The Wisdom of Trees

After work today, I went to Central Park to hang out with the trees.  As I sat there staring up at their green mystery, I started thinking:

• Trees appear stationary, but they’re really growing all the time.  Every so often, you’ll be privileged enough to notice a leaf fall, or see a flower mid-bloom, but most of the time, you don’t notice anything happening.  Until one day-suddenly-you realize the tree is different.  People are the same.  Our growth may not be apparent on the outside, but then one day-suddenly-we realize we’re different: we’re stronger and taller and older, we’ve branched out, blossomed, let go of the old leaves and made way for the new.  If we ever feel like we’re not getting anywhere, we can look at the trees and be comforted.  We are.
• No matter how high trees grow, no matter how many branches or leaves or flowers or birds’ nests or squirrel families they attain, they never detach from their trunk: their beginning.  People are the same.  No matter how far we branch out in life, no matter how and when we blossom, no matter what relationships or circumstances or experiences we attain, we should never forget our trunk: our beginning.  Even if we think it chipped, old, diseased, a bit slimey, or a bit crooked, it makes us who we are, sustains us, and allows us to grow up and out into the blossoming beauties that we are.
• Trees can’t become trees without first and consistently taking nourishment from their roots, their life source.  We can’t see the roots.  Neither can the trees.  But the roots are there, alive, giving the trees their essence and foundation.  Without taking in life from their roots, trees can’t give life to themselves, or to the world around them.  People are the same.  We must take in life in order to give life to others, we must receive all the present gives us to be ready for the future, and-especially-we must stay connected to our roots, our life source, even if it seems buried or invisible to us or to others.  It’s there, our never-ending ocean, giving and loving under us and through us, always.

Thank you for your wisdom, trees.

Taste the Rainbow

The night before this year’s NYC Pride March, my friend Naveen spotted a rainbow.  My friend Cooper spotted the same rainbow.  We decided that the mutual spotting was a good omen:

 

This year marked the 40th Anniversary of the Stonewall riots, my fifth year out, and my first year to march in the parade.  My first year out, in 2004, I’d shyly walked up to the crowds on either side of the street, and ached to join in, but instead had scrunched back and sat on some steps.  At that time, I was relieved and peaceful about being out, but hadn’t yet reached a place of celebration about it.  Plus I felt a wee inept.  I knew nothing of my community; our traditions, our history.  I had inadvertently come out on the first day of Pride Month, and though I owed this up to some lovely spiritual instinct, I still felt embarrassed when I cocked my head and asked those around me, “What’s Pride Month?”

At the next year’s parade, I inched a bit closer.  I served water to the marchers, with my church.  For the first time, I stepped out into the street; smiled, woot-ed, danced.  Then I dashed right back to the table for my next batch of chilled plastic cups.  I did this for the next two years, though in the latter of the two, I realized I was moving further and further away from the table.  Nearly three blocks up.  I couldn’t wait for the marchers to get to me.  I kept wanting to go to them.  I wanted to march.  But I was still scared.  This past year, I was transitioning churches anyway, so I opted out of the water serving.  This left me with the option.  Marching?  Huh, huh?…I chickened out again.  For by now, though I knew a lot about my community and had grown comfortable with being open about myself, I still struggled to be proud of myself, to celebrate myself.  Though I desperately wanted to.  I’d had so many hurtful experiences of homophobia with friends, family.  It was still difficult to muster up the courage to march into the stride of my queer self and smile and shout: ”yes, I am!”  But I wanted to march.  And this year: I decided it was time.      

 If you’ve never been to the NYC Pride Parade, you should.  Everyone should, regardless of your orientation.  It’s like standing next to an electric waterfall of joy; it just keeps rolling down, down, down 5th Avenue and whirls you up in its dance.  Miles and miles of unihibited joy, wit, camp, colorful clothes and spangles and head-dresses, service groups and churches, and–my personal favorite–the two elderly men that I look for every year; they march arm in arm with gentle grins and hold their traditional sign, always increasing by a digit.  This year, it read: ”Together for 52 Years”.  

Truly, it’s impossible to feel badly about yourself when you stand in the presence of the NYC Pride Parade.  And, for anyone who’s grown up in a tradition or culture where you’ve been shamed into feeling badly about yourself, the Pride Parade can seem slightly terrifying.  Because you’re not used to feeling that good.  I wasn’t.  I was used to being ashamed, carrying my shame around like some kind of justified “you’re sinning, SINNING!” sentence.  My background introduced this shame to me, but I was the one that kept it going. I’d let shame have free reign in my head and heart, privately.  I’d even purposely hung around homophobic people; I still felt as if I deserved that kind of environment.  And the shame continued, no matter how “out” I was.  Because I never ever talked about it.  I was hard on myself.  “Once you’ve come out, you should be fine”, I’d say to myself.  “Homophobia shouldn’t bother you, you should be able to be out and proud like all the other queer folks; they’ll be so disappointed that you still struggle with this sort of shame.” This thinking is, of course, nonsense.  Queer folks get it.  Of course, they get it.  They know: shame takes awhile to clean out its cubicle, especially if it’s served as your CEO.  And it’ll stick around, picking its toenails, if you let it.  It’s particularly easy for shame to stick around if you keep quiet about its presence. 

By the way: did I mention that the Pride Parade is loud?  

It is–very.  Granted, I don’t believe any celebration should cause ear drums to explode, but again–it’s impossible to feel badly about yourself with six straight miles of unabashed stereo sound.  Shame doesn’t like that at all.  Quiet is shame’s fuel.  If it can work its way into your head and convince you that you’re all alone and need to shrink back and keep quiet: it’s got you.  Now, no, I don’t mean that we should scream twenty-four hours a day, or throw caution out the window when our well-being is concerned; queer folks still need to be safe, and coming out is a process that often requires delicate boundaries, specifically with our families.  But you never should keep quiet when it comes to yourself.  Or to those that love you and are there to support you.  And it’s true: the minute you speak out and share that you’re struggling with shame–face it inside yourself and share it with those outside yourself–that’s exactly the moment when shame begins to loosen its grip.  You find yourself tapping your feet.  Smiling a bit more.  And finally, full out walking in pride.

