly say that God hates what you're doing, and there is no other way to read that. God says, 'I am the Lord; I change not,' and he wouldn't have said one thing in his word and then another thing to you personally."

This despite our previous conversation in my original coming-out about Peter's vision when the blanket it let down from heaven and God tells him, "Get up; kill and eat."

"Heath," he continues, no longer expecting a response from me, "I would almost rather see you in your grave than see you like this, because at least that way we would know you were with the Lord."

At this point, my silence is not a choice. How does one respond when your grandparents effectively say they wish you were dead?

"And as far as family gatherings are concerned," he proceeds to finish his prepared monologue, "well, any event where you will be present I would rather just stay home from."

"Well," I clear my throat. "It's painful to hear you say those things, and I'm very disappointed that what feels like a disagreement about God's will for me should keep us from fellowshipping together."

"Yes, but you need to understand that there are consequences for your choices, and for you to live like you are and still get together with family would be to have everything you want. So," his voice now indicates the conversation is over, "I thank you for calling." He now sounds like he's thanking a doctor's office that has just called with unfortunate test results. "And I don't know when we'll see you again, but I hope it will be in a different situation."

"Well, I hope so too, and I hope it's not too long from now."

"Okay, well, so long."

"I love you."

"Mm. Goodbye."

Just Angry

2007-05-13T23:47:00.001-04:00

I am angry at life, and I am angry with God. I am angry at life for being so fucking difficult. For being so utterly impossible that the moment you are happy, it is because you have let your guard down. I am angry because I have been dealt a hand of cards I feel I cannot play. Like a game in which it doesn’t matter what you do, because you’re bound to lose, whether it be in one big, misplaced bet, or in the small antes that bleed you dry throughout the course of the game.

I am angry that the things I want in life have to be so impossible and complicated. And I’m angry that everyone in my life has to have so much invested emotionally that I can’t make a move without making somebody nervous.

Can I live a life of celibacy? Can I do that and not be bitter about it? Why would I do that? To make my family happy? To play it safe with God?

Everything in life seems to mock me. David, whom I met at a birthday party last night. So gay that, when he starts talking about his kids, I ask myself whether homosexual couples are allowed to adopt in this state. I then find out that he’s married to a woman, who is across the room, and whom he seems to more or less affectionately demean with every reference to her. What is his life about? Why the hell is he married, and is their relationship as bizarre as it seems to me?

The beauty in life seems to mock me. Why should the skies be blue and the world be happy when my own little world is in such chaos? Every laugh is a laugh in the face of my pain.

Even the rest of the pain in the world mocks me. It mocks me because I cannot touch it. I cannot be a part of it in any way, because that would involve exposing my own pain, and I don’t know if we’re ready to do that just yet. I thought we were, but after coming out to my parents last week (oh, there’s a story), “we” are not sure that telling my list of close friends is such a wise move at this juncture.

Fuck prudence. And fuck dealing with this shit in a pretty, tidy way. I’m tired. I’ve only dealt with this shit for a year and a half, and I’m tired.

Oh yeah. And I’m angry with God because I feel like this is somehow his fault. And I realize that that probably isn’t entirely correct, or constructive whatsoever. But I’m angry nonetheless. And we’re just going to leave it at that for the moment.

Finding the Story

2007-05-13T23:25:00.000-04:00

When I was a sophomore in college (a mere three years ago), I took a creative writing course during the spring semester. The course was a general fiction/nonfiction, “how to capture the stories of life, be they true or not” kind of course. Despite its generality, I learned a great deal about the first steps of writing (which involve shutting down the Editor inside yourself and just letting the story come to the surface). Our class was small, and we shared our writings with each other often. We also participated in writing exercises throughout the semester – silly things, few of which ever made it beyond the scrap paper we were writing on. But they were helpful nonetheless for the purpose of forcing us to put something on paper, no matter the quality. Because (as we all had learned and subsequently enrolled in the class), if you waited for something high-quality before you began writing, you would never begin.

I still have all those exercises written down somewhere in one of my notebooks in the attic in my parents’ house. Occasionally I go through it and reflect on each one, wondering whether I should practice it again, just to see what comes out. Most of them have disappeared from my memory, but one exercise remains. One evening, in talking about our internal Editor (that domineering voice inside us that dictates which parts of us go public (few) and which are never to see the light of day (most), Lena, our instructor, had us take out a sheet of blank paper and a pen.

