Holding On

Since writing the last post about my boss reading this blog some thoughts have been swirling in my head. I'm not exactly sure how they will come out as written word but I need to give it a go.

I try especially hard to write with honesty. I attempt to be candid and forthright about my life. That is the purpose of this blog for me – a means of expressing myself. A conduit of thought and memory. A chronicle of my journey.

I have thought carefully about exposing myself, my life, my thoughts and my partner to people who would be unkind. I've asked myself why I do this. The answers are diverse – I want to develop my own voice and writing is the only way it will ever emerge. I do this because the world is so impersonal that it seems important to me to put humanness back out there in some form. I do this because writing forces me to pay attention to the world in ways I never have before.

Perhaps the most self-revealing reason I blog? I want to be heard.

Does any of that make me uncomfortable? Not really. I believe that if you don't like what you are reading here you don't have to read.

I'm thinking about these things because of Randy and Teresa. The people who write your paycheck don't usually know that many details of your life. And our lives are so, so different. Their church affiliation is Baptist. They are active in their church and strong in their faith. They are also Republicans. We probably disagree on more things than we can find to agree about.

But they read this. And I'm not sure why.

But the fact that they do speaks powerfully to me.

Earlier this summer Ali and I went on vacation in Wisconsin for my grandparent's funerals. It was a very large family reunion for a week and was great fun. My father was there. Not once – in six full days – did he speak to me. He preached the funerals and said things like, "Life is about relationships," and "We need to keep our hearts open to one another."

There were family members who tried to facilitate the "reconciliation of relationship" and the "keeping of open hearts" for us but there was no moving him. At the end of the week a cousin called to tell me that he had tried very hard but my father was unreceptive. When asked why he refused to acknowledge that I was even there all week my father's reply was, "If I talked to her it might signal that I condone her sexuality and life choices."

He's a Baptist preacher. He's a Republican. We disagree on more things than we can find to agree about. But he's my father. And we're all Christians – although I must admit, because of the lack of love and respect that happens in much of mainstream Christianity, the thread that tethers me to Christianity seems as thin as a breath so many days.

I love God and I'm unashamed to say that. I seek to model Jesus and I'm humble in my fumbling attempts. Of my successes and failures, I am also unashamed. But so much else said and done in the name of Jesus makes me edgy and unsettled.

Why do Randy and Teresa treat me with respect and kindness when their worldview is shaped from the same clay as my father's? I have no answer for that. The only thing I do know is that it's the rare Christian like Randy and Teresa that keep me hanging on.