This year, I did just that.  I gathered a group of my closest girlfriends and shared with them just how badly I was still dealing with shame about being queer, and how desperately I wanted to march in the Pride Parade.  I asked them to come, and to cheer for me.  They flooded me with love, and then floored me with an offer.  They asked, instead of cheering for me…could they walk with me?   I was red.  Holly was orange/yellow.  Naveen was blue, Cooper was green, and Heather was purple.  We formed a walking laughing rainbow, a five-strong beam of celebration.  I suddenly had five arms, five legs, five spines, five hearts.  I had roots; and I grew and grew and blossomed into the sky.  We marched.  We cheered.  We held signs.  We guzzled water and tea and Gatorade and  sweated in places we never ordinarily sweat–but it felt great.  Holly recieve our vote as Most Awesome Woo-er of All Time.  Naveen bought bottles of Fred especially for the occassion.  All of us danced and danced.   And once we reached Greenwich village, it was electric.  Hundreds packed into the tiny streets, years of history spinning the air–the place where it all began–and Michael Jackson tunes blaring.  People singing, en mass, holding up their hands.  Cooper handed me a rainbow flag, and I began to wave it every which-a-way, dancing like I’d never danced.  I could feel the energy of my community–how many decades?–pulsing up through my feet.  And as I passed Stonewall Inn, my heart leaped outside of my chest.  And I realized…I’d just started my walk into freedom.  I had fully embraced the rainbow after Noah, and understood what it meant for me.  I had been part of a rainbow, been held by a rainbow, and gleamed all the more brightly for it.

 I’ve decided that I’m going to march every year.  Even when I’m ninety and have a cane.  I’ll cover it in spangles and buy reflectors for my dentures.  Hell, I might even wear pasties.  I have learned from my community, over the past five years, that there is truly a healing power in camp.  Camp. Joy.  Celebration.  Nothing can stop it.  You just fly. 

No matter how far the journey for our equal rights; no matter how hurtful the homophobia in our churches, our societies, and our loved ones; no matter how much we may still struggle with homophobia on the inside of ourselves–there is still peace rolling down like a river, down 5th Avenue, with camp and loud and woo-ing to boot.  Millions caught up in the river.  And it grows every year.  Jesus would dig this.  I dig this. 

 Happy Pride, ya’ll.  This dyke is flying.

By the way: I also had a lovely, lovely romantic evening after the Pride March. 

…But that’s another story. 

Whirling Dervish

Whirling Dervish (wurl-ing dur-vish) n.  A mystical dancer who stands between the material and cosmic worlds. His dance is part of a sacred ceremony in which the dervish rotates in a precise rhythm. He represents the earth revolving on its axis while orbiting the sun. The purpose of the ritual whirling is for the dervish to empty himself of all distracting thoughts, placing him in trance; released from his body he conquers dizziness.  [from http://www.gregangelo.com/define.htm]

On Saturday evening, I met my first whirling dervish. In Brooklyn. I am still dizzy from the experience. And I never want to stop being dizzy. BAM was having a ten-day festival of “Muslim Voices: Arts and Ideas”, and this weekend my friend Naveen and I eagerly attended their concert of Sufi musicians, two groups: one from Morocco, one from France.

The Morrocan group wore bright red and gold tunics and oddly wonderful pointed yellow shoes. Everyone had a drum, and everyone played a different rhythmn. Sometimes, I’d go down the line with my eyes and try and match the rhythmns with the tapping of my hands. Beats within beats within beats. And sometimes beats I couldn’t even imagine went with other beats. But they did. I could hear jazz, I could hear gospel, I could hear so many styles and languages of music melding into and coming out of theirs.

They danced, carrying their bodies in willowy wonderful free jumping poses, and landing with pressed feet firm into the floor. One of them was quite elderly, a tiny man who could hardly move anymore. With great care, the others carried him along and he danced as best he could; but most of the time he sat and clapped his hands. But his face never ceased to glow; he was dancing on the inside, there was no question. He was my favorite.

Their song and drum and dance were prayerful and humble; we were invited spectators. But from time to time, they’d look at the audience with kind eyes and blow kisses at us. Bow, as if honoring us. And then their drums would beat in a frenzy, getting faster and faster and faster, until you couldn’t help but want to leap from your seat with a breathless yell. And people did.

During the last number, dozens of audience members-young and old-rushed the stage. Some banging their heads. Others jumping. Everyone smiling, laughing. My friend Naveen chuckled when I remarked it reminded me of the end of “Hair”, for it did. The air changed. It was moving, pulsing, heavy and ecstatic. I was breathless, so happy that I was almost afraid.

And that was only the first group.

The second group, from France, was all together different. Long white tunics. Much younger. Not everyone had a drum, but they had a calligraphy painter. I would watch his exquisite brush strokes against black canvas. Slowly, patiently, he’d paint more and more, drawing the canvas up-up-up on a rig, until the piece became six to seven feet high. Gentle guitar began, and the musicians sang. At first a low hum, then more joined in, and more. It sounded like a voiced salve. Weaving in and out of unison, call and response Arabic prayers, unbelievable tenors, singing whatever melody came out of their soul, rising up and into the rafters, all left me so stunned that I couldn’t even cry.

And then. Suddenly. One of them, who was dressed a bit different than the others, walked to the center of the stage. Bowed at the musicians. Bowed at us. Removed his outer tunic. Began to walk, in a large circle. Then a smaller circle. Picked up his large tunic skirt, dropped it, it fanned out three feet from his body…

And he was spinning like a top. Like a top.

So precise, so relaxed: a spinning beam of energy. His arms would change position fluidly, like water dancing upward, and his eyes would remain closed and peaceful. He kept spinning, and spinning, and spinning. For five, ten, as much as twelve minutes. I couldn’t stop gaping, couldn’t stop grinning, couldn’t stop thinking: “I’m staring at an icon in motion.”

And just as quickly as he began spinning…he stopped. Grounded his feet with a yell. Bowed. And was fine. Not dizzy at all. Just fine. As if he’d surrendered to a breeze and now the air was calm again. And he did it twice more! Ten to twelve minutes a piece!

I could have watched him all night.

The climax of the singing involved breath. The improv of the tenors, and the rest of them breathing. Breathing in, breathing out. Life, joy, the Divine. The dervish, now seated, led them with his hands; rocking back and forth, back and forth, exhaling air into a deep voiced pulse. I didn’t think to pay attention at the time, but it would have been neat to see if we were all breathing together. Because I’m sure we all were.

Once again, they bowed to us. Smiled with such kind eyes. And we cheered. The concert was a little over two hours. I felt as if I’d been there for twenty minutes.

And do you know the best part?