“I’m going to give you exactly two minutes. I want to you make a list. On the first line of this list I want you to write, ‘What I really want to know is…’ and then write your question. These are the questions of your lives. They are the questions that lurk in the background, forbidden by the Editor from being asked because of the reality they reveal. They are questions about your past, your present, your future, your self. Questions regarding the why’s and what’s and how’s of life. I want you to write as many of these questions as you can in two minutes, and I want you to write as quickly as possible so that the Editor doesn’t have time to check your responses.”

Well, we all shifted around in our chairs for a second or two, alternately looking at each other with that smile of “Is she serious? Because this is really personal,” and looking away in the embarrassed denial that we had any reason to hide our “true” questions. At least, that’s what I was doing for the 15 seconds or so while each of us adjusted to the idea. What Laura was asking of us was a level of honesty with ourselves that we weren’t used to. For God’s sake, we had signed up for a writing class, not therapy. One just doesn’t walk into class on a given Tuesday evening ready to expose depths of your life that you’ve never yet examined.

But that was the beauty of the exercise. If we had had time to reflect and plan our responses to her question, I would have created a perfectly innocuous list of questions that had just the proper amount of philosophical depth and yet completely lacked any personally revealing liabilities. Questions such as, “What I really want to know is, why did my great-grandmother have to die?” (Answer: Because she was 87 years old, and that’s generally the most popular post-retirement activity of people in that age bracket.)

And even in the 15 seconds between when Lena gave us the instructions and I put pen to paper, my mind began racing to find just the right questions that would allow me to participate in this exercise without really fulfilling its dangerous purpose. To be perfectly honest, I knew, from the moment Lena finished her sentence, what should have been the first question on my list. And it was because I knew exactly what I should have written that my Editor worked so hard and so quickly to provide me with anything to keep me from writing it. And so, for the first 75 seconds of this exercise, I filled my paper with the surrogate questions. What’s interesting in retrospect (or rather, not so interesting) is that I don’t remember them. I remember that some of them were very good as surrogate questions go. (One of them was about whether, at the end of my life, I will have done anything worth writing home about. (The jury’s still out on that one.)) Others were not so spectacular. (E.g., things along the lines of my great-grandmother question above.)

At some point in the second minute, however, my Editor ran out of brilliant ideas, and in his moment of weakness, I seized the opportunity and wrote, “What I really want to know is, am I gay?”

I remember this question for two reasons. Firstly, because it was the only real question on the list. When you write, “What I really want to know is…” there should be only one candidate that fits that description. Secondly, because I spent five minutes after class that evening scribbling that question off the list. (You see, even after the fact, how strong a grip my Editor has on what goes out.) I remember it took a good long while to make it disappear from the page, even under all the ink I put over it.

In the three years since that evening, I have tried to write about my life for a number of reasons. First, I feel that writing helps me actually take stock of my own life and helps me gain some sort of vision as to what I’m doing, where I’m going, and what of those questions should change or continue. Second, I feel that, while publishing is not really the final purpose of writing, my life should nevertheless have something worth saying to other people. If it doesn’t, my real problem is not a lack of publishing, but the lack of a life. The lack of actually living in a way that seems worthwhile, in a way that would be worth telling someone else about. And if I’m not leading a life worth living, then what the hell am I doing? Probably the only other real question on that list happens to be the only other one I remember: “What I really want to know is, at the end of my life, will I have done anything worth writing home about?” For the past three years I have tried to write the story of my life with surrogate questions, surrogate struggles, and consequently surrogate victories. As a result, my life has been rather substitutionary itself. It should have been a clue, three years ago, as I sat scribbling out that question, that the real story, the story of my life that was actually worth reading (or living) was specifically that which I was trying to scratch out. Make no mistake, I’ve done some cool things since then. I finished a hell of an education, was a few steps away from starting my own business before I trashed the plan and decided that I needed to move to France. The plot outline of my life looks great so far. What’s missing is the character.

Speaker and author Don Miller recounts a story of the time he was helping some friends write a screenplay. Though they had just begun the first act, Don was anxious to get on to the later parts of the story where the action actually occurred. His friends, having more experience in the process of creation, checked him. “No, Rookie, no. If we don’t know what the character wants, nobody cares. He’s boring. It’s a boring story.”

