Liberation and the New Way

Each year since I was thirteen, I’ve made the same New Year’s resolution. I would look up into the night sky and watch the streams of light launch into the air and glimmer in their glory as they illuminated my face. Imagining the lights as glowing dandelions, I would dream and wish, “I’m going to fight so hard this year that these gay feelings will go away,” dreaming like a goal, or more overpowering, a covenant.

With many resolutions, we tend fail and forget what we were trying to accomplish. We allow our negligence to fight off our will and shoe away our determination. With few resolutions, they evolve into a life’s mission, enticing the very fabric of our minds. These resolutions are like weeds, burying their roots in our tender thoughts. These resolutions, we do not forget.

This resolution became my life. The next year would come: “I’m going to fight so hard this year that these gay feelings will go away.” I continued to fight for its sake, but the consistency of my determination generated the very consistency of my feelings. They never changed. I never changed. Pseudo-hope filled my pillow with hopelessness as I laid on my bed, the same ol’ Sean, depressed and weeping.

Encountering God’s love -- His love displayed through all people -- finally drew me to a resolution, my resolution with the present. Until I was freed from the enslavement by the present, I could not look ahead. Now, I embrace my unique alignment within this world and can face my future and this year, a year different in every way: full of new people, new experiences, and new identities.

This distinction calls for an alternative resolution, a resolution wrought out of hopes for a new future and love for my community. An intentional resolution where my happiness does not end with me. A committed resolution where God’s love reaches beyond the confides of my body. A welcoming resolution where all can discover they are first and foremost sons and daughters of the Lord Most High.

Jesus calls us to love; that is what I plan to do with my year. Leaving people where I had been left over the last several years of my life is a gruesome act. Leaving people without love is inhumane. The first step towards resolution requires love, and experiencing love requires a hospitable environment.

I want to create a place where my friends and I are welcomed and presented the love of God, where they are embraced and introduced to their design. This year, I aim to love others, helping them discover where they can participate in this community, their design in the greater Kingdom, for each individual has a distinct role in this network called life.

The Greatest of These Is Love

December nights in San Diego can get surprisingly cold from time to time. After throwing a thermal over my t-shirt, I pulled over the thickest sweatshirt I could find and slid my jeans right over my warm sweats. In the process, I remembered a pair of purple wool gloves that I took from Mama Lewis just before I left Oregon and covered my hands. Opening the door, I turned to my roommate sitting at his desk, dreading the difficult conversation to come, I mumbled, “I’m going to tell Steven.” Walking out the door, I heard an empathetic “good luck” slipped through just before it closed.

Tentatively glancing up the staircase, I sighed and started dragging my feet, plopping the thousand-pound anchors on each step. Once I finished yanking my apprehensive body to the entrance of my dorm, I saw my good friend, hands in his pockets, slowly walking over from his dorm just across the parking lot.

Steven and I had known each other for two years now and had been close friends over the last year. We’ve had countless conversations before but none like this, none so personal. I would say some of them were more like intellectual debates while others were primarily silly disagreements for the sake of optimism and pessimism. So I knew exactly how he would lead conversation, deeply clinging to Scripture with primarily conservative ideas. He’d call me an idiot and tell me I’m wrong, leaving me exposed, naked, and once again, abandoned.

While I silently hauled my lifeless body up another set of stairs, he coolly scaled them beside me, waiting for me to initiate something. As we got closer to the top of the stairs, pressure began to swell, pressing on my soul and bawling for freedom. After building it up for hours upon hours, I couldn’t suppress the pressure any longer. The words were violently pressing on my tongue, and like a long-dormant geyser erupting, I opened my mouth: “Steven, I’m gay.”

Silence filled the air as my heavy words lingered above us. Nothing. We took a few more steps. Nothing. Where was his outburst? Where was his reprimanding? Where was the condescension? Pure silence. For a moment, we stopped walking, and I looked him in the eyes. Looking at me as he faintly squinted and gently flexed his forehead, he responded.

