One to Hug

I don't have many friends, hardly any. But I have one friend who is gay, and he knows my secret. He has been very supportive of me in this process, acknowleging how painful parts of it are for me.

And he gives great hugs! He let's me talk and he let's me hug him and squeeze. It means a lot. No, we haven't "done it", nor do I plan to. I don't want to mess things up with sex. One day, I'd love to, but not now. It's important for me to be faithful to present commitments. I am a married man.

But he let's me hold him, and smell him, and rub my hands on his back; and that means so much. I can hold him authentically, not having to be concerned about "will he get the wrong idea." I have always loved to hug, and I hug a lot. But with men (straight men) I get concerned that I might hug too much.

I know some other gay men, but I am not out to them. Though they probably have figured me out. This friend is one with whom I can be real. Thanks be to God.

Cheers, Joe.

A little lonely

Sometimes I feel like a motherless child
Sometimes I feel like a motherless child
Sometimes I feel like a motherless child
A long ways from home
A long ways from home
True believer
A long ways from home
A long ways from home

A counselor friend of mine told me, "Nothing is more traumatic for a gay man than the death of his mother." He didn't share his source, nor did I ask. Anyone have information on that one?

I know that we do tend to be very close to our mothers, and I was to mine for many years. And it is true that my desire to come out strengthened greatly after her death. I wonder why?

My mother is one who was always loving, accepting, understand. If she "knew" I was gay, she never said. Maybe she only suspected, or maybe not even that. I never had the chance to tell her, though I always felt she would understand (at some level) and still love me and welcome me home.

My father, on the other hand, has always shown strong signs of all kinds of bigotry, chauvinism, racism, you-name-it-isms. I always felt from him that I was never masculine enough, never good enough. Now, he has mellowed considerably in his old age (early 80's), and some of his opinions seem to have moderated.

Perhaps someday, I think, maybe, I could tell him. Maybe. His wife I believe would be understanding. (He's on wife number 3, and the best one he's found yet. She's loving, fun, understanding, just a great gal. And, she is much closer to my age than to his. Except for her taste in husbands, I can't fault the women).

I would have thought that the idea of coming out would have been more acceptable to me after my father's death, not after my mother's. It seems bassackwards to me, but then, often I go about things that way.

Now I am beginning to feel like that motherless child: no where to turn, no place to go, alone. I guess it's just this process. The thought of leaving what security I've got. The possibilities of poverty, loneliness, and darkness.

Guess today is sort of a tough one for me. Maybe tomorrow will be better. At least it will be another day. Thanks, Miss Scarlet.

Cheers, Joe.

Distractions

Twice now, it’s happened.  And within a year.  I can’t believe it.  How many times, in thrity plus years of driving have I filled the gas tank?  Thousands?  How many times have I forgotten to replace the gas cap?  Maybe twice.  Until this year.  And now I’ve twice forgotten.  Why?  Men.

A few months ago, it was a really cute guy in the convenience store.  He was inside working the register, and I was pumping gas, staring through the plate glass.  A little too much. And I drove off, leaving the gas cap on top of the pump.

Yesterday, I filled up at the cheapy gas station across from work ($2.67/gallon).  He was at the pump next to mine.  He was way beyond cute; he was hot.  Very.  I lost my concentration.  He spoke. Even though he finished filling the tank of his nice, big, red pickup and left before I finished, I was still distracted.  Nothing happened, no real flirting even.  I sure he was straight.  But I left my gas cap on the roof of the car.  

Twice.  In one year.  Men.  I’m not exactly complaining, mind you.

Cheers, Joe.

Schizo paradox

They don’t call it schizophrenia any more, it’s “schizo-affective.”

At least they have drugs for that. I am feeling very split between two very opposing worlds, lives, ways of thinking, ways of being. Not just different, but opposing.
A Queer in the Church.

Being queer and Christian has never been a problem for me. It’s the Church. And, it’s “Christians.” They are all driving me nuts.

So many GLBT folk have chucked the Church, and I really understand that. Not all parts of the Church are as condemnatory as, say the Southern Baptist tradition, or the “Focus on the Family” folk. But the majority of what one sees and hears and experiences is the rejection and condemnation.

And yet I am part of the Church. Granted, I am in a more liberal end of a more liberal denomination, but we are having our troubles with the “sexuality” issue. And it may bring us to a split of some sort, this summer.

And, being queer is so very antithetical to many Christians and most Churches, that I don’t even think I could begin to explain. It is really different, and I am trying to figure out how and where and what.

I have been reading Soul Beneath the Skin by David Nimmons, and I highly recommend it. Now that I have finally come out to myself, I am accepting just how different I am, and it is beginning to pervade my life. And it’s scary.

Can I continue in the Church? Can I continue in a leadership position in the Church? I just don’t know.

Part of the scariness of all this coming out business is the darkness: facing into the darkness wondering if anyone is there. It would be a lot easier to go out and find some guy to shack up with. At least then I would have someplace to go. Now it’s just darkness.

I had a bad cold this past week. Nothing big, just a cold. But the thought of being sick and alone was scary. I am afraid of that lonely darkness: no family, no job, no career, no way to support my children, old, sick, alone.

It is all a big paradox. Being marked as unacceptable by the Church, being jeered as unacceptable by GLBT folk who have no use for the Church. Leaving family to find . . . what?

But it’s like so many paradoxes: giving to receive, dying to live, and so on. Paradox often points to holiness; a place that makes no sense, but is nonetheless the only way. Emptying to be made full. Showing power by serving. Victory through defeat. Life in the midst of death.
Where will it end? Where will I be? And, how?

Slogging

Sometimes I feel like I am sinking. This past week the depression has set in, and motivating myself has become difficult. It's like slogging through mud. Either I lift my feet up out of the muck for the next step or just drag them along. One way or the other, it takes a lot of effort.

