One year later…

It’s been a little over a year since I came out. Deciding to live as an openly gay Christian woman (who fully embraces the “gay lifestyle,” whatever the hell that is) was a hard decision. I did not make it lightly. I waited until I was sure, my conscience was clear. Then came the difficult task of telling my family and friends.

Some friends accepted my decision and affirmed their love for me, and we moved on with our lives. But others worried. They were afraid that my decision to love was going to end up with me rejecting my faith and becoming emotionally damaged. I didn’t know what to say, other than that only time would tell.

And now it’s been a year.

In Matthew 7:16-18, Jesus says,

“You will know them by their fruits. Do men gather grapes from thornbushes or figs from thistles? Even so, every good tree bears good fruit, but a bad tree bears bad fruit. A good tree cannot bear bad fruit, nor can a bad tree bear good fruit.” (NKJV).

It’s the passage where Jesus is talking about distinguishing false prophets. But by extension, he is addressing apparent ambiguity, and how you can determine what is truly good by looking at the results that it yields.

He’s a wise man, that Jesus. The words he spoke 2,000 years ago still ring true. This verse is how I know that I was right to embrace my orientation and come out of the closet.

It’s been a year since I came out, and I’m amazed at how my life has changed. I’ve noticed a subtle shift in my demeanor. I’m bolder. I have the courage to be kind. In situations where it’s easier to be silent, I find myself speaking.

I’m less afraid to just do things I want to do. Where fear and anxiety once held me back, I am now free to simply act. I signed up for a 10k, and ran it in 55:04. Not fabulous, but I did it. Before, the fear of failure–of humiliating myself by finishing DFL–would probably have stopped me from registering. The potential of encountering an untold number of strangers on the trail would have kept me from training beforehand. But I ran, and I loved it, and I was not afraid.

There’s a Starbucks near where I work, and I go there on weekend mornings to study (or write blog posts), sip slightly burnt coffee, and pee in the customers-only bathroom. That’s where I am now.  I used to hate coming here. Once again, because the proximity of other people taxed my reserves and made the experience exhausting.

I love coming here now. The baristas know me. They know that I’m a musician. They know my usual drink (tall blonde roast), and that I pay with exact change ($2.11). We always say “hi” and chat for a few minutes when I order my drink. I like watching all the different customers as they troop through. A few minutes ago a lady told me “nice shoes!” and made my day.

My newfound confidence is something I’ve wanted for so many years. I remember being a young kid and wishing that I could just be comfortable in my skin. Looking at other people and wondering how they had the guts to be themselves. I tried to fake it, and in my teens I managed to bluff so well I fooled everyone except myself. But on the inside, I was just as anxiety-plagued and jittery as my eight-year-old self.

I feel so different now. Being around other people doesn’t sap my energy in the same way anymore. I don’t need to maintain an emotional shield for everyone I meet. They are welcome to look at me and see the person I am. Who cares if they glance over and think “oh she’s definitely gay”? It’s true. I am. And we can all go on with our day.

I still find myself being faintly surprised when I stop for a moment and think to myself, I’m happy. I love my life. I haven’t thought about suicide once today. It’s amazing because for years, a day without suicidal thoughts seemed impossible.

I can’t say that depression is completely gone from my life. I still have dark days sometimes. But they are the exception, not the norm. Now, when I think about depression, it’s usually to marvel at the fact that it no longer overshadows my consciousness. I wonder at it’s conspicuous absence.

I look to the future with hope. I dare to dream again. I have ambition. In the depths of my depression, it was overwhelming to try to think of even one year in the future. To plan that far ahead was to face the harsh reality of having to live through another 365 days of pain. I’m thinking about my future now and I’m excited.

I’m looking forward to the day when I meet the love of my life. Long conversations, laughing our heads off at inside jokes that aren’t actually that funny, cuddling under the stars…and then one day we’ll get married. We’ll get a couple of cats, and maybe a dog. We’ll spoil each other, my wife and I. We’ll go on dates to the movies, and dancing, and hip little restaurants downtown. And then we’ll start having kids. Maybe I’ll carry a baby. Maybe she will. Maybe we’ll adopt. Our kids will be so wanted, so adored…

These are the desires of my little gay heart. Growing up, I heard whispers of the perversity of homosexual feelings. Gay relationships were painted as forbidden trysts fueled by lust run rampant. That I felt attracted to other women was a source of terrible shame for me. To think that I was one of those people whose lust was so out of control that it burned for other women!