When you listen to Sufi music, you can’t help but be alive. In your deepest self. You mind can’t wander, you can’t worry, or be in a bad mood, or resort to any of the very easy forms of existence life sometimes thrusts upon us. It’s also impossible to be bitter, or hate anyone around you. When the audience rushed the stage, I saw people of all ages, races, backgrounds, beliefs embrace each other. Such release. Such interdependence. It was as if all possible boundaries had been melted by sound, and breath, and painting, and whirling. We had all been spun out of our typical orbits, and back into the orbits we should always own: love.

I highly recommend: if you can ever see a whirling dervish, ever spend an evening with a group of Sufi musicians, do. Please do.

You’ll change.

You’ll be made dizzy. In the best possible way.

My First Sermon: “Please Play”

Today, I preached my first sermon. Well, not really my first. Drama and music and poetry are sermons, and I’ve done these many times over. But today was my first stand-at-the-podium-and-share-prose kind of sermon. And it was my last official chapel at Union. It couldn’t have been more perfect. Such beautiful hearts, sharing such beautiful things.

A very special day.

I’ve been asked to share the sermon, so here it is.

Arts Caucus and COPS folks…I love you all.

“Please Play”

“Every child is an artist. The problem is remaining one once [we] grow up.” Pablo Picasso said that.

This past fall, a group of Union students, staff, and myself met for a workshop centered around The Artist’s Way. The Artist’s Way is a twelve-week devotional, designed to help adults reconnect to and deepen their creativity. Julia Cameron, its author, contends that all of us creative, because we’ve been made by a Creator. And as we connect to this creativity, we connect to our Creator in a most—if not the most—vital of ways.

In our workshop, about half-way through, we realized that almost all of us were members of the Arts Caucus or COPS or both. That the creativity born in us as children and the creativity of our own children were a constant source of life for us. And in going through the book…as we re-connected to our creativity, we reconnected to who we were as children. As we approached daily life with this creativity, we approached daily life as our children were. And through it all, we found a connection to our Creator—however we named that Creator—in a rich, deep, and profound way.

Psychologists and creativity experts have, for decades, been examining the necessity of play for human evolution and health, both for children and adults. I would contend also…that play is the deepest form of prayer, the first form of prayer, the first form of prayer wired into us from birth, that we come out of the womb naturally doing. Play is how we develop, but it’s also how we grow into ourselves. And this growth shouldn’t stop once we reach a certain age.

But so often it does. We are told by our superiors—the minute we begin growing—that we must be in control, say and do the “proper” thing, and be afraid, be very afraid, of mistakes.

How can you be a child—how can you be an artist—with such conditions? Children never concern themselves with being in control. And with creativity, you surrender, you don’t control. Children never concern themselves with what is “proper”. With creativity, you surrender what is “proper” to find what is true. And children are especially never afraid of being wrong. Creativity welcomes mistakes. A mistake is a discovery. A new option. Something to giggle about. For children and artists, nothing is sacred, and thusly everything is. Especially…when it comes to God.

So often, when I talk about these things, I’m challenged with a question, here at Union. I’m asked: “Kari…what exactly is an artist?” This question, to be honest…really annoys me. More than anything, it makes me sad. For, if a person can only refer to the identity of artist as a “what”…they stopped playing a long time ago. Is it important to discuss art, and the role of artist? To talk about both critically, theologically? To define them? Absolutely. I have reveled in so many delicious conversations with so many of you. But we have to be careful with our talking. For there’s the temptation, as adults, to use talk as a way to be in control. As a way to be “proper”. As a way to avoid mistakes. To talk about the identity of artist so much that we talk it out of ourselves. Until the identity of artist becomes estranged from us, becomes a concept, a “what” that lives in our head. Instead of a “who”, a living, breathing, identity that we claim and live out. Children don’t critically discuss why they paint. They just paint. God didn’t critically discuss why we have a spleen. We just have a spleen.

We’ve heard two Scripture passages today. The first [1 John 1:1-3]…I’m not one to take the Bible literally, but I couldn’t quite help it in this case…“…we should be called ‘children of God’. And that is what we are.” It doesn’t say “children and adults”. It just says “children”. In looking at this verse, several of us remembered how Christ often pointed to children as models of faith, especially when their play was annoying the adult disciples. In several places throughout the gospels, Jesus would protest: “whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it.” This made me think. Perhaps there is no such thing as “adult”. Perhaps, in fact, we are actually—all of us—older children. And that is how we should approach life, and receive the kingdom: everything our Creator has to give us.

The passage also says that as children “we will see God as God really is.” And in the second passage [Luke 24: 36b-40]…the adult disciples are having a bit of trouble seeing God as God is. Jesus stands in front of them, resurrected in a new form, freely offering an incredible gift. But the disciples are trying to be in control. They’re trying to do what is proper. They’re terrified of making a mistake. In short, they don’t get it. They do what adults do best when the unexpected occurs: they freak out. Jesus has to calm them down and say “it’s me.” And finally they’re able to celebrate. And receive him. I can’t help but think, if Christ had appeared to twelve five year olds: the scene would have been very different.

How often does Jesus stand in front of us in a new form, and we just can’t see it? Those expressions artists wish to bring into worship services, and congregations get nervous that they’re not “proper”? Those services that, heaven forbid, have adults and children together, and congregations are worried that they’ll get out of control? How would our spiritual communities look if we weren’t so worried about making mistakes?

How would our lives look?

This is my last reflection at Union. And before I leave, I would like to issue a challenge to everyone here, including myself.

Please…revisit your first form of prayer.

Please play.

Play every day. Play as children do: as if your life depended on it.

Because…your life does depend on it.

Thirty

I have now been thirty for a little more than a month, officially. I haven’t journaled or blogged at all, which is unlike me. Or at least unlike my most recent decade. For the past month, whenever I’d pick up a pen or whenever I’d brush my fingers across a keyboard, the air would seem to thicken and freeze with sacredness, and I’d gasp and think to myself: “no, no, not yet! I want to savour this a little while longer; this being thirty, this being part of a new decade.” And at the end of it all, I wondered if it was just pretense, an attempt to make myself seem larger or more important than I was. But nevertheless, I enjoyed it. Sponging the first month of thirty. My biggest delights being: the gestures and love of my friends and family.