I have these competing emotions/feelings/thoughts of being very close to my wife, closer than we've been in a long time. Honesty will do that. Truly it is the best policy. But then I sometimes feel farther from her than ever before. Am I afraid of getting too close? I know I am afraid of hurting her, but I can honestly see how I am trying to keep from hurting me, too.

It has been nearly three months since we had our first talk, my final coming out conversation with her. Counselor has suggested we each (separately) devise a timetable of concrete steps for the next few weeks. And that was at least three weeks ago. He had to cancel the next appointment and we have neglected to make a new one.

And of course I have neglected to do any thinking concretely. . . . about anything.

Onward, upward, outward.

Cheers, Joe.

Dramatis personae

It has been way too long since last posting, and I've missed it. And yet, I haven't felt inspired to post anything. Sometimes the Spirit moves in the writing, and I write pages, and then say, "@$%*(+@!" and delete it all and start over.

Our road trip of the last post went well except for the actually road part. 500 miles of driving in pouring rain, thunder, and lightning made me ready for down-time in a padded cell. Please, just leave me be, in silence and darkness; just deliver the meals.

In my job, I come into contact with all sorts of people. Last week, I encountered a big, bearish man in an ancilary profession. Through our work contact we remained basically professional, but then there was that stare. I'm guessing I started it, but he stared right back. I held on just a little longer; so did he. Then, the prolonged handshake, and a bit of a wink.

Of course we both have wedding rings, wives, children. In our contacts over the years, I have always really figured he was gay. [My gaydar seems to work rather well]. But for some reason, we came on to each other, just a little bit. In a silent sort of way, we "outed" each other. But nothing was ever overt. I did not grab him and lick my way across his beard, though such things did cross my mind (and other places).

It feels so odd. I have always reckoned he was gay, but maybe something in me is giving off stronger signals. Maybe I made some move, some gesture that gave me away. Did co-workers notice? Who can say. It feels odd because I really enjoyed the flirting and fixated on him just a bit, for the rest of the day.

Making contact would probably not be in our best interests, but if he did . . . .
And what kind of contact; what words should be spoken. Typically, I want to go up to him (privately) and say, "Well, now that we have outed each other, what do we do?"

Yes, I want to jump his bones. I want to jump every guy's bones. But what about friendship without the sex. Is it possible, or will I sabotage it with acting out? Time will tell.

Somehow, I expect that when I "come out" publically, most people well may say, "It's about time." Enough for today.

Cheers, Joe.

Road Trip

And now for something completely different . . . .

Tomorrow morning, my family and I leave for Memphis, TN (is there another?). It's a road trip!
My oldest child is looking at colleges. It is decision time. Said child has been accepted in four schools, and now we must decide. I might also need to find a good bankruptcy lawyer, too!

I've never been to Memphis, so this will be a first for me. The biggest downside is that it's about a 500 mile trip. That will make for a long time of all of us in the confined spaces of an automobile. We will be attempting this without strapping anyone to the roof. Pray for our success in that regard.

Packing and laundry to get down. Away we go! Cheers!

Plant Sequoias - Practice resurrection

Sometimes it feels like planting sequoias. Waiting for the harvest of a thousand years, or more. Perhaps for the Church it will take that long. That long for the institution to accept that God loves all. Accepts, loves, redeems. Practice resurrection.

Happy Easter to all.

Cheers, Joe.

An excerpt from
Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front
by Wendell Berry

. . . . . . . . .
So, friends, every day do something
that won't compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millenium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.

Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion - put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts. . .

. . . .
As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn't go. Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

Instead of You & Me

Sydney Carter was a British song writer and poet. He is best known for his text (and adaptation of the tune) "Lord of the Dance," (I danced in the morning when the world was begun . . . )

But he also wrote this song, reprinted below. Please take the words for what they are, dramatic irony through the words of one of the theives crucified with Jesus.

It stirs up all our feelings of our anger at God, which it something we seldom admit or think we are not supposed to feel at all. And yet we do.

I have always felt God could handle my anger. After all, don't we get the angriest at those we love the most?

God wants our anger, our misunderstanding, our limited vision. God wants all of us, all facets, all sides, all parts, all of us. What else could the incarnation be about, except to show that all of us, body and soul, is part of God's wonderful creation.

It was on a Friday morning
that they took me from the cell and I saw
they had a carpenter to crucify as well
You can blame it on to Pilate
You can blame it on the Jews
You can blame it on the Devil
Its God I accuse
Its God they ought to crucify instead of you and me
I said to the carpenter, a-hanging on the tree

You can blame it on to Adam
You can blame it on to Eve
You can blame it on the apple, but that I can't believe
It was God that made the Devil
And the woman and the man
And there wouldn't be an apple
If it wasn't in the plan
Its God they ought to crucify instead of you and me
I said to the carpenter, a-hanging on the tree

Now Barabbas was a killer
And they let Barabbas go
But you are being crucified
For nothing that I know
And your God is up in Heaven
and He doesn't do a thing
With a million angels watching and they never move a wing
Its God they ought to crucify instead of you and me
I said to the carpenter, a-hanging on the tree

To hell with Jehova
To the carpenter I said
I wish that a carpenter had made the world instead
Goodbye and good luck to you
our ways will soon divide
Remember me tomorrow
The man you hung beside
Its God they ought to crucify instead of you and me
I said to the carpenter, a-hanging on the tree

Sydney Carter

Sanctuary

This is the knocker on the door of Durham Cathedral. In ancient times if one grabbed on to this knocker one could proclaim "sanctuary."

Let us be sanctuary for one another, as God is sanctuary for us. All our brokeness, all our fragments, all our wounds. Taken into the heart of God.

Sanctuary.