This picture of gay relationships is so twisted, so false. We are not some hyper-sexualized creatures whose passions cannot be satisfied by heterosexual union–we are humans with the same ability to love as anyone else. Our love is beautiful, it is pure. It is no less, and no less holy, because it is directed at someone of the same sex.

Today I find that my mind is clearer, my future brighter, my heart fuller, than I ever could have imagined. I took the risk of embracing my identity because I believed that it was right–and that if I was mistaken, God would turn me around before I went too far astray. One year after coming out, I know that I made the right decision. So much good has come about because I chose to be the me that God made me to be. And a bad tree cannot bear good fruit.

 

 

Strangers and Friends

I have so much to say. I don’t quite know where to start. Since Trump’s inauguration, there have been so many thoughts in my head, but no time to share them. I have so many thoughts and emotions that I want to communicate, but today I hope to narrow my focus enough to go into some sort of depth. So please pardon what will surely be something of a word-vomit.

My heart grieves over Trump’s recent decision to close the border to international travelers from certain Muslim-majority nations, including refugees fleeing war-torn Syria. It has been noted that mysteriously absent from that list are the nations in which Trump has a personal stake. I will leave that topic for those whose expertise eclipses mine, and I will speak instead of matters of the heart, which I believe I understand as well as anyone.

I speak as a Christian. I am hesitant to use that word to describe myself, because I am well aware of the many connotations that it holds. Merriam-Webster defines the noun “Christian” as “one who professes belief in the teachings of Jesus Christ.” It is this denotative meaning that I claim when I refer to myself as a Christian.

I speak as a follower of Jesus Christ. I speak as someone who has encountered the person of Jesus and calls him Friend. My heart breaks for the Syrian nationals seeking refuge in America. I know my Jesus, and I know that His heart is for the refugees also.

“He ensures that orphans and widows receive justice. He shows love to the foreigners living among you and gives them food and clothing. So you, too, must show love to foreigners, for you yourselves were once foreigners in the land of Egypt.” Deuteronomy 10:19-20, NIV.

“‘For I was hungry, and you fed me. I was thirsty, and you gave me a drink. I was a stranger, and you invited me into your home. I was naked, and you gave me clothing. I was sick, and you cared for me. I was in prison, and you visited me.'” Matthew 25:35-36, NIV.

“Keep on loving each other as brothers and sisters. Don’t forget to show hospitality to strangers, for some who have done this have entertained angels without realizing it!” Hebrews 13:1-2, NIV.

This message–to welcome strangers, to love everyone who crosses our path–is a recurring theme throughout God’s instruction to His followers. To do it justice, I would have to copy and paste the entire Bible. But you get the picture.

My heart breaks for the travelers detained in airports, and the green card-holders facing deportation, and the families suddenly barred from reunion. So many innocent people have been affected by this sweeping declaration made by Trump. And so many Christians support it.

How is this possible? How can we stand by, how can some openly applaud this move that so blatantly discriminates on the basis of nationality and religion? This goes against what Jesus stood for. It goes against what He died for. He showed us sacrificial love, and we are trampling on His message.

So many American Christians have been seized by fear, and it is being used as an excuse to hate. We remember watching the footage of those planes crashing into the towers, and we remember saying never again. But folks, please hear me. We cannot blame millions of innocent humans for the actions of a few. We must not give in to this fear. We must not allow our hearts to be filled with irrational terror.

Don’t we remember what it’s like to be judged because of a label? How many of us have had to say “I’m a Christian, but I’m not like [insert stereotype]”? Muslims face the same struggle. Equating the majority of Muslims with radical Islamic terrorism is as unjust as equating the majority of Christians with the Westboro Baptist Church.

The truth is, many people’s only experience with Muslims is confined to the news reports about terrorism. Just as many people’s experience with Christians consists of hateful signs declaring what kind of people God hates. Anyone who has ever felt the jab of a stranger saying “You are in this class of people and therefore you believe this” will know what I’m talking about. It’s unfair. It hurts. Get to know me before you judge me. Hear my story. Hear my pain. Let me tell you what I believe, and why I believe it.