What’s true for the reader is true for the writer. Throughout these past three years, I feel as if I have been living with a surrogate passion for life. In the absence of the real questions and the real struggles, which I have not permitted myself to engage, I have had to drudge up something that looks like real excitement about my life. I’ve had to pretend that I’m living life to the fullest. I have the mixed blessing of having amazing friends, friends who challenge me to live at that deeper level, and to engage reality. If I don’t they pick up on it, and they call me on it. Throughout college I had a two very dear friends, one of whom I briefly dated (but that’s a story for a later chapter). Jenna and Katie were people who were not good at hiding what was going on in their lives. If they were going through some tough emotional crap (as we all do from time to time), chances are I knew about it. I was their close friend and confidant (as they were for each other), and there was many a night that found them sitting in my room, pouring out their struggle, their pain, and their questions. I listened to their stories, and sometimes I would be able to provide guidance, sometimes merely a listening ear. But after a while, they both began to pull me out of my safe position as a listener, and call me toward a truer, shared friendship.

“So, how are you doing?” Katie asked one evening after a conversation involving her recent stress.

“I’m doing pretty well, thanks. Just busy and tired.” The barefaced noncommittalness my reply now makes me cringe. Just busy and tired?

“You know, I’m always in here talking about my crap, but you never really say what’s really going on with you. Why is that?”

Silence. Internally, my Editor is frantically scrambling for the perfect response. Katie is a good friend. She deserves an authentic answer, but the truth – that I’m currently in one of my more emotional phases of my sexual ambiguity – is just a little too dear to give her.

I don’t remember what I eventually said. I was completely taken off-guard by her question, and while I can’t recall my specific response, I seem to remember feeling that she knew she wasn’t getting the whole story. But as a good friend, she wouldn’t force me to give it before I was ready.

This is the story I am finally willing to engage. Why the sudden change in heart? Where is my Editor and why is he not on this leak, tightening his grip and feeding me more of a great plot outline to keep me distracted? The truth is that I’m just finally fairly disgusted with myself. I’m tired of living a lie. I’m tired of playacting my life, hoping the audience, (my friends, God, and even myself) won’t get tired of the gimmicks I pull on-stage, hungering for something more substantial. Well, that day has come, and the Editor has been fired. While he kept insisting that his job was to make sure everyone would like and accept my story, I’ve discovered that all he’s really done is keep me from having one. I can’t say for how long he’s gone, or whether he’ll be back, but I’m once again seizing the opportunity in his absence, and maybe this time, I’ll keep him from scribbling out what I’ve done while he’s away.

2005-11-19T19:40:00.001-05:00

So, M's in Italy for 10 days. This is probably good in the long run, but it hurts now. This week has been so crazy. Sunday night was so hard after I got back. My friend, E, called me that evening, wondering if I wanted to go out for coffee. E is one of M's best friends, and I didn't know what M had told E of our conversation on Friday. But I wasn't even nervous about it. If he had told her everything, my confession to him included, it would have been fine. Just as I somehow knew it was right to tell M on Friday night, somehow I knew it was right that E know, and if she didn't know already, I would tell her Sunday.

We met over coffee, and while she didn't know my side of the story, nothing of what I told her surprised her. I don't know how I feel about that. I'm apparently not as great an actor as I had hoped. Who else already knows what I would hide from them? My best friends here? My parents? Does everyone look at me, smile, and think, "Oh, Heath, when will you just come out and say it?" God, who knows what I would even say? That I have questions about my sexuality? A lot of people can't handle that. So many people still need to put people into clearly labeled buckets - Straight or Gay. Some people have a third option, which is just as strict in some ways - Bi. If this whole spectrum of sexual orientation has any value, then the buckets don't work, and they simply make the question more difficult. If I were to tell my parents that I'm not sure I'm completely in the Straight bucket, they might recover, but they'd want to know what bucket I was in. But I don't have one! I have no idea, I have no answers. All I'm left with is questions.

So Sunday evening after my conversation with E got really uncomfortable. The conversation itself was great, and E was so understanding and open. But then we walked over to M's house together, had a beer, and then M and E went to the bar while I went back to my room to unpack my bags. The three of us didn't talk about the fact that we all knew the others' stories, and there was a kind of unspoken question in M's eyes while we hung out: "Does E know? How much have you told her?" As I said, she already knew his story, so I betrayed no confidences. But still, it was awkward.