Things do feel different, slightly. I feel older. A bit wiser. A bit more strengthened in the spine. Quite a bit more ballsy. Ready to do things afraid (though don’t get me wrong: I still operate on over eighty-three separate planes of anxiety). And quite an unexpected thing has transpired, on a consistent basis: I’m crying. Not that I’d been a complete stoic my entire life. I cried often enough, but still held back more than I’d let go. Until I couldn’t. Even onstage tears wouldn’t always come when I’d will them (though willing them is the crux of the problem). Still, I was much freer with my emotions onstage than anywhere else. But now, at thirty, it seems just about everything is making me cry. A sunset. A piece of music. Commercials. Conversations. Thinking of people. Watching people. It’s a deep, wonderous, “I’m alive” cry, and I have to say: I rather enjoy it. I no longer feel inconvenienced when snot spontaneously runs down my nose.

Though I’ve had to buy a great deal more Kleenex.

And that’s not all: I feel sexy. I can’t truly explain it, but for some reason, on the morning of my thirtieth birthday, I woke up feeling sexy. Drop-dead-gorgeous sexy. Sexy with a capital “sex”. And, though I take no shame in admitting and expressing my childlike quirkiness (and will ’til the day I die), I’ve decided to own my sexy. To walk and talk my sexy. I will express my sexy and enjoy my sexy as often as is humanly possible. I’ve learned that sexy is not a “haves” and “have nots” quality. It’s given at birth. It’s there. So there. You just have to own your sexy.

Though it helps that I’d recently learned women reach their sexual peak at thirty.

Hmph. I’ll reach mine several times over, thank you.

I also no longer care about being liked. Don’t get me wrong: I still hate not being liked. Hate. It. But my thirty-through-forty decade cannot waste time caring about it. It’s very easy in this life-oh so easy-to be sycophantic, to fold into what others would like you to be and do. You’ll lead an easy enough life. But if you ever hope to express a single original thought or especially effect change on this planet: you must be willing to be disliked. Call me an old fogie or one of the bitchy “ladies who lunch” before her time is due, but now that I’m thirty: I’m ready to take the necessary hits. I’d rather effect good than be popular.

I’ve also discovered that failing is wonderful. Just recently, I failed at something; I was mortified and embarrassed and horrified as humans often are. But then after wailing and wallowing in self-pity, I looked around and realized: the world hadn’t ended. My friends and family still loved me. I always had more chances. And-most importantly-I’d survived the failure. Regardless of how other folks might have judged my specific failure, I asked myself, “why is this failure such a big deal? Everyone’s done it. Everyone’s human. Why are we pressured to pretend as though we’re an exception to the human rule?” Perhaps it’s an American thing: failure is worse than death. We hold superhuman expectations of our celebrities, our politicians, our clergy. Along those veins, being an budding artist and a weathered PK definitely hasn’t helped. But regardless of the pressures, having the expectation that I’ll never fail is grossly unrealistic to myself. Also: unfair. I’ve decided to be very un-American and welcome failure as a friend, as yet another nudge toward “try it again and really savour the victory” or better yet “ditch this; try this now that you’re paying attention”. I’ve realized that, if I embrace my imperfections and express them openly-and God forbid have a sense of humor about them-I’ll live a much more abundant and accomplished life. One that includes many deliciously delightful failures.

Not that I’ve never been honest about myself, just…guarded. Still. About certain things. All of us are, to a certain extent, I think. I wonder what would happen if we all let loose and talked about our closeted skeletons. Every single one. Never hid anything ever again. I think the whole world would breathe one huge sigh of relief.

In the next six months, I move into a great period of transition and new experiences (lots and lots of projects are moving into new phases). I’m very excited, very proud, though still operate under my eighty-three separate planes of anxiety. I have a tendency to wallow, to worry in my chair, to sink into depression, to weep, to gobble chocolate and guzzle caffeine. To wonder if, perhaps, I really am an untalented guttersnipe after all. Then I remember that I’m thirty. Sexy. No longer care about being liked or being embarrassed or failing. And then: I realize I’m moving again. Doing. Grinning. Crying at the drop of a hat again, and chuckling to myself.

At thirty, I am cracked open; hopelessly propelled forward while terrified, and I couldn’t be more grateful. And to what can I owe this? To who? Or Who? If I were to be truly honest, I would have to say: I don’t know.

Isn’t not knowing wonderful?

After all my searching and all my study, I have come to the conclusion that none of us can possibly know the ultimate answer. To anything. And that makes life all the more miraculous and worthy to be thankful for. Besides, I don’t think that knowing is the purpose of life anyway. The purpose of life is to listen. To give. To admit you don’t know and be surprised together. To ride the wave of uncertainty and make friends with all the panic and pain and delight it ensues. Because guess what? Feeling all those things: means you’re alive.

Alive. Flying. Surprised. Thirty.

I’m liking this.

-

Glad Grief

My Grandmother Tammy is preparing to die. Her cancer was diagnosed as incurable, but she tried nearly three rounds of chemo anyway. The cancer has now eaten away at her ovaries, her bowels, her liver and is moving up to her breasts and lungs. Her belly is swollen with fluid. She’s getting confused about where she is. Nothing has been able to go in or out of her body, hardly at all. Though she’s in an amazingly good humor, my mother says. They have her on pain medication that’s working wonderfully. She’ll get a little weaker and a little weaker; and in just a few weeks, a few days, she’ll fall asleep and not wake up. She’ll be gone.

…And I’m glad.

I feel disgusting saying so, but it’s true. I’m glad.

Not glad that she’s suffering. I’d never want anyone to suffer. Never.

But I’m honestly glad that she’s going to be gone.

Tammy is a little thing. I’d passed her in height by the age of twelve. She’s always dressed up (pressed shirt, skirt, heels, every hair in place, lipstick freshly applied) even when she doesn’t need to be. Hugging her is like embracing a taut collection of nerves about to snap. She moves about like a nervous bird, talks very very fast and hardly ever sits still. Though she is now…

She grew up on a farm, the only girl. Her brothers thought it was ridiculous for her to finish school, but her father allowed it anyway. She grew up during the Depression and war time. She worked as a secretary. She was married twice, widowed twice; nursed both husbands through long, painful illnesses. Never was able to have children. She volunteered constantly for her church, her community. Made prolific amounts of arts and crafts but never once sold them for her own profit. Always wrote the perfect thank you note and sent the perfect gift. Hardly ever missed a religious service or social event. Her house was always immaculate, almost unnaturally so.

Ultimately, Tammy was known for her undying service, selflessness, faith, and heart. To all who knew her.

Except me.