It goes both ways. Let go of the fear of the unknown. Meet people you’ve never talked to before. Put a face to the word Muslim. A smile, a story, a name. Make a friend. These are the people who are stranded in airports, or are legal residents of the United States who have been ordered to leave, or are no longer allowed to visit their families.

They are not strangers. They are humans.

 

Survival

It’s ridiculously easy to get sucked into the downward spiral of hopelessness. It’s a toxic mentality that perpetuates itself ad infinitum, when we let it. You work so hard so that you can afford to eat and have somewhere to sleep. So that in the morning you can get up, shower, put on your work clothes . . . and go back to work. And the cycle repeats. And eventually you look at your life and wonder why the hell you work so fucking hard just to survive and go back to work. It’s exhausting even to think about. The futility of it all is as laughable as it is sad.

This is not the way it’s supposed to be. The God I know and adore did not design a system that simply leads to burnout. He did not create games that are impossible to win.

When I’m depressed I tend to see isolated failures. Something bad happens. I do something stupid. I lose. And the individual defeats add up so that each consecutive loss weakens me further. Pretty soon what should be a minor setback appears catastrophic.

Because my perspective is wrong.

First off, I’m wrong to look at events as failures. Perhaps, taken alone, they appear so. But in reality, they are the stressors that will make me strong. How can I grow without encountering resistance?

I need to change my expectations for myself. My goal must no longer be perfection. As long as I strive for this, I will prefer to remain stationary rather than risk a blemish on my record. But that is the surest recipe for failure. To do nothing is to guarantee stagnation. Movement–any movement–is an opportunity to learn.

I must not be afraid. I must learn to embrace uncertainty. Then my days will no longer be mindless repetition that devours my energy and saps my strength. Every moment will be a lesson; every person, my teacher.

And instead of standing still, I will move forward. Rather than going through the motions, I will have purpose for every action. I will build on yesterday, laying the foundations for tomorrow.

I’m done with survival. I insist on living.

Misgendered

It happens when I’m least expecting it. I’m at church, wearing eyeliner and dangly dolphin earrings, and a guy calls me “young man.” I’m out shopping with my mom, in the women’s department, holding a women’s shirt, and the clerk tries to direct me to the boy’s fitting room. I’m in the bathroom at work washing my hands and a lady walks in, sees me, looks at the sign on the door, looks back at me, and sidles into a stall looking confused.

It happens all the time, and it hurts. Every situation is a blow that delivers little micro-fractures to my self-image.

The problem is not that someone looked at me and thought “wow, that person is very masculine.” Because that is true, and I embrace it. I love my masculinity, and I know that it dominates my persona. I don’t mind that people notice that I’m a little different.

The problem is the stigma. The glance and then double-take, the lingering gaze combined with narrowed eyes that is in no way flattering. It’s the way that people shrink away from me, their whole body language conveying the message, “you don’t belong here.”

I hate that feeling. I hate knowing that my existence makes people uncomfortable. I hate that people think that they know which bathroom I belong in better than I do. Like, if I walk into a bathroom that’s full of women and don’t immediately back out, blushing profusely, then I probably I meant to walk into that bathroom. I’m pretty sure that’s where I’m supposed to be.

Okay, I think you’re reading too much into this. You’re being way sensitive here. People don’t mean to send those messages.

Damn straight I’m reading a lot into this. Damn straight I’m being sensitive. And it’s not because I have a giant chip on my shoulder. I’m not just looking for a fight with all you damn straight people.

It’s about survival. I’ve been burned too many times to not be on my guard. Because it doesn’t always end with funny looks. And it doesn’t end with stage-whispered conversations concerning my gender. Those are the first signs of trouble. I’ve also been yelled at. I’ve read about lesbians who were followed into public bathrooms by men who thought they were doing their civic duty protecting other women. And I’ve heard of much worse things happening than that.

It scares me. For me, it’s not just an embarrassing moment that will be forgotten an hour later. It makes me worry about my safety.

So why do I do it? Why do I present myself in a way that I know is ambiguous? One might even say that I invite hostility by the way that I dress. If it bothers me, why don’t I change the way I look?