After we parted ways, I started to freak out and wonder if I should have cleared it with M before I talked with E about everything. I just wanted to call him and make sure everything was okay between us. I came back to my room and just sat on my bed, not sleeping, not moving, just following a long string of "What-Ifs" in my mind and getting more and more freaked out. Around midnight I decided I wasn't going to sleep very well, and decided to go to the drug store to get some Sleep-Aid. Hello, cruel irony. The drugstore now closes at midnight, when it used to be open 24/7. Well, so much for that. So I drove home and continued to freak out until eventually falling asleep.

For the rest of the week I would see M in public situations, but never had a chance to really sit down and talk with him again. I found myself thinking about him a lot, wondering how he was doing, looking forward to seeing him again, hoping he would walk by while I was sitting in a coffee shop. What is this? Love? Hunger for attention? Desire for intimacy? Who even knows? I have no freakin' idea. As the week went on I tried to stop thinking about M romantically (if that's what it is) and think about myself with girls I find attractive, and who would be comfortable being with me despite my questions - E, S?

It started to work. (That's such a weird way to put it, as if I was taking medication that started to kick in.) It took my attention and anxiety away from M and helped me regain something of my former thought life. Nonetheless, I look forward to seeing M.

He's in Italy now. When I began to think about him leaving for the week, I became so jealous and really had the desire to go to Italy also. Now, part of this is just because Italy is so wonderful; I loved my time there in April. But when I would say to people, "After thinking of M going to Italy, that's all I want to do right now," I would think quietly, "Go with him, that's what I want to do." It's a dream I haven't given much thought to, partially because I think it's emotionally dangerous to focus on it.

I don't know what this all means. Part of me hopes I can retrain myself to think about being with girls, and just forget this whole emotional hellhole. And then another part of me says, "What makes you think ignoring this will make it better? This is something that will follow you for your life. You'd better figure out what to do besides run from it."

But what does confronting it look like? Come out and confess? Why put my friends and family through hell if I'm not even sure how this all will end? What if, in five or ten years, I find myself completely without these questions, solidly falling into the Straight bucket? (They say your identity sometimes doesn't solidify until 30.) Will it have been worth it to put my family through all of that if it's not going to last forever?

God, what am I saying? That I can wear a mask for 10 years, betting that these questions will disappear and that I'll be able to go back to my happy, perfect life? Somehow that doesn't seem possible. Like I said, I'm not that good an actor.

So what's my road for the immediate future? I think I've reached enough of an emotionally stable place such that I can hold this under my hat for a while, at least until things become a little clearer. What about M and me? I don't know. If things continue like they did this week, nothing will happen. He didn't push anything, and we simply remained friends. But I fear that things could take a turn for the more complicated with him pretty quickly if one of us made the wrong move. I guess I'll cross that bridge when I come to it...

God, don't leave me. I'm trying to follow you. The way is just so poorly marked.

2005-11-13T23:19:00.000-05:00

In three days I have told three people about my questions about my sexuality. That's a pattern I need to break now. Before you know it, I'll be posting these things on my non-anonymous blog, pouring myself out to a world that isn't ready for it, and doing it before I'm even ready for it. God, I need to think about this.

Isn't it funny how life figures out new creative ways to stop making sense, on whole new levels? If I were to hand-pick the circumstances to surprise me in life, I couldn't have picked better ones than this.

Last night Mark came out to me. Well, "came out" may not be the right phrase. He doesn't know if he's gay or bisexual or straight, but he recognizes an attraction within himself that surprises him.

Bingo. Welcome to my life. He wants to avoid the "gay" label because he's not sure. He's scared because he's not in control. That's me! I'm scared by this thing I see inside of me and I don't know if I'm in control of it, or if it's in control of me.

So, to complicate the matter, I shared my own nearly identical questions with him. I didn't really think about this before I did it, despite the fact that I've never shared that with anyone else ever before. But in the moment, there was no question that it was right to share it. We ended by appreciating each other's situation, and he told me that if ever I'd be interested, he'd be open.

I didn't think too much about it at first, but while driving later for three hours to the church retreat by myself, I did a lot of thinking and a lot of freaking out, and by the end, I was completely confused.

