O Ye of Little Faith

Legal marriage. For me. For my family. Shannon and I will be able to be legally married in a little over a month. I never thought it would happen in a place where I lived, not in my lifetime. We've been married in the eyes of God and community for going on 3 years. For us that's the most important part of marriage - the covenant we have with each other and with God.

And, yet, this legal marriage stuff also means the world. It means no more second-class citizenship. It means our baby will be OUR baby from the very beginning, none of this second-parent adoption stuff that would have to happen if we are not legally married.

Of course there's all kinds of uproar, and it looks like an amendment banning same-sex marriage is going to get on the ballot in November. We can't rest easy yet. But we'll get married before November, lots of us will. And we'll keep working for justice for everyone. We will work as hard as we have to so marriage is a choice for all couples who wish to choose it.

Struggling to be Grateful

It's been a really hard few weeks, with Shannon being so sick with this pregnancy, we're both exhausted and in need of some quiet and calm hours that don't involve nausea and vomiting and saltine crackers. I saw a chance this afternoon when my phone stopped ringing and I'd caught up on email -- and I came home early, thinking that it'd be a good afternoon to sit on the deck and enjoy the small bit of sunshine peeking through the clouds. After Sunday, there won't be as much opportunity to have an afternoon off. One of my colleagues leaves for a 4 1/2 month sabbatical, so my workload and responsibilities increase accordingly while he's away. So I went by the store to buy some beer, even, so I could have one or two while watching basketball tonight.

I walk in the door and Austin (our dog) greets me with a little more anxiety than normal. He's had just as hard a time with Shannon being really sick, worried about her and wondering what is going on. I also know that his greeting means he's done something he knows I'm not going to be happy with. As I walk toward the kitchen to put the beer in the frig, I see broken glass everywhere...and think maybe I should open the beer immediately. Somehow, he's gotten enough of himself up on the kitchen counter to bring down an entire glass dish onto the floor. And then he's taken pieces of it into the living room to lick whatever remnants of food he'd found on it. I don't know how, but he seems unhurt, at least I cannot find any blood on him or on the floor.

I am sitting on the deck, and am glad the sun is shining. I'm drinking a beer, sighing deeply, and praying for a heart of gratitude: this baby has turned all of our lives upside-down, already. Austin's through-the-roof anxiety is only one example. We prayed so hard for this pregnancy to happen. We want so much to be able to raise a family that will add a little more of God's love to the world. Right now, though, I'm thinking a lot about the disciples in Luke's Gospel -- the ones who were walking on the road to Emmaus after Jesus was killed and they'd found the empty tomb, in the completely opposite direction of Jerusalem. They were trying to get away from it all - they were exhausted, confused and bewildered as to what to do next, wondering if all that time had been at all worth it.

Somewhere, deep in me, I know it's worth it: all the disruption of routine, the sickness, the exhaustion. If there's anything I know for sure, it's that new life is messy and always hard to birth. Today I'm struggling to be thankful for it, and praying for grace to find me, to remind me that this little bit of sunshine and an afternoon off can sustain me a long way.

A Gift of Disappointment

We found out this morning that Shannon's parents, supposed to arrive in California tomorrow afternoon, will not be making the trip. Her mom is sick, and unable to fly. My first reaction? Extreme disappointment...and a startling realization of just what that disappointment means.

Even two years ago, I wasn't sure Shannon's parents would ever really accept us. Our life, as two women married to each other, is way beyond what they've known in the rural life of North Carolina that has shaped each of them for more than 70 years. They are not now, nor have they ever been, the hate-mongers that seem to capture so much of the media's attention. Instead, they are faithful Christian folks whose world hasn't been as diverse or as broad or as open as mine (and Shannon's) has been able to be. Same-sex attraction - much less marriage - is difficult, at best, to come to terms with in their lives and in their community. Shannon's journey with them as she came out to them over the years has been fraught with misunderstanding, deep pain, and even months and weeks of silence.

And now, in the early months of 2008, we are deeply disappointed they will not be arriving tomorrow - and so are they. Our relationship with them is far from perfect nor is it always simple and comfortable. It is, though, real and honest and loving and steadfast. We know now that we're a part of the family, even when it may not be as ideal as we'd like it to be. Prayer does change us, our collective prayers have changed every one of us into this moment: a moment of disappointment that reveals the extraordinary grace of God evident in the gift of this family.