Honestly, I spent years trying to fit in. I tried so damn hard. I wore pants that constricted my knees and shirts that soaked through with underarm sweat within half an hour. I forced myself to wear pink and searched endlessly for a fit that was broad enough at the shoulders but tight enough at the bust. I wore my hair long tried to master more styles than just a simple ponytail.

And I felt stupid and ugly the whole fucking time. I felt like an imposter. I felt self-conscious. And my attitude about my appearance affected my attitude toward myself.

Until one day I cut my hair, and for the first time I looked in the mirror and saw me. I saw someone I liked and respected and actually wanted to be.

That’s why I look the way that I do. Because now I can look at my reflection and not hate the person I see.

But I wish I didn’t have to put up with the looks and the whispers and the fear that someday it will escalate to much more than that.

I wish that instead of trying to figure out if I’m a man or a woman, people would just look at me and see that I’m a beautiful person. I have a masculine side and a feminine side, and they’re not at war with each other. One doesn’t have to dominate. They combine to make me the person that I am. Instead of being afraid, just look into my eyes and see that there is kindness.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that we’re both scared. We’re both coming into this with a lot of emotions. I sense danger and I react faster than a feral cat. And I’m not sure what’s going on in your head–I usually don’t stick around long enough to find out.

But I want for that to change. I want there to be room for discussion, for increased understanding. Because when people really know each other, I think they can’t help but love each other. And perfect loves casts out fear.

I am an inconvenience.

I am an inconvenience to the church.

That’s the overall impression I get when I have conversations with Christians about LGBT issues. Some friends I haven’t even come out to. They have been vocal enough about their opinion of gay people that I have no desire to invite that wrath upon myself. Others have been extremely accepting.

But even with my sympathetic friends, there’s often an underlying tension. It’s illusive, it’s vague. It’s that hint of unvoiced frustration.

They may still love me, but there’s no denying that my existence causes discord. I force them to think about things they’d rather not think about. Because of me, and people like me, they must have conversations they’d rather not have.

We LGBT cause a disruption in the neat, clean order of Christian theology. We blur the definitions of male and female. We defy the black and white binary and insist on a rainbow.

Until recently, we were subdued in shame and silence. We either lived on the outskirts of society, shunned by decent folk, or we closeted our affections, patiently enduring the pain alone. At any rate, we spared the church the embarrassment of our existence.

But no more. No longer are we content to accept our lot as the deviants, the mistakes. We now have the gall to suggest that perhaps we too are beautiful. We too were designed with purpose. And in doing so, we challenge the traditional teachings that the church has defended for so long.

Who we are makes so many Christians uncomfortable. If only we could fit in. If we tried a little harder, surely we could change. We could become something more acceptable.

But how can I explain to you that I can’t? I can’t become something I’m not. It took me years to be able to pinpoint what makes me different. Even longer to admit it to another human being. And years more to finally accept myself for who I am. I begged God to heal me, to show me where I went wrong and how I could fix it. I searched my soul for the source of my brokenness. I wept, I repented, I died to myself.

And still, I am who I am.

But as I sought God and came to know Him better, I heard Him tell me something I never expected to hear. He loves me the way that I am. Not in spite of what I am. He loves the way that He made me.

I cannot express to you the peace and freedom that comes with those words. The shame lifts, the self-hatred lifts. I finally know what it is to be celebrated rather than crushed. I can cease the futile introspection, take my eyes off myself, and look to the needs of others.

And I find that I have so much to give. I see beauty in places some may not think to look for it. I see pain even when it’s expertly masked.

If only the church could look at me and see this. If only they could see me not as a threat but an asset. I don’t mean to make anyone uncomfortable. I can only be who I am and use what I’ve been given.

All I want is to give, and live, and love.

Unraveling Anxiety

Anxiety.

It’s the enemy that has haunted me for as long as I can remember. I didn’t know as a tiny, timid child how to name the dread that clutched my chest and froze me in my tracks. I didn’t have words to describe the terror that so easily rendered me helpless.

But now I know. It’s the fear that everything that could possibly go wrong will go wrong. All at once, at any minute, calamity will surely strike. The first domino will tip into the next; one horrible event will precipitate another. And all those mistakes that I’ve made in the past–for each, there are two worse outcomes that could have happened instead. And perhaps they still will.

