“But wait, oh wait. See how the morning breaks! It’s the simplest of love songs but it’s all our hearts can take. And though we lose our stake, heaven is where we make it. Even in the smallest places can a garden grow.” ~ Garden, Noah Gundersen
“come celebrate with me that everyday something has tried to kill me and has failed.” ~ lucille clifton, won’t you celebrate with me
It was the day after Mother’s Day when I had lunch with my mom and my sister. I am still recovering from that interaction, and I didn’t sleep much the night before. I had forgotten what it was like to have an entire day or even a week consumed by one interaction with my parents. This time, my mom needed me to know how much she and my dad were “grieving” and specifically how much my dad was hurting. I haven’t spoken to my dad since Thanksgiving.
When a parent decides to abuse their child, they don’t get to dictate how to make the child feel anymore. I am also tired of realizing the life I lived up until a couple years ago was so fucked up. I am glad I realize it and that I’m in a different place. It’s just a lot.
I received a message this past Saturday from a former “friend” from my old church who’s been talking to my father apparently. The body count of the Evangelical church is so damn high, it’s like they used the bodies to build their own Tower of Babel of ignoring how deadly their theology is to LGBTQ people. But sure, we’re the ones rebelling against God.
I am happy. For perhaps the first time ever, and let me tell you, if ever there was a time for homophobic bastards to come out of the woodwork, I guess it’s now. Reaching the point not of reconciling queerness with my own faith but figuring out how to explain and reconcile it with those who share my faith seems absolutely ridiculous now. I just don’t care anymore for the feelings of The Straights. My love for my wife is not a perversion–oh yeah, by the way, I have a wife. Because it’s two thousand fucking eighteen and you can love whoever the hell you want.
The walls of the house I grew up in used to scream with memories of what happened to me. Now that I’ve truly found a home that’s safe and have learned to love myself and others well, the walls aren’t screaming any more. I am not a perversion. I am a subversion of the systems that tried to destroy me. Not only is it time to bloom where I’m planted but it’s time to start flourishing.
And so the healing continues…