She rarely spent time with me as a child. I remember a season-very short-when I went to their house and did things with them. Until my father changed jobs, denominations (this embarrassed them); and from then on…I saw them on limited doses. She and my Grandpa would meet our family on obligatory holidays, often in restaurants. She’d talk to my mother, my Grandpa would talk to my father, and I’d stare at the table’s centerpiece, or draw, or go off in my imagination. My grandparents traveled everywhere-went to Disney World on several occasions-but never invited me. But they’d always be sure to buy me things, give me money and gifts; as long as my family hadn’t embarrassed them. I never once had a long conversation with my Grandpa, or with Tammy; with the exception of an evening we were both stuck in the car together on a cold night. And I initiated it.

My grandparents did mention on occasion that they were proud of me, that they loved me. But it was usually when I’d gotten some sort of public recognition that made them look good. Beyond that, they never seemed interested in who I was as a person. They never once asked me my opinion, my dreams, my feelings on matters. They rarely let me ask them questions about their life. On the few occasions I stayed with them, they’d sit me in a corner and give me things to do. Or leave me in the car. But then they’d remember me again, dress me up, and take me around to sing for their friends. I was more of a cute pet than a person.

Several years ago, when I was dead broke, I began lying to them. I began pretending as though I agreed with all of their bigotous views. And I definitely, definitely, didn’t tell them I was gay. Suddenly-as I’d suspected I would-I had their full attention. I had the letters and phone conversations I’d always wanted. And, of course: a big check every month. But then, when my Grandfather died, he only left me-his only grand-daughter-a stack of dishes. Tammy showed them to me, distractedly; she’d hidden them away in a cabinet. I was to receive them on the day of my wedding.

The checks have continued, though, from Tammy, nearly every month. But I was still pretending, holding my tongue: giving her the impression I agreed with her. And she ate it up. In nearly every phone conversation we’d have, I’d hear her make bigotous remarks about the very people she was serving. Judgments against people in poverty, the young, people of color, single mothers. And queer people? To her, they don’t exist. Artists? Pursuing it as a profession is just plain selfish and silly. And anyone outside an ultra-conservative Christian worldview is just plain lost. Non-believers, to my Grandma Tammy, are non-persons. These last few months of her life, bigotous comments have dominated nearly all of her conversations with me, from the beginning to end. Her voice will turn cold and she’ll start in at rapid-fire speed, barely stopping for a breath. My neck will bristle and my stomach will churn, and I have-finally-found myself railing right back at her; as if trying to stand up for the whole human race. But she just keeps talking. Oblivious.

I barely phoned her all summer, even though she was dying. Because I just couldn’t take listening to her hatred. And I just couldn’t take the things she’d started saying about me. The last full conversation I had with Tammy, I finally shared with her that I wasn’t going to be a “typical” minister in a church (as she’d expected), but rather have a social justice ministry with my art (as I’d felt called all this time). Her voice grew cold, and she said, “you’ve got to be kidding”. Then she said, “you’ve got to settle on something, Kari” (even though I’d earned nearly three degrees toward and been pursuing the same calling for nearly a decade).

Since I could type, she said, I could be a secretary.

Since I wasn’t married yet.

And I snapped.

I went off on my Grandma Tammy; and stood up for myself, for the very first time. She could barely get a word in. Then I wrote her a letter. I was tired of pretending, I said. I told her all of who I was: gay, UU, artist, what I make art about, what I feel called to, how I see the world, everything.

She wrote me back.

With a check enclosed, of course.

The first line read: “Kari, I received your letter today, read it once, and tore it up.”

I wrote her back.

I held her accountable for her dismissal of me, her bigotry, her materialism, her religious exclusivism, the way she and my Grandpa had treated my family and I. I affirmed who I was, and said that I was proud of me, even if she wasn’t. And…I mailed her check back to her. I told her never to send me money again.

And she hasn’t.

But my words fell on deaf ears. We ultimately corresponded several times. She’d write back with expressions of love and faith, long rambling prose that didn’t always make sense, that responded to me yet didn’t respond to me. The words were, truly, the response of a true “Christian elder”. It would be easy, in reading her words, to marvel at her, to respect her, to see the person her community sees.

But I couldn’t.

I saw between the lines. I saw justification. Manipulation. Coldness. And it made me so angry.

And confused.

She’s not all bad. She’s human. I can’t expect a human to see the error of their ways at the end of their life; particularly when they’re so set in them with advanced age. What am I expecting?

And it’s not like I’m perfect. Or that it’s my job to point these things out to her.

But I had to do it: for myself, I guess. To have peace before she went. To get everything off my chest.

Was it wrong of me?

I’m glad I did.

Was it wrong?

I had my parents buy her flowers, and paid them back. I’ve called to check on her every day. Like I know I should.

I’ll hear my mother say sweet things about her. Overhear what the nurses have said. Friends have said.

And I don’t know how to react.

Because I don’t feel that way.

I’m glad she’s going. I’m glad.

And I’m angry.

I’m angry that I never knew her.

That she never saw the world unconditionally.

That she never saw me unconditionally.

That she never cared, really cared, to know me. Or anyone at all.

Even though I’m sure that’s not wholly true.

And I’m angry that I can’t see that.

That I read between her lines.

That I can’t hear her. Or that she won’t tell me.

I don’t know how I’ll grieve her death, I really don’t.

I think I’ll have to start with my embracing my gladness.

To embrace my anger.

To embrace my grief that she’s dead.

To embrace my deepest grief that she never felt alive.

…To me.

Terrible Antithesis

On Sunday morning, the 27th of July, a gunman walked into a church in Knoxville. He had a gun [purchased at a pawn shop] that he’d hidden in a guitar case. He’d brought several rounds of ammunition. His intention was to kill as many people as possible before killing himself. Luckily, several congregation members wrestled him to the ground before he could. One man, however, bravely took bullets to shield others. He and another congregant were killed, and six were injured.

It’s bad enough that someone committed a random act of violence.

But this feels worse-far worse-because…

…the man attacked a church in my denomination: one that I care deeply about.

…the man attacked the Knoxville church specifically because of its liberal views…and its inclusion of queer people.

Queer people.

…Me.

Not that this is specifically my fault…but when things like this happen, I’m tempted to hate my queerness. Hate it so badly that I’d do anything to rip it out of myself and give it back: to bring the murdered back. The murdered-the lovely, the brave, the beautiful and innocent people-who are fighting for-and are willing to die for-my community.