Do I want something with him? Am I interested? I didn't think so. But I've been lonely lately, and Mark's deep companionship (intimacy?) is attractive. So...what? What do I do? I find the thing I'm looking for, but I can't have it. Is this actually a sexual attraction, or is this merely the intimacy my heart is longing for?

Mark said his attraction to other guys was deeply emotional. I think it's the same with me. But what does that even mean? Where is the line between emotions and sexuality? Are they disconnected such that I could be emotionally intimate with Mark without physicality? Somehow, I don't see that happening. Is there something wrong about physicality? Or is the emotional intimacy dangerous?

What great irony, that Heath Fields, who fought the gay label for so long, and had to prove to the world that he was secure and put together, is now faced to grapple with the one question of life that carries the most weight for him. The perfect foible to the almost-perfect character - the thing that uncovers just how much of a mess he really is.

Welcome to real life, Heath.

2005-06-13T23:17:00.001-04:00

Life has a funny sense of timing. (And by funny, I mean only in that months-later-you-look-back-and-say-"Cruel Irony!" kind of way. And that's usually not even very funny.) The day after I wrote the last post, S called me at home. Her call was expected, but the conversation wasn't. But I'm getting ahead of myself. I didn't really even finish the last thought before I ended the post.

So, after our conversation in the car that day about why we shouldn'’t hook up, things were left at that. Secretly, I kind of had events planned out in my mind: S would go transfer schools, give herself just enough time to settle in, then call me and invite me to visit, or arrange some such convenient get-together whereby we could get together. Life would then progress blissfully with her attending school a mere two hours from my university, and I would have re-entered the world of romance after a very brief delay - fashionably late, some would say.

A few months went by - two, I think - and I hadn't heard from S. But two months is hardly any time at all. Just enough to settle in. What's more, I was making plans to swing by her school on my return after spring break. "How perfect," I thought. "I'’ll show her I'm still interested, and give her the perfect opportunity to say something after just the right amount of time." Smooth, indeed.

S's call that evening was to confirm my visit and give me directions. She sounded cordial enough, and then she broke in with, "Heath, I need to tell you something before you come. I've put off telling you for a couple weeks now, and I'm terrified to say it."

"Okay," I reply in my best accepting-friend-ready-to-hear-anything tone.

"Mark and I are back together."