But my mental disasters are far more lethal than reality. There is no grace for imagined failures. No grace, and no growth.

Because it’s those moments of uncertainty that are supposed to stretch us. They push us to the edge of our abilities, and somehow we dig deep and find that we are capable of far more than we knew. That’s the only way to learn, the only way to become more than we are.

But anxiety holds me back, keeps me captive with thoughts of what could have happened, what might still happen. It’s debilitating. It’s paralyzing. It makes me give up without ever trying.

And it’s no way to live. Cowering in the safety of what’s familiar will keep me prisoner for as long as I allow it. I crave perfection, a clean record, a flawless past. But I’ll never grow without risking failure.

So I have to remind myself. There is so much grace available to me. Nobody expects me to get everything right the first time. No one will be horrified if my first attempt is a little messy. It’s okay to ask for help.

And as I give myself permission to make mistakes, the strangle-hold of anxiety begins to loosen. I can look back at where I’ve come from, and look forward to where I will be. And I can look at where I’m at now, and know that I won’t be here for long. Because I will be stretched. I may be torn a little, but then I’ll heal and become all the stronger for it.

Anxiety, once named, cannot overwhelm me. Its power is in its mystery. The vague threats cannot stand the scrutiny of the light.

Political Correctness

I wrote this journal entry about a year ago. My opinions on it have changed slightly since then, so this is an edited version. In the past year I have only become more sensitive to the pain of others. As I grew and matured, I came to be kinder, more understanding. I have known many Christians who believe that political correctness is actually evil. They are threatened by an infringement on their freedom of speech. Here is my take on the matter.

Dear Church,

I understand why you hate political correctness. You hate it because it is so unnecessary. For a clean and unblemished people, tiptoeing around certain terms and insisting on euphemisms is petty and irrelevant. In heaven, there will be no need for PC. Everyone will be able to say what they want, and nobody will take offense.

But we forget that everyone is on a unique journey. We don’t understand the pain of an injury we have never experienced. We grow callous about other’s hurts because they differ from our own.

And I think a lot of times, we should on others in the most appalling way. You should be over that by now. You should let that go. You should toughen up a bit.

That’s so easy to do for someone else’s pain. Not so easy for my own. If I’m willing to guard my pain, I must become willing to guard everyone else’s in the same way. Even if I don’t understand it.

This is the reason for PC. It’s an agreement to steer clear of one another’s unseen bruises. Is that really so silly? Truly, it’s a common courtesy. It’s the least we can do.

But then there is the matter of rights. I have the right to say what I think. They can’t stop me from calling sin “sin,” and they can’t stop me from saying “Merry Christmas.” I get that, and it is absolutely true. Freedom of speech grants you the right to speak your mind.

But the heart of Christianity is laying down your rights. It’s putting aside what is easy and considering others as better than yourself. We are not obligated to be PC–it is our privilege. It’s my joy to select my words carefully, avoiding what I have a right to say and choosing what will benefit others.

It is easy to push the responsibility to the other party. You don’t have to get so offended. Don’t take it so seriously. Gee, can’t you take a joke? We say it, but we forget–we have free access to grace. We have an unlimited supply, and this is our chance to use it. If we truly have the maturity conferred to us by Christ, ten it’s up to us to be the first to extend mercy, as He would have done.

The World

I was talking to a friend at church the other day. I mentioned that a lot of times I feel uncomfortable in church. I can’t really put my finger on it–it’s too subtle. It’s in the way people’s gazes flick right past me, and the tight smiles that don’t reach their eyes, and the high-pitched “hey, how are you?” that doesn’t wait for a reply.

And then during the week I go to school and realize how remarkably normal I feel. It’s a community college in a liberal, hipster town. And though I dress differently from every other girl in my class, I don’t feel out of place. Because nobody cares. Really, nobody gives a shit.

Except this one girl told me the other day that she really likes my (leather wingtip) shoes. And another girl said I always look like a doctor. And one time I told my classmates that someone had bought me a dress, and we all laughed because that’s totally not my style, and they made me promise to send them pictures.

And I didn’t feel weird. Different, for sure, but not weird. At school I feel appreciated and accepted. I don’t feel judged. So the contrast is all the sharper when I walk into church and something just doesn’t feel right.