It’s not fair. It’s just not fair…

Not that that was the only reason. With his other behavior-specifically his actions beforehand-it’s obvious that the man was suffering from some kind of mental distress. But still…I know-I just know-that fundementalist fanatical groups are going to eat this up. They’re going to say it’s “God’s judgment” on the Knoxville church, on my denomination and all liberal denominations, on queer people and on anyone who supports them.

I wonder if that thought will pass through the minds of conservative friends and loved ones of mine, even if just slightly. While I didn’t grow up fundamentalist fanatical, I did grow up very conservative. And the very conservatives have thoughts like that. They never protest them or force them; they’re never viscious or violent with them. Never. But…they think them, quietly and reservedly; while at the same time trying to love-ever so clumsily-the very people they’re having those thoughts about. Then, later, in the privacy and safety of their prayer closets: they’ll say the thoughts out loud, with fear and fervour and [sometimes] “righteous anger” and [worst of all] a belief that they’re actually being compassionate. I lived this way-as I’d been taught-for years. Until one day I realized: I couldn’t hate people and love people at the same time. I was being a double-hearted person. That’s why loving others-while you’re very conservative-is ever so clumsy. Because double-heartedness isn’t really love. You see, hate is hate: whether you’re fanatical and viscious about it, or quiet and polite about it. And hate may be successfully disguised as love for a time; but sooner or later it will reveal itself. And-most tragic of all-it often takes a fanatic to do it.

But I digress…

Do you want to know the worst part of this tragedy?

The absolute worst part of this tragedy?

The absolute worst part was: the gunman interrupted…

…a worship service…

…in which children were performing…

…the musical “Annie”.

“Annie”.

Can you imagine?

The hopeful, ringing tones of “Annie” and innocent children’s voices…meeting such a horrible, horrible sound of enraged gunfire?

I can’t get over such a terrible antithesis. I wonder: how could this man not be affected by such a loving expression? Of innocent children? How could he just walk in, ignore that, and then destroy it? I wonder: does art, in the end, really do any good? Does it really present hope to the world? Does hope itself ever really win? At all?

According to reports, children had blood on them. Splattered. They were hysterical. I know that children are resilient, and I’m confident that the church will provide them with the support they need, but still…it’s typical of children to think that negative occurrences are somehow their fault. What if they feel responsible? That, somehow, their art-their expressions-caused such violence? What if they’re never able to express themselves again? Be creative again? Have fun again? Have hope again?

It’s not fair.

It’s just not fair…

The Best Kind of a Good Cry

I once told a friend that I believed laughter to be the deepest form of crying. Not in a depressing way, mind you. No, I just meant that: there are pains that are best cried out with a laugh, that the body has the wisdom to know the difference, and that it taps into this form of crying in order to heal itself.

To this end, I’ve found that people who laugh the most have often suffered the most. The more pain, the more laughter; but their laughter is exquisite: because of its strength. It comes from a healed place, a walked-through place; it has liberation and peace and wholeness in its sound. It’s limitless, unbreakable, untouchable. Yet it never fails to touch those around it.

My family has known a great deal of illness in my life. Someone has always been in the hospital, going into the hospital, or coming out of the hospital. Before I was born, both my paternal grandmother and my maternal grandfather died after long battles with cancer. My maternal great-grandmother also died of cancer. During my life, my paternal grandfather Orval suffered through a decade of cancer, three heart attacks, congestive heart failure, emphysema, and pulmonary fibrosis. My maternal grandmother Helen suffered twenty years through three bouts of cancer, diabetes, massive colon blockages, dementia and Alzheimer’s. My great-uncle Fred suffered through post-traumatic stress disorder from WWII, bypass surgery, heart trouble, and finally cancer. My great Aunt Wilma fought a slow battle with Lou Gehrig’s disease…

Now I have to pause here. Did you catch the joke? Great Uncle Fred. Great Aunt Wilma. Fred and Wilma. Yep. Actually true. Great laugh, right? (happy sigh) But back to the list…

My cousin Owen was diagnosed with Autism. My Aunt Sue went into the hospital with yet another serious ulcer attack, and a few years later escaped-what would have been-a fatal car crash. My mother has suffered through two miscarriages, increasingly serious asthma, and recently found a growth (we’re pretty sure it’s a harmless fibroid) in her abdomen. My last remaining Grandmother Tammy has been diagnosed with incurable Ovarian Cancer. My father has had Stage 8 (out of 10) Prostate Cancer, a stroke, a nasty bout of pneumonia, congestive heart failure, and quintuple bypass surgery.

Great Uncle Fred went nearly a decade ago.
Dad was diagnosed with cancer in the summer of ‘02, had the stroke and pneumonia the following fall.
Grandpa Orval went in 2005.
The day after we buried him, Dad went into the ER with congestive heart failure, and had his surgery shortly thereafter.
Grandma Helen and Great Aunt Wilma went within two weeks of each other in 2006.
Grandma Tammy was diagnosed in the fall of this year.
My beloved pet Shado went in December of this year.
Mom found her growth two weeks ago.
Dad’s in the hospital this weekend receiving a new stint.

And after writing all this…all this…I can’t help but laugh. I’m tempted to feel terribly guilty because of it, but…I’ve realized, I shouldn’t. My body is trying to take care of itself, to heal itself. I need to laugh. I need to continue joking with my family while we’re discussing tests and symptoms. They’ve always done this, though I never really understood why until now. True, I tend to be the one who presses for those moments of pause, those moments when where we’re open and honest and say “give it to me straight” with every detail; because I don’t think laughter can do its job if it doesn’t know the specifics of its pain. But all in all, laughing with a sick loved one is more necessary than any pill or procedure: it’s the best way you can help them heal.

Beyond these conversations with family, I’m also blessed with friends who are compassionate cut-ups. Who listen with love in those moments of pause, who hug and kiss and hold me when I need it, but then who have the wisdom to know when it’s time to let go and laugh. Sometimes with just a goofy glance; words aren’t even necessary. And they make me piss myself. I’ve also, as of late, noticed a tendency to watch campy musicals and-especially-comedians. Particularly British comedians. I’ve recently discovered treasures like “The Vicar of Dibley” and “A Bit of Fry and Laurie”. Shows that not only celebrate the ironic and witty but also the silly and outlandish. Shows that love language and people and…love, really. Shows and friends and family conversations…that give me full-bellied, out and out laughter.

And the best kind of a good cry.

The Not So Great Beginning and the–hack, hack, hack…

This morning, I was jolted awake by the sound of maniacal drilling. I assumed it was the center of the earth upchucking explosives. With an afterthought of metal scrapage.