Writer's Block

November was a long time ago...and just about every day between my last blog post and this very minute, I think about all that I could write. But I don't do it. I find other "more important" or "necessary" things to do, or convince myself that what I really want to write about is too intimate or vulnerable to be posted on a website that is accessible to anyone who happens to stumble across it. But then I do not write at all. And I feel the hole that widens because I have not.

I had the extraordinary opportunity to go on a 5-day (mostly) silent retreat at a wonderful retreat center on the Peninsula, not too far from here, in January. Most of those 5 days, I talked for only 1 hour a day. For one hour each day, I met with a spiritual director. I was most nervous about that particular part of the retreat - could I really, after all, talk to a perfect stranger about my life? Would I honestly be capable of revealing myself to her? Turns out, God's hand was all over the whole experience. My spiritual director was a gift straight from the heart of God for me that week. We talked about many things, one of which was my love for writing and my desire to write more, to find time and make space for regular writing in my life. She had read some of what I had written in my application for the retreat time, and she had me write some that week as well. And she told me that for me not to write was a sin - a word she used rarely. I had a gift, she said, and God intended for me to use it.

Some days I think she's right and I feel the blessing of words that flow and express heart and soul and mind and glimpses of the holy -- other days I'm certain I dreamed the whole thing because how could anything I say be worth reading? No matter what end of that internal argument I inhabit at any given moment, I know that at the heart of my writer's block is fear: fear of vulnerability, fear of sounding stupid, fear of not having anything worth saying after all.

So here's my prayer for tonight, that confronting my fear of vulnerability out here in the wide open world will push through this writer's block, even a little.

The Mushroom Dance

Sunday morning, 9:30 a.m., I still didn't have an ending for the sermon that needed to be delivered at the 10:30 a.m. worship service. And then I had to go and manage a childcare worker issue (as in, one of our workers simply didn't show up - causing panic among the others). I went for a short walk through our campus with two of our young ones, ages 3 1/2 and 6, as I talked through the situation with our childcare coordinator.

The 6-year-old was, as is her custom, running and jumping along the way with the 3 1/2 year-old doing his best to keep up with her. She was insisting that she show us a mushroom she'd found earlier in the morning. I agreed, of course, to see this mushroom - not really paying close attention to her or fully appreciating the excitement that had been caused by this mushroom siting.

We made our way to the plot of grass where this mushroom was growing, and we knelt down in the damp morning-dewed earth to see this small growing thing. And then the 3-year-old found another one, and another and another...and the two of them danced from mushroom to mushroom - laughing and pointing out all the exquisite details that those of us too distracted to notice would never have seen otherwise.

What a world we would be if more of us learned this mushroom dance! How grateful I am for God's presence in these young ones' bodies and hearts and voices, and the chance to listen to the Holy as I was kneeling down in that grass on a Sunday morning.

Holding On

I fall into these holes sometimes. And when I'm there, submerged in the dark, I forget that I've ever been anywhere else. It feels a little like standing on the edge of a cliff in complete darkness. Way down inside my head somewhere I know there should be a bridge that crosses to the other side because I've not actually ever fallen so far that I can't get back up. But for some reason I can't access that knowledge in a way that is at all helpful. And so I fall off the cliff into a hole instead of stepping onto the bridge.
Sometimes I know why, sometimes not. The past two days have been the hardest in a long time. There have been moments in the last 48 hours when I've held on better than others, felt like I was on the bridge instead of at the bottom of the ravine all broken and bleeding and tangled up in the brush. Mostly, though, it's been dark. I haven't been able to write or believe that I can write - even with two sermons to preach tomorrow. My wife is speaking tonight at a regional event and I couldn't even manage to go with her. She's unbelievably kind and supportive, holding me until I can come back to life enough to cry and start letting the water wash away the dark a little bit at a time. And she's the one who suggested I blog today, that maybe I have to write about where I am in the dark to be able to write about anything else - that I have to let God into me before I can be a way for the Spirit to speak. I suspect she's right, as she often is.
And maybe I'm starting to remember that holding on doesn't mean I have to be completely un-broken all at once, that maybe God can use me even when I'm bleeding a little - or a lot.