Anyway, I was telling my friend all of this. Her response? “Well, it’s no secret that The World is generally much more accepting of homosexuality than the church is.”

No shit.

I’m not sure how to respond to that. It’s absolutely true, but the way she said it was like she was defending the church for making someone feel unwelcome. Like the fact that “The World” was accepting of something made it clear how evil it is.

The church has all sorts of these little Christanese terms. Words and phrases that have such strong connotations that the literal meaning is all but forgotten. “The World” is a prime example. The way I have heard people use this label makes me cringe. It instantly frames a situation into “us” versus “them.” The Church against the World. The evil, worldly World.

And I hate that. Because when I go back and read the Bible passages where the phrase originated, there’s no such divisive tone. On the contrary. For God so loved the world.

The world = the people God loves

What if in our conversations we replaced every mention of “The World” with “the people Jesus loves”? How would that change the way we see people? The Jesus I love never meant for His followers to separate themselves like this. There should be no Us versus Them.

It should only be us loving them. Us loving each other, us loving them, and us loving Jesus most of all.

Hold that thought. To be continued when I’m not falling-asleep-tired…

Dear Church,

I write a lot of letters to the church. I love the church. I long to be a part of Christ’s Body. But I’m the rainbow-colored sheep that never quite fit in. There’s so much misunderstanding right now. I frequently find myself being labeled as rebellious, rejecting God’s Word. But all I want is to be the person He made me to be. Unfortunately, that person is not acceptable to many Christians. This letter is to the American evangelical church at large, not to anyone in particular.

September 18, 2016

Oh Church. You are fighting the wrong battles again. You have this black-and-white idea of what’s right and wrong. You’re so sure you know how God feels about people like me. And you’ve turned opinion into doctrine. So to you, anyone with a different opinion is rebelling against God. But you forget that it’s you who said it first, not God.

Stop making it a fight against people. Stop making it Us vs. Them. I am not your enemy! I am not God’s enemy! I am His child, and I know who I am. Don’t be so sure of yourself. Give up everything you think you know. Give up everything except the very words from Christ’s mouth. Let your doctrine go, and if it is truth you will find it again.

But whatever is human, religion, tradition–don’t be shocked if it is washed away. Trust that what is real will weather the test. And whatever cannot stand is not worth building on. It’s not worth fighting for. It’s not worth losing friends over.

Maybe it will make you uncomfortable. Maybe it will stretch your mind. But God is more creative than we give Him credit for. If our doctrine cannot contain Him, should that be so astounding? It’s time to re-examine our beliefs to accommodate God. We cannot keep Him confined. If our world must be shaken in order for us to see that, then let it shake.

On Love and Anxiety

I crave intimacy.

Not sex, not romance. I just want to know and be known, love and be loved. I don’t mind being alone, but I hate isolation. There’s this loneliness that happens even in the middle of a crowd. There’s a longing to be understood that can’t be satisfied with mere conversation. We spend our whole lives trying to fill the void.

I’m so glad I’ve found You. Rather, You found me. You know me in a way I can’t comprehend.

I need You so badly. Fill my heart once again with Your unspeakable peace. Open my ears and let me hear your voice breaking through the darkness.

I don’t know what I’m afraid of. If I knew I could conquer it. But I can’t see my enemy. It has no shape. It’s an oppressive fog that threatens to crush me, though it has no weight.

Send the wind of grace and mercy. Send a gale of love. In the light of Your love, the darkness must flee.

I have this idea that I should always be prepared for the worst. Not only prepared, but expecting it. So I imagine my enemies–not just one, but all at once–advancing like an army. They lurk just out of sight, and their conjured presence is enough to incapacitate me.

Because I forget that I do not fight alone. You will fight on my behalf. In the moment, there will be enough grace to carry me.

But how can there be grace to defeat what does not exist? So my imagined enemies are more caustic than the real ones.

So one by one, I put them to rest. I envision their faces and I send them away. When they become real, then I’ll call on You and together we’ll fight them. But until then, I will not allow them to torment me.

And now it’s just You and me again. The apparitions are rendered powerless. And I can look in Your face, unhindered, and see that You know me. You know my every thought, my every fear, and still You love me.