“Okay.”

One simple, four-letter-word response: “Okay.” A straight-forward, “okay.” Not a disgusted “ooookay,” not a terrified “okaaaay,” or not a scoffing “oookaaaay.” Just an abrupt “okay” without contempt, without judgment. A mellow okay of considerate curiosity. A conscious okay of intentional acceptance. A moderate okay of hospitality.

Indirectly, he invited me to fill the conversation with my experiences and my thoughts, liberation. My burden of rejection dissipated into the illusion that it truly was, and I realized that I was wrong. My presuppositions about him and my ideas about his character were wrong, elaborate fantasy that could not last in the presence of love.

Sometimes, we’re just wrong. We respond to the world with what we think is best. When friends come to us in times of sadness, we tend to encourage them with the words faith and hope, but these words fall short. Faith just left me wrestling with myself, wondering if I actually believed. Hope just reminded me of my hopelessness, considering the worthlessness of life. Independently, they're insufficient. By themselves, they’re powerless.

It’s love. When a person is waiting to be belittled and unheard, love keeps the dialogue open for the individual to fill with their self, with what weights their heart. When a person is ready to be torn to pieces, love creates space for them to process with you, free of judgment. When a person is on the brink of quitting, love shows them that they are not alone, that humanity is designed for community. When a person is about to give up, love invites them to stay engaged in the ongoing, perplexing conversation that is the concept of God. It. Is. Love.

As we walked back to where we started, the conversation began to dwindle. With his flawless conclusion, Steven comforted me: “Sean, you are my friend, and I still love you.” Following my gratitude, he topped it off with a hug, and to my surprise, my life was changed. He had done it all. Through love, I discovered faith. Through love, I discovered hope. Through love, I discovered God. Love won.

Who's Saying Grace?

Today, we had another annual Christmas dinner in the small town of the Dalles, Oregon with my mom’s sister’s family. Yes, my aunt. The family of atheists. Christian-ridiculing atheists. Every year, my family and I make our way to their house. Every year, we say grace before dinner. Every year, either my father or I do it. This year, it happened differently.

Our two merged families, totaling ten bodies, gather around the table. It had be several hours since our last meal. We’re getting hungry. We’re getting antsy. So, we end up ditching the traditional course distribution. As more food was taken from the kitchen to the table, everyone was standing around the table and gathering what they wanted and placing it on their plates.

My uncle is the first to gather his collection of food and starts digging in. A couple of us started giving him a hard time because people were still preparing their plates, and no one said grace. Seconds later, everyone is finishes grabbing their food, and we sit crammed around the table.

“Well, who’s going to say grace?” says my mom as she glanced at me, implying that I ought to.

I spout out, “Since Uncle Mike ate first, he should get to say grace this year,” curious because I know the agnostic he is.

“If I do it, it won’t be that great,” responds my uncle.

After reassuring him that it does not need to be perfect (and various comments of pseudo-prayers by others), we all hold hands and bow our heads, and he begins to pray.

“Thank you for this food in front of us. Please bless us and this meal… if You’re up there.”

If You’re up there... The words reverberated in my heart as I became silent, slicing my ham and taking a bite. I have spent thing year wrestling with the continuous belief in God, and he laughs off any of the beliefs. I respect him greatly as a wise individual, but really?

At our Christmas Eve get-together the night before, a few of us began a conversation on Mormonism. The talk is not as important as what I overheard him say to another girl in the conversation, “Everyone thinks their religion is right, but really no one knows. It just depends on where you grow up.” Taken aback, I sat silently in my chair. I’m here incessantly wrestling with the existence of God, and you carelessly blow it off. How is that possible?

What is it that makes me so attached to Christianity? Can I really explain it in such a way that a non-believer would find in appealing? Or make the connection for the agnostic? Is that on me or the doing of the Holy Spirit?

There.

