out

(note:  Some of you may have mixed feelings about what you're about to read.  I understand that.  At one time I had mixed feelings and I was living it. For too long the extremists have been getting all the sound bytes.  My conscious - and my love for my family - does not allow me to be silent any longer.)

Last month, not long after my surgery, I found this article on Facebook:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/john-pavlovitz/if-i-have-gay-children-fo_b_5869298.html

It's an issue that's been needling me for quite some time.  Because...both of our kids are gay.  Yep.  Both of 'em.  I've asked for their permission (and Ron's) to "out" us as a family and they've read what you're going to read.  So we're all on board with this.

But...that wasn't always the case.  Twelve years ago, when Kate came out, I was in a very different place.  I had spent the previous six years deeply immersed in our church, working on staff as a communications coordinator, was involved with Bible Study Fellowship (was even a discussion leader for a couple of years) and had pretty much come to accept the cliched "love the sinner, not the sin" way of thinking.  Ron's oldest brother, Richard, was a gay man living with AIDS in San Francisco, so we'd had some exposure to that community.  But California was far, far away...not in our own back yard.  Yet.

So when we found out about Kate, I was mad.  Mad, mad, mad.  Mad because of the way the events unfolded.  Mad because Ron and I had asked her many, many times about her sexual orientation and she'd always claimed she was straight.  And I was mad because it made me question all the things I'd been learning and taking to heart.  I wasn't so much mad at Kate as I was the circumstances that came long with it.

For the first few years I was able to push the whole thing to the back burner.  We were having a somewhat difficult relationship with Kate, so it was easy not to think about it very much.  She lived out of town, so we didn't see her that often.  And I didn't really talk about it very much with my friends because I didn't know what to say.  Was I being hypocritical, having a gay daughter and still being an active leader in the church?  I know, it may sound ludicrous, but I've never claimed to have a rational brain.

Then came Tyler.  By then I had come to strongly feel that genetic factors determine sexual orientation.  I didn't (and don't) believe it is a choice.  And, because of the family history, Ron and I had talked to Tyler about it on numerous occasions.  He, like Kate, denied it.  But then one summer when he was home from college (I think it was after his sophomore year), he and I were sitting on the couch and I asked him again.  He looked at me and asked, "Why is it important for you to know?"

Right then I knew. And he knew that I knew.  I held him in my arms as he sobbed and sobbed and sobbed.  He apologized over and over again.  He said that he'd been praying since he was ten or so that God would change him and it hadn't happened.

My heart broke in a thousand pieces in those moments.  For Tyler.  For Kate.

For all the young men and women who are frightened to be gay.  For all the kids who can't tell their parents.  Who have heard the words of loud, angry, scared, ignorant people who have no comprehension how deeply their words of contempt and scorn can wound a soul.  For the thousands of young gay men and women who don't have a clue how to navigate this potentially dangerous road they're on.

My heart broke for the parents of these kids, who may have been as hapless as we were about how to digest it all.

My heart broke because of the role I had played in our kids' reluctance to tell us who they were/are.  I know a large part of Tyler's hesitation was our initial reaction to Kate's experience.  And even though I don't think Ron or I ever talked negatively about homosexuals, that the lifestyle was "bad" was implied.

Most of all, my heart broke for the years and years Tyler thought God had abandoned him.  I can't begin to imagine how lonely and painful that must have been.

I remember Tyler saying, during that first conversation, that he wasn't going to "act" on it.  And I found myself saying, "You deserve to be loved and to love.  You have a right to have a loving relationship.  To have kids."

I also remember thinking - as the words were coming out of my mouth - "What am I saying??"  In my mind, I'd never allowed myself to go there because - well - it hadn't ever come up.  But right then - in that moment - I believed what I was saying.

Because now...it WAS in my back yard.

next time...part two...

percolating

My mind has been running circles as I try to wrap my head around my heartstrings as of late...more to come this week. I know this probably doesn't qualify as a post, but I wanted to let you know I'm still around...

the randomness of my thought process

first published 2008ish...

One night last week Ron and I were channel surfing and paused on a channel that was televising a game of high stakes poker.   Now, for the life of me, I've never been able to figure poker out.  Too many kinds of hands...royal flush, straight, full house.  Also, too much brain calculation required.  If I ever played poker I'd have to have sunglasses that hide my whole face because I'm sure I'd stick out my tongue or spit or say something entirely inappropriate if I was dealt a bad hand.  That's assuming I would even know I'd been dealt a bad hand.

Anyway, Ron says, "Oh, he's got wired nines."  Once again, as has happened more times than I can even begin to count over the last 27 years, my jaw dropped open and I stared at him, dumbfounded.

"Wired whats?" I asked.  "How in the heck do you know that?"  He shrugged and gave me his "Betty" face (so named for his mother, who would provide an answer to any question she was ever asked, whether it was true or not).  "Oh, I don't know.  I just do."

Later in the evening a commercial came on [this was obviously prior to my DVR addiction] and I said, "That font is 'Afternoon delight.'"  How pathetic is that?  I can now identify fonts on sight.  Again, enough of the useless information already!  I lamented to Ron that at least his poker knowledge could potentially win him a million dollars.  My "fontabulary" has no value whatsoever.  Unless there was a game called "Name That Font."

"Pat, I can name that font in one letter."

"Janet, name that font."  Does anyone even remember "Name That Tune?"

Changing gears...the other night Tyler found his "Identi-Kid" card [which I carry in my wallet to this day] from 2001.  It was downright hysterical.  He was 12 and he only weighed 85 pounds.  Then I remembered a conversation I had with Jessica (my beautiful boss lady) about her stepson, Brogan.  She had a booster seat in her car and when I asked her about it she told me that KS safety laws require booster seats