2005-03-19T12:18:00.001-05:00

I woke up this morning thinking about my friend, S. Actually, it began with a dream I was having right before I woke up. S and I were at school, or somewhere, watching a wrestling match that she had organized. Now, as far as I know, S isn't really into wrestling. Perhaps she likes it in that sisterly way, cheering her brother and father along as they tumble around on the living room carpet. But I don’t think she’s really into the sport in general. But S is a social hub. She was elected social organizer of her sorority in college, and she’s always planning some activity among friends. So I assume that’s why she was responsible for the wrestling match in my dream.
Anyway, we were there, I with a Coors Light, she with an Irish coffee. I think that image kind of signifies something of our personalities. You see, in the dream, we were both still underage. When you’re underage, social drinking is about more than alcohol. It’s a symbol that you are above the rules – that you are worthy of not having to be subject to the laws that govern most men and women. It’s a sign of maturity, even if it’s used immaturely. In the dream, I had grabbed the beer from a nearby cooler, hoping no one would notice. She had worked her connections and had a caterer deliver a thermos of Irish coffee. I think that’s how I act sometimes – grasping at whatever sign of significance I can lay my hands on. Not too noble to steal a beer in order to look cool and mature. As I sip my beer, feeling as hip as Tyler Hilton and looking as classy as Homer Simpson, I notice her walk by, gently cupping her coffee, and realize how pathetic I am. In the very act of trying to appear cool, I give myself away as a big loser. In the dream, S comes up to me, quietly takes my hand, and leads me away from the wrestling match (which by now has just become a good-natured brawl between any of my friends that get admission to the dream), and leads me into a quiet room where people are sitting around on couches, laughing and talking with one another. S walks over to the thermos, pours me an Irish coffee, and then we sit down on the couches, and we are together.
Then I woke up, and thought about how much I missed S. We’re not together, you see. Neither in the physical sense, nor the relational sense. I proposed the idea not long ago, but it was met with a tentative no. S and I lived together for a summer. Well, not in the scandalous sense. We were working at the same summer camp together. She was the Drama Director; I was the Music Director. What more need be said? We spent more time together than most married couples, I think. Our schedules were exactly the same, down to what hours we had off. We spent our days off together on the beach, soaking up the sun all afternoon, grabbing a bite to eat, then heading back to camp to watch a movie.
I should probably say here that I was not looking for a relationship at the time. I was still recovering from a three-month fiasco that most people would laugh at, if they knew how not-serious it was. It felt like hell to me, though, and to the girl whose heart I had broken. As a result I was scared shitless by any kind of intimacy, and was a bit fearful of my friendship with S, which undoubtedly had some potential chemistry. That being said, I was probably not particularly careful about choosing non-romantic activities.
For instance, one time we took the ferry across the bay and spent the day on the beach. The evening was wonderful. We walked around town, oohing and aahing at all the magnificent houses, browsing the shops, and then we ate dinner alfresco at a fantastic Italian restaurant. As we finished the main course, I said I was going to walk over to the little information booth not far from our table to check on the ferry schedule. Most days the last ferry left at 8:00 PM, but I wanted to make sure. I walked over and opened up a schedule. On Friday evening, the last ferry left at 6:45. I looked at my watch, which read 6:44. Somewhere in Pennsylvania, M. Night Shyamalan laughed maniacally.
I went back to the table, holding the schedule like a wanted poster with my picture on it. “We just missed the last ferry,” I confessed. “What shall we do?”
Since we had to be back for work at 7:00 AM, our options were limited. I tried calling my cousins who lived an hour north to see if they could put us up for the night, but no one was home. S called her mom, to discuss options, and we decided that we should either get a hotel room somewhere and catch the first morning ferry, or spend the night driving around the bay.
Some men, cads that they are, would have jumped at the chance before them. Stuck spending the night in a hotel with a beautiful girl? Lay the hardship on me! But I am not that kind of guy, and S is not that kind of girl. It’s not that I don’t think I have it in me to take advantage of such a situation; its just that I’m too much of a pussy. But let me tell you, being a pussy isn’t always such an awful thing. It’s kept me safe for many, many years – kept me from making any stupid decisions that I wouldn’t be allowed to tell my grandchildren. It has also kept me from actually living every once in a while. My greatest fear is that, worse than having stories too scandalous for the grandchildren, all my stories will bore them, and they will dread spending time with such a wet-blanket grandfather. My grandfather tells the same damn stories every time we see him. But at least they’re not boring.
Long story short: we ended up driving around the bay for four hours, during which time we had a really good discussion about relationships. I started out as being really hesitant to tell S things, because I was afraid of what might be taking place between us. About a half-hour into the drive, however, I said, “Screw it. I’m just going to talk,” and proceeded to recount the inner workings of my mind that had occurred during my previous relationship. I told her how scared I was, how terrified that, if I tried anything again, I would only screw it up worse, and hurt someone else. I had had my warning, and if I proceeded to hurt another girl I would be even more liable – like premeditated murder of the heart.
I think S was a bit overwhelmed with everything I laid on her that night, but she responded really thoughtfully and gracefully. I’ll never forget her words (words that my dad echoed months later), “How can you expect to do well in a relationship if you don’t give yourself a chance to practice?”
I told her she had a point, and I continued to think about that until I feel asleep about an hour from camp. Don Juan, I ain’t.
We passed the remainder of our summer together in close friendship. When we returned to school, I thought about her every now and then, but school was busy, and my mind was full. She visited a few times for lunch and coffee, and we had fun recalling memories of camp, and how we had been the expected couple of the summer.
In December she came for a Christmas party, and I started to wonder about us. It was a new kind of wonder, not the fearful questioning I had done over the summer about whether or not she was coming on to me. It was a nervous, half-excited kind of wonder, like the smile that curls up one side of your face when everyone yells “SURPRISE!” at the birthday party you thought they had forgotten.
I proceeded to wonder about us over the Christmas holiday, and decided to ask her when we saw each other at the winter reunion where we had worked. While I was driving her back to the airport, we recounted old laughs and stories, including the rumor about our relationship. “Now’s your chance, Slick,” a voice inside prompted. “Don’t fuck it up.” I cleared my throat and said casually, “Speaking of the rumor of the summer…” Another clearing of the throat. “What would you think if something were to…progress, between us?”
It was her turn to clear her throat. It was beginning to sound like we had croup. “Well, I don’t know. Let me think for a minute.” I swear she thought for half the drive. After what seemed like a while, she said, “If you had asked me this summer, or even up to January first of this year, I would have said without hesitation.”
Fantastic. My romantic inclination kicks in nine days too late. It’s like getting your period nine days after you’ve announced that you’re pregnant. At least, that’s what I imagine it’s like. To be honest, I don’t know for sure.
She explained. She was transferring schools at the time, and felt like too much was changing all at once around her. “I think it’s best not to start something new until my life becomes a little more stable,” she said.
I said that was fine, that I completely understood, and that, if we did get together, I would want the relationship to be something fun for both of us, not a burden. Inside, I was partially disappointed, partially relieved. I was still very nervous about starting a relationship, so this response was a load off my mind. At the same time, however, I think I really did want something to happen between us, and the disappointment of that expectation hurt.