Sit, Sean. Love. That’s your job.

We are told to love and be loved.

Here’s to spending time with my family and the ones I love, enjoying my community and participating in what really matters. Love. Merry Christmas!

Naked Epiphanies

Three-quarters past midnight. Lights out. Roommates asleep. Body immobilized. Spirit restless. Anxiety percolated from my bed where tears were once shed. Laying siege to my body, my elbows begin to tense, and my knees begin to ache. Perturbed, I begin twitching to ease the discomfort in my joints. This has happened before. It's a bodily mind game. Just. Get. Up. I pop out of bed to beat anxiety before its grip becomes too strong, mosey my way to my laptop, and being to write.

As ideas fluttered through my mind, they raged too rampantly to consolidate. Words so vivid yet so barren. Two o'clock rolls by, and I realize this is not a task to be completed tonight. Taking a frustrated glance back at my bed, seems the anxiety had faded back, ready to wreak havoc another night.

Hovering over my bed. I still don't feel ready. No, not yet. Let's stay up a little longer. Anxiety won't have time to manifest if exhaustion takes me first. It's time to shower.

Remove my sweats, grab my towel, sneak out of my room, flip on the bathroom lights, and start the shower. As the waters warm, I look myself in the mirror to see nothing but a cold grimace.

"What's wrong?"

I make my way to the shower and hop in. The droplets scorched my skin as I hastily reached for the knob, struggling to find equilibrium. Eureka! I have it. After moments of washing up, I pause. Soaking in the moment, words from an earlier conversation linger in my mind.

“Sean, you are my friend, and I still love you.”

The water runs across my freshly decontaminated skin. I sense the warmth of what is overcoming me. Apprehension washes down my thigh, through the crevices in my knee, over the hair on my leg, and onto the shower floor. Watching these streams of fear and shame spiral down the drain, love begins to penetrate into my veins.

“Sean, you are my friend, and I still love you.”

The words resonate within my heart once more, and my stony face begins to crack a faint grin.

“Sean, you are my son, and I still love you.”

My suppressed grin turns to rapturous smile, fighting winds of joy within my lungs.

“Sean, you are my son, and I still love you.”

The winds of joy blow through my cheeks, and laughter takes over. Smothering my face with my trembling hands, tears of joy stream down my face. I have seen it! There it is! The very segment of life I have been scrounging to find for so long has been right in front of me. How could I be so foolish? I finally understood. I finally understand.

“I. Still. Love. You.”

I turned off the shower, grabbed my scissors, and cut it off.

Stop Running

This past week carried more emotions than any prior weeks. Other weeks were filled with momentary bouts of anger, sadness, confusion. This week was filled with a constant slew of frustration.

Impeding lethargy.

Impulsive eruptions of tears.

Instances of distanced silence.

Needless to say, anxiety has taken its toll on me this past week. I apologize for the detachment. Underlying the plain stress from final projects, homework, track, and jobs one, two, and three lies the malignant discomfort of internal and external dissonance, a diminished D-sharp lingering in the air.

As I laid in bed, in darkness, in silence. As the room began to twist, shrink, and contort. As fear diffused over my peace, disbanding hope and love. Reality relentlessly continued to rear its face. Images of the past colliding with reality imprisoned my mind, thrashing it from wall to wall, as peace struggled for a twinge of breath.

All pounding against eyes, the dikes restraining the streams of agony to come. Overflowing, my heart cries out.

“Resistance is futile. Reality is always there. There is no more running.”

Depression sank its way into the pockets of my mind. Tears flowed across my cheeks, soaking into my “Thomas the Train” pillow from childhood. My reality is inescapable. My reality will not let go.

Perhaps reality is not to be run from. Perhaps reality is just what it is, real. Real and meant to be real. Tangible. Fact. I refuse to keep running. I’m sitting still. Embracing my place, Embracing my design. In reality. In Creation. In a universe much larger than I.