A Letter to Myself
Recently, the “Don’t Say Gay” bill passed in Florida. I grew up in a context where “Don’t Say Gay” was the prevailing attitude. Other than a few disparaging comments made about “homosexuality”, the story of Sodom and Gomorrah and the AIDS crisis, the LGBTQ community was barely mentioned. It was that utter lack of presence that communicated volumes to me about who the LGBTQ community is and whether it would be acceptable for me to belong to it. Even though no one overtly told me I could not be gay, I knew it would be a deeply shameful thing for me to even consider that.
When I was in college, I finally gathered the courage to talk about my attraction to women. Again, the “Don’t Say Gay” sentiment rang out loudly in my friend’s haste to dismiss my experience and change the subject. The inability to talk about what I was experiencing only deepened my confusion and that confusion spiraled into hurt that went far beyond me.
Today, I am angry that those in power create laws out of their own discomfort and fear and that those laws lead to dangerous outcomes for our young LGBTQ siblings. I hurt for those who have experienced similar pain and those that will because of these laws that perpetuate fear.
When I was in the process of declaring that I am indeed gay, I wrote a lot as a way of processing the pain caused by those who could not accept me. A hallmark theme of my story is the way I was unable to fully understand myself because of the absence of an LGBTQ presence in my life and the unspoken rule that no one should talk about being LGBTQ. This piece is born out of that experience.
Hello old friend,
Here we are 20 years down the road. Can you believe it?! 40 seemed so old back then. The idea of being here seemed almost like a dream. And yet, here we are, rapidly approaching that ripe old age with all of its sage wisdom that comes from the twists and turns each of our lives have taken. We are vastly different people now. Different from who we each were back then and so very different from each other now. Those differences have created a chasm between us. What was once treasured lengthy email updates from overseas is now a very sparse “like” on Facebook. I miss that connection we once shared.
I've been thinking a lot about you and our time together in college. Do you remember that day, in our weekly accountability partner meeting? We sat together in your dorm room in that sacred space we had created to gather with each other. A place to share our struggles and our humanity.
A place to be known and loved as The One, The Source loves us and to be transformed by that love. That day, I was particularly anxious as I struggled to find my words. You sat and listened patiently while I gathered the courage to finally eek out my scared confession. Even now, as I remember that day, my stomach is filled with a flurry of butterflies. “I... I think..... I think I might be gay” I spit out and immediately regretted it. You quickly told me that everyone has those kinds of thoughts, I'm probably not gay, that I should pray about it and it would go away. Then, you changed the subject.
Pray about it and it will go away. Those words still ring in my head as if it were yesterday, though I suspect they have been long forgotten on your end. In all honesty, that was the response we both needed at the time. You were visibly uncomfortable, and likely didn't know how to respond to such a confession. I was terrified of the consequences of my confession and was secretly giving thanks that I had not burst into flames on the spot. But you were a leader and I respected you as such. And so, your words carried weight. And I took them to heart.
You might be wondering why I am bringing this up now. I have wondered the same. It seems as if there are bigger issues to worry about right now. However, this is precisely why I feel the need to share this with you. Because, as a guy named Jesus once said, the only way the world can be changed is when we begin to see the “other” as our neighbor. It is through this act of empathetic understanding that we share that transformational love we have received from The Source of all love. So, even though you haven't asked, I want to share with you the impact you have had. Because it matters that you know. And, because you have even more leadership responsibilities now and your influence carries even more weight in the world.
When it all came crashing down, and the life I had built with a wonderful man was over, I thought of you. When my husband's ego was devastated by the pretense of being straight that I had built on prayer, I thought of you as I grieved this with him. During the excruciating days, weeks, months and years of sitting with the damage my desire to fulfill God's will had caused – had caused me, him, my family, his family and our friends – I thought of you. Because, you see, there was a deep ripple effect in that simple line of advice. And this is what I really want you to know. In that moment of dismissing my experience instead of seeking to understand it, you impacted more than just me.
I don't regret the path I took. The time I shared with him will always be one of the experiences for which I am most grateful to have had in this life. And, perhaps I was spared from an even more painful path. There's no way to know. But I deeply regret the pain I caused. By this point, you had distanced yourself from me and sat comfortably in the unchallenged space of being surrounded by those who shared and affirmed your way of experiencing the world. But I and those I loved were wading through the worst hell of our lives that was, in part, built on your words.
I don't mean to imply that you are the sole cause of all this, or even that you share in the majority of the responsibility. I made my choice to accept your advice out of fear, shame and a genuine desire to honor God. And this message was reinforced countless times in unspoken ways. But you were the first and only person to say it explicitly to me, along with the unspoken communication of fear and shame. It was that conversation and the advice you gave me that day that firmly set me upon a path that went as it did.
At that tender age of 20 there was no way either of us could have anticipated what would unfold. We both made the choices we genuinely believed were best, and I hold a fair amount of grace in my heart for that truth. However, we are not naive 20 year old’s anymore. And you have taken on the responsibility of shaping the journey of souls. So, this is my hope:
My hope is that you have grown to be able to hold space for experiences you don't understand, because not everyone who comes across your path will fit neatly into your paradigm of life. That doesn't make them wrong or bad. It's an opportunity to experience God in a deeper way.
My hope is that you are a safe space for those who are scared for their souls, just as I was 20 years ago. That you can approach their fear with curiosity, that you can honor the sacred trust they have placed in you to speak love into their lives and connect them to the source of Love.
My hope is that you have come to honor both the Bible and the souls of those who are LGBTQ by digging deep into what it means to be LGBTQ and Christian. That you have learned to lean into the questions and experiences of LGBTQ Christians and to know that doing so does not diminish your faith – it makes it stronger.
My hope is that one day I will speak all of who I am and that you will respond with a resounding “Yes!” My hope is that one day we can connect again and that we can both be fully seen, known and loved without condition: the kind of Love Jesus models for us.
Until then,