2005-03-17T16:26:00.000-05:00

I’ve often wondered what it means that I live in a world of such luxury, while others live without the necessary means of survival. Of course, one could look at it and say, “It is what it is.” I went to a seminar on poverty once where the speaker listed over twenty separate and complex causes of poverty. As the seminar participants talked, many of whom had spent much time in places like Sierra Leone and Burundi, I became depressingly aware of the mind-blowing complexity of the issue. The problem is often pinned on any one cause, but is more often the true product of any given thirty causes. But still, in a world that’s supposed to be looked after by a guy who sees it all at once, it seems like there must be some meaning behind the $75,000+ difference in our lifestyles.

2005-03-16T20:20:00.000-05:00

I forgot my cell phone today. I didn't leave it at the library, or the funeral home, or any other public place where it might horrify people by its existence. I had to drive to town for an eye appointment, a twenty-mile drive, and I left my cell phone sitting at home on my night table. I still don't know what came over me. I usually don't do things like that, but today, when I was ready to walk out the door, I had my wallet, my car keys – I had even remembered to put my contacts in so the lady behind the desk at the optometrist's wouldn't look at me like I was a pedophile. But then, in the hustle and flurry of trying to remember to pick up an extra tube of toothpaste and some lens cleaner for my mom, I forgot to grab my cell phone.
To tell you the truth, I don't know exactly how I feel about this. A part of me, the backwoods-beatnik part of me that wants to shoot Daytimers with potato guns and toast large trucks with homemade booze, wants to rejoice. "Hooray for independence," it says. "Strike a blow against the emasculating hold of modern technological slavery." (Except that no backwoods-beatnik would really use words like that. My inner beatnik is more of a Tyler-Durden-meets-Henry-David-Thoreau. He lives somewhere between the Appalachian Mountains and Brooklyn.)
Another part of me, the softer, Quilted Northern side, who I picture in plaid, quietly responds, "Yes, but think what could have happened in those twenty miles. And there you would have been, without any way of reaching anyone." And this side would not be entirely out of line. It was only a week ago that I drove up on an accident that had occurred not seconds before I got there. A black Mazda sedan had crossed the yellow line, and plowed into a red Ford pick-up. When I got there, the Ford was on its side, and people were helping the driver of the Mazda stumble to the side of the road. "Uh oh," I thought. "What do I do? I am First-Aid certified. Isn't there some law that says I have to stop and save somebody's life, or I'm guilty of manslaughter?" (There isn't.) So, I pulled off to the side of the road, turned on my hazard lights (I'm always so excited to be able to use those; I think it makes my car look cool and important.), and walked over to the scene. Some people were already on their phones, so I knew the authorities would be there soon, so I went about seeing what I could do.
The man in the Mazda had put his head through the windshield, disassembled his steering wheel with his chest, and had blood all over. I made sure there was no profuse bleeding, and sat down next to the man to evaluate him verbally. He was very confused and kept asking what had happened, but he seemed coherent enough to tell me his name, where he worked, and (when I remembered to ask) his wife's name and phone number. Now there wasn't a whole lot I could do for this guy. Despite my First-Aid training, I didn't have an aid kit in my car. I didn't even have a blanket to offer this guy against the snow that was starting to fall. I thought about offering him my wool three-quarter length coat, but, noticing all the blood, I decided that he wasn't so badly off that he couldn't wait for the warmth of the ambulances that were just arriving. (By the way, I don't know if I'm really okay with that decision, or, like watching an incomprehensible scene of horror, my conscience is so paralyzed by the self-centeredness of the decision that it doesn't know how to begin processing it.)