For Aunt Ann

Ann Dillashaw Botts
March 2, 1942 - October 12, 2007

We are as different from one another as night and day, sometimes, those of us who are a part of the Dillashaw clan. We live all over the United States, and come together once a year at a beach somewhere in the Southeast. Our numbers grow yearly, with spouses and children and grandchildren there are around 60 of us now. We haven’t yet managed to all be at the beach at once, but we come pretty close – there were over 40 of us in Ocean Isle this past summer. Ann Dillashaw Botts has been a central figure among us for all of my life, and I know for longer than my 32 years.
We generally get incredulous looks from others when we talk about this family reunion – that we all want to be together for that long, that we use vacation time and money to get ourselves there because we enjoy being together, all of us. I know now, as an adult, that many other families would never choose this time the way we do. It’s what I’ve always known as family, though – whether we gathered at Grandma’s or Nita’s or the last many years at the beach: We’re important to one another and worth each other’s time and energy. There’s always a whole lot of laughter when we’re together, often tears, always heated discussion about religion and politics and family. Everyone’s perspective is heard and even asked for. People leave the room sometimes in the midst of a difficult, passionate discussion. We’re all very far from perfect and we do hurt each other.
But at the end of day – no matter what has happened or not happened – we all sit down and eat together, every one of us. We hold hands in a big circle around the room, give thanks for each other and the food to be eaten, we pray for those who aren’t able to be with us that week. And then we eat together. In all of that diversity, in all of that passion, even when emotions are running high – it all gets brought to the table together in one body. Somehow, over the years, we’ve figured out that our diversity is our greatest gift. All of that diversity lives together, in all the beauty and brokenness and love that human community and family is about.
That moment, when we’re all in a big circle around the room, the very brief moments it takes for us to all find a hand to hold and get ready to pray is the only time it’s ever quiet. At the center of this family has always been the women. It’s not that my dad and his brother are unimportant – but the passions and voices of their mother and their sisters dominate by sheer numbers alone. Grandmother died several years ago, now, so it’s lately been the five sisters who’ve been the foundation of the family. Some of my earliest memories are of my aunts sitting at one big table or another – all talking at once and somehow all managing to be a part of the 5 or 10 conversations that were taking place. Aunt Ann’s voice was always present, often laughing, always a key part of any conversation.
It’s only been in recent years that I’ve recognized quiet space in the midst of what is generally a pretty loud family. This past summer, in particular, I noticed the quiet spaces within the sisters – my aunts. The absence of Ann’s voice was created a space no one else’s voice could fill. By then, she was no longer able to speak and so her voice was noticeably absent from every conversation. But while her vocal silence was not been voluntary, her sisters, brothers and children, nieces and nephews - all chose to be in this silence with her from time to time. One after another, I would see each of them take turns sitting with her. Sometimes each of the siblings would talk to Ann – who could understand, but not respond – by telling stories or recalling tales of their long lives together. Often, though, there would be a simple, sacred silence as they sat together in the porch swing overlooking the ocean or side by side on the couch.
In all of the heartbreak of Ann’s forced silence, I saw what has always been true: this wild and loud family’s life is grounded in the silence that invites God to be in our midst. Each one of my aunts refuses to let any of us eat until that moment of silence and prayer happens. Even though it may be only a fleeting moment that passes before chaos reigns again, that moment is central to life for each of them, and that core practice of praying before a meal – inviting the Holy One into our midst - now permeates all of our lives. Those quiet moments of prayer and stillness that have been foundational for decades gave the strength and peace – even in profound grief – to be with Ann in her silence, and to know the silence is sacred, that we were sitting with one another surrounded by and infused with the stunning grace of God. Those sacred moments of quiet continue to hold a wildly diverse family together across generations and geography.
When I remember Aunt Ann, I remember her unquenchable spirit, her sparkling smile, her passion for life, her ready laugh, and her unconditional devotion and love for her children and grandchildren – and her sisters, and brothers, and nieces, and nephews, and friends. I’ll remember her on the dance floor, on a night out at the beach, with every man in the place wanting a turn by her side; I’ll think of her deep love for Judy, Tina, Andy, and Kip and their families; I’ll see her face around that great big family table in the center of her sisters and brothers; I’ll hear her voice telling stories of her teenage escapades, and then listening to her laughter as Pat told stories about Ann’s remarkable ability to avoid Claire Dillashaw’s lectures on appropriate behavior for young women; I’ll remember the light in her eyes and the smile on her face as her children and grandchildren surrounded her.
And, I’ll remember the quiet: Ann’s hands holding those beside hers as we gathered in our family circle, her head bowed in prayer, her steady and silent strength that brought her through many heartbreaking challenges and also enabled her to know extraordinary joy. Aunt Ann’s place in our circle was taken from us far too soon and far too cruelly, and I know the grief in that will continue to find us for months and years to come. Until we join her on the other side of God's great embrace, I pray that as we grieve and remember Ann, we may be able to live in the grace and the love her quiet strength and ready laughter always gave to us.