Then, before I left my apartment, I slammed my finger in the front door. My finger throbbed. It screamed. It threatened to go on strike, but was inevitably still attached to my hand. It has since given me the silent treatment. “How convenient”, I thought to myself through all of this, “that my day job and art both require long hours of typing”.

Once at work, my computer froze three separate times. As I waited and fumed and my irritation grew, I unwisely pierced my fork into my fabulous salad with brutish rage strength; and a fourth of my salad catapulted onto my desk.

My finger laughed at me.

And while walking along the sidewalk during my lunch hour…on this perfectly gorgeous day…smiling to myself and attempting to forget my day’s not-so-great-beginning…I was suddenly hit…

…smack-dab in the face…

…with a cloud.

Of.

Smoke.

My nostrils could not run.

They could not hide.

It had happened again.

Yet again.

“F-I-S-H-S”: “Forcibly Induced Second-Hand Smoking”.

This anagram is not meant to insult fish, mind you. I’m a huge fan of fish. Fighting for the rights of fish. Fine upstanding citizens, fish (they also don’t smoke…just sayin’). But truly, these attacks have been going on far too long. Not to mention that fish are getting quite tired of being blamed for them. They do live in water, for goodness sakes.

Perhaps I am making a mountain out of a mole hill (moles who also don’t smoke…just sayin’). It’s true: I’d had a not-so-great-beginning to my day. Perhaps with a better start, I would not have been so irritated at such an attack. Perhaps I would have been calm and just-

-(HACK, HACK, HACK…).

Whoah. ‘Scuse me…(deep breath) I was saying I would have just–

–(HACK, hack, hack…hack…hack).

‘Scuse me again.

…What was I saying?

Oh yes. I-

–(HAAAAAAAAAAAACK, HACK, HACK!…)

…Ugh. Whew. (deep breath) Lemme try that one more tim-

-(HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACK! HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACK!)

All. Right…

I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt. Maybe they just don’t get it. Maybe they aren’t aware that in New York, sidewalks are actually “behind walks”. People rarely walk beside one another in this city: unless they are subsequently attempting to pass the person in front of them. Therefore, when a person expels a cloud of smelly, toxic fumes behind them on a more-often-than-not “behind walk”, it will hit a person walking behind them directly in the face. Namely, me!

And I don’t mean to judge my fellow human beings if they smoke. Not at all. I’m sure, like most New Yorkers, they are in a hurry and are simply being efficient: walking, talking on their cell phone, drinking Starbucks, and smoking at the same time (though I might add their lives would be less stresful if they dropped one of thoses tasks…just sayin’). And God knows I don’t have the best of habits, either. Truly, if I were to expel my habits from my body in a cloud as I walked, people behind me would be hit in the face with a swirl of far-too-much-processed-sugar-and-caffeine-with a tendency to-wallow-in-a- vat-of-worry, self-doubt, feeling sorry for myself and hypochondria (god, I love being a writer). And if this were the case, then people would be blogging about me right now: complaining about my cloud hitting them in the face, complaining that, because of my fumes, now they couldn’t sleep, couldn’t escape unexpected blemishes, and couldn’t escape plummeting into the pacing mind of Woody Allen (sans the underage sex, though. NOT cool).

But really, I’ve met enough polite smokers who get this. Is it really too much to ask? A universal polite rule? Could smokers not step out of the way for just five minutes to have a smoke? If they must? Just five fucking minutes? Because really: I would really love to give up second-hand smoking. I’ve been trying to for years. And today’s episode was just…well: it truly was the straw that broke the camel’s TIVO. I had to say something.

(sigh) Perhaps this is still just entitled American b.s. but honestly…since I can’t seem to avoid maniacal drills, finger-biting doors, shitty computer systems or losing fabulous salads today: I think I at least deserve to not have smoke blown in my face.

Don’t you agree?

(Cough. Hack. Hack.)

Or at least…do it for the fish?

Yes, I Am a Preacher’s Kid.

I’m a preacher’s kid.

It’s only lately that I’ve realized just how much that identity has affected me. It’s affected me in good ways and bad ways. In many, many sad ways. It’s written on every facet of my life.

The thing that makes me most upset about being a preacher’s kid-”PK” as we’re often called-is that no one really understands our specific experience, nor the specific pressures that come with that experience. In society, we’re typically stereotyped. Made fun of. Looked up to yet resented at the same time. It never really occurs to people to ask us who we are. And it never occurs to people that many of us are in pain. And are terrified to talk about it.

The thing about the pain is: it’s needless. It’s arisen from an unhealthy blurring of boundaries between the minister’s family and the church that they serve. Many in the ministry have just assumed that the blurring of boundaries and the pain simply come with the calling. But they don’t have to. Saddest of all: congregations don’t even realize the pain they’re unintentionally causing ministers’ families by blurring these boundaries.

We need to speak up.

If pk’s would speak up, really speak up, about what their experience is like and especially what is painful about it: we could change things.

But as of now…straight from me…this is what being a preacher’s kid is really like:

——————————————————————————
“The Problem With Bein’ a Preacher’s Kid”

-a monologue by Kari Morris-

The problem with being a preacher’s kid is that you can’t be a normal Christian. To you, Christianity is not a religion, nor a spiritual path, nor a choice: it’s a family business. You are born into this family business, one that consumes much of your family’s living room, telephone line, holidays and weekends; and since you’re part of the family: you help. Since your preacher parent often feels they have to be eleven places at once, it’s wonderfully convenient if they have a family: because then they can. Parishoners ecstaticly latch onto you as a much-needed ministry appendange, and you wonder to yourself, “is it selfish that I just wanna go outside and play?”

But you quickly put that aside, out of your mind and learn, firsthand, how to be long suffering. You teach, you counsel others, you answer deep theological questions, you lead the services and activities no one else wants to bother with, you always welcome people into your home even when you’re exhausted and sick, you get to the church early in the morning and leave late at night, and you especially learn not to ask yourself, “How come Dad gets paid for all this work but I don’t?”