I felt rather helpless standing there, watching the paramedics unload their equipment, examining the impressiveness of the collision, and trying over and over to reach the man's wife, who apparently wasn't near the phone. Eventually, after the victims had been loaded up and whisked away, I left the scene, feeling a mixture of virtue and shame. The decision about the coat bothered me a bit, but I also felt a feeling of wholesomeness about trying to call the guy's wife. It is like that unique feeling of goodness that one receives from feeding the homeless or building shelters for battered women. It feels virtuous to be able to help, yet you still feel somewhat guilty at the end of the day; despite the fact that you have put some pork and beans in the stomachs of people that didn't have it before, you are returning to a warm, furnished, three-bedroom edifice, like something out of Country Home, or Martha Stewart Living. The homeless, on the other hand, will be living from the pages of a Salvation Army or World Vision monthly newsletter.
But the biggest part of me that was bothered by the fact that I forgot my cell phone, the part that has an apartment in Manhattan and a house in the country (because that's cool), was the part that imagines himself on starring in a Cingular commercial someday. Or a Gap commercial. You could probably use the same commercial for both, and just have different voiceovers. I imagine that I'm walking down the street, looking like I have somewhere important to go, and I get a call on my phone. It's probably a friend, and I smile really charmingly, and get in a quick conversation with the friend before I have to go to my meeting on the upcoming Armani campaign, because, you know, it's cool to be both busy and personable. That's the beauty of the cell phone, and modern life. I can message you my smiling face before I check my stocks. Now let me tell you, I don't have some stupid ringer on my phone. I think the music industry shot itself in the foot when it licensed its product for use on cell phones. Who likes to be in a conversation with someone and suddenly hear 50 Cent breaking in with who-knows-what asinine line? Or, God forbid, I'm walking down the street looking like I have somewhere to go, and suddenly Garth Brooks sounds from my pocket, signaling to the world that, no matter where I'm going, it can't be that important, because who goes to important places listening to Garth Brooks?
It's all the part of the role I play. The drama is directed in my own head, and I like to imagine that the rest of the world is as captivated by the plot as I am, even though the most important calls I actually get are from my mom, telling me not to forget her contact solution when I go to Wal-Mart. Donald Miller says in his book, Blue Like Jazz, that the human condition is defined by self-absorption. I can recognize that to such a large extent in myself. I am the most important person in my mind. I load everything I do with significance, even to the point of fantasy. Meanwhile, the times when I am faced with significant decisions and actions, I often drop the ball.
I'm particularly bad with accomplishing significant things that diminish my own grandeur. For example, I'm atrociously bad at contributing anything to charity. You will find no greater advocate of self-sacrifice and helping humanity than myself (because that's cool, in a liberal, Ghandi kind of way). But if you look through my check register, you will find precious little to back my high ideals. And it's not that I think I am somehow exempt from the necessity to contribute to those in need. It's just that it’s damned inconvenient to better mankind without any kind of return. (I don't even itemize my taxes, so deductions are out of the picture.) It's nice to distribute clothing to the homeless, or help build a church in Brazil, because I get seen while I do those things. My face is acknowledged, and people look at me and think, "What a kind, warm-hearted person. So selfless and caring." When I mail a check to the Catholic Relief Foundation, nobody sees anything. The postman doesn't even take notice of my virtue. I am convinced that charitable donations would swell beyond measure, were it standard to mail them in large envelopes that were stamped, "CHARITY ENCLOSED! PLEASE REGARD SENDER AS HIGHLY IMPORTANT!" If the Salvation Army came up to people’s houses with a camera and a big sign that read, "HERE LIVES AN AMAZING PERSON!", all Publisher's Clearinghouse style, there would be no poor on the streets.
But, the Salvation Army hasn't taken my suggestion, so they must know something about anonymous do-gooding that I haven't figured out. In The Divine Conspiracy, Dallas Willard writes, "The secret value of a conscience is lost once the good goes public." If this is true, I wonder why it is. I don't feel any particular good in my soul when I do something good in secret. I feel more of a desire to tell someone soon – to let someone know that I have just spent my Saturday afternoon sorting clothing at Goodwill. What did Jesus know when he told his disciples to pray in their closet, to not let their right hand know that their left was doing good? What great secret am I missing because I am too caught up in my own self-aggrandizement?