You learn to be secretive about any and all of your parents’ faults, especially your own: because kids have more. You ache to join in with the other kids’ antics, the other kids’ play, but the adults in the congregation are watching you: your perfect behavior is the full measure of your preacher parents’ suitability for ministry. Not that the other kids want to hang around you anyway. They begrudingly do, but secretly they resent you. For you are the moral prodigy their parents always hold over their heads. Oh yes: you are resented. The kids live to break you. They poke you, prod you, steal from you, mercilessly tease you, touch you. “How much can they take?” the kids will wail. You are the wonder, the science experiment they can’t crack. And they hate you for it all the more. They hate that they can’t expose you as a human, tell on you, get your family fired, and be rid of you. But ’til then: you’re good entertainment. Not that you’ll give them the satisfaction. Nope. You shut your body down, jut out your chin in defiance, and you don’t crack an inch. You. Are. Perfect. Until…someone comes along…and wants to know you. You. Who? They offer real friendship. Real…support, help, oh no, no, no-your feathers bristle, and on instinct, you say, “Oh, I see. You’re waiting for me to crack, aren’t you? Well, fuck you, I don’t crack. I’m a preacher’s kid, I am a rock. I don’t need you!” So, they never really know you. Or they leave, they give up. Each time this happens, you want to scream at your preacher parent, “do you have any idea how lonely I live for you?”

Truly though, you amaze yourself at your ability to play the part of the-absolutely-perfect-Christian: even though you’ve never had room to consider whether you believe it or not. Your range, the control you develop, is positively superhuman. It gives you something you can control, something you can be proud of, at least. After awhile, it almost entertains you. You think, “Gee. If I can play the part so well, I wonder if my minister parent is, too. I wonder if everyone is. Is all we’re praying to even real?”

But you don’t say that. You don’t say that. Your infallibility is the only thing some people have. No. You smile. And nod. And listen. You listen and listen: you can’t help it. There are too many faces of desperation, loss, tragedy, grief at your door; so many crying, hurting bruised insides asking, “Why, why, why?” You’re six. You don’t know what to say. You’re six, so…you listen. And take it all in. Let it collect at the pit of your stomach and wonder, as children often do: “is it all my fault?”

You begin to hate.

You hate your parent’s congregation. And the depth of your rage terrifies you.

You hate them because they take the first, best, and deepest of your minister parent. They’re so drained-and often grieved-at the end of a day that you think to yourself, “compared to the tragedies of a whole community, how can I be so selfish to voice my small, petty problems?

You hate the congregation because they come to Christianity so simply, so innocently: and find strength for their journeys. You, as a preacher’s kid, don’t know how to do that. You’ve seen too much. You know too much. You were born with a tragic backstage pass. You met Christianity at its disillusioned, “school of hard knocks”, worst case scenario version. You never got to discover it, fall in love with it, choose it. You got the meat and potatoes: they get the magic. Your mission as a preacher’s kid-should you decide to accept it-is to know how to relate to Christianity AT ALL. As you. Not an appendage.

You grow up, leave home-leave the shadow of the family business-and going to church suddenly becomes: an identity crisis. You have no fucking idea what to do. You feel so advanced. But so behind. You know so much. But so little. You inevitably fall back into ministry: the obligation overwhelms every pore of you, plus it’s all you know how to do. The church, of course, is happy for the help. They try and spiritually feed you, but you smile and nod and listen and continue being the feeder: on autopilot.

You soon get tired. Depressed. You suddenly realize: “wait! I don’t have to do this!” But then you think: “what will I do with all my time? Who will I worry about? What role will I play?” So, you keep on. You get tired again. Depressed again. You suddenly realize “wait! I don’t have even have to go to church! I don’t even have to be a Christian if I don’t want to!” Bu you don’t know what the alternative would be. Another religion? Another faith? Leaving religion and faith all together? You have no clue how you’d approach these alternatives, and you’re pissed that you have no clue how to approach these alternatives. Not to mention, if you’d grown up in a conservative family business, you’ve been told that leaving Christianity would result in eternal hell fire and damnation. No pressure. You stay. You feel stuck. You feel trapped. You feel lost. You feel so, so fake. But no. Not fake. You know that you believe-and always have-very deeply in SOMETHING…you just don’t know what it is.

You look for support and:

-you find a few online PK Organizations. Most of their pamphlets and books are out of print. They have a few get-togethers, mostly to talk about “how great it was to be a preacher’s kid”. They don’t speak of the pain. Not online. Online is public. And they’re still scared-even at 50-that a church member will see it and retaliate against their preacher parent still serving. PK’s are forever looking over their shoulder. Then you find online forums. People write of the pain there: signing only their first name, or signing no name at all.

-you look to therapists, who’ve never met someone with your particular pain. The field of psychology, after all, has only published a few scant articles about preacher’s kids: impersonally, statistically, analyzing your behavior as if you’re a species.

-you look to the media, and find yourself portrayed as the sexually repressed, Bible-thumping, goody-two-shoes, or the angry-Goth-atheist-drug addict that sleeps with everyone. Neither stereotype fits you. Both are considered a joke. Society considers you a joke.

-you look to the Bible, where the children of called leaders…are barely mentioned. Of the few stories, the one that pains you the most is that of Abraham and Isaac. Everyone praises Abraham for his faith and his sacrifice, everyone praises God for the grace and mercy of stopping the sacrifice, but you, as a preacher’s kid, want to cry out: what about Isaac? What does it feel like to realize, that, if your parent is called of God: you are expendable?

You realize you’re a part of a social minority: one that can never tell its secret. For if you do, if you ever do, you will cause worldwide religious despair. You will prove that Christianity can take identity instead of give it, that it can leave some lost instead of found. That the church is built on the backs of brokenhearted, invisible children. And, by you embracing your right to be human, you will shatter the image of the perfect minister, the perfect minister’s family, and their perfect faith. You will shatter the peaceful knowing that the sheperd always has it together, always has it under their wing: that there is someone on this earth who can live the saint’s life they’re striving for. And all of that-all of that-will betray the world’s hope. It will betray the only thing they have to stand on. And when you think of the enormity of the world’s suffering and how they need this hope so, so badly…suddenly your need for peace seems so insignificant. So small. So, so selfish.

You wonder if perhaps your calling is to be lost…so that they can be found.

It’s you or them.

That’s always been your choice, really. You or them.

The problem with being a preacher’s kid is that you can’t be a…

You can’t be…

You can’t…

…You.

—————————————————————————
While in seminary, I’ve discovered that I care very deeply about ending this needless pain. I care very deeply about changing the way things are for pk’s. So I’ve created a pledge, for all current and future ministers to sign: a pledge of two promises that I believe can change things.

You can find the pledge on Myspace:

http://groups.myspace.com/pkpledge

and on Facebook:

http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=9437884989

Please forward the pledge to all ministers you know, and if you’re a minister yourself: please sign it yourself.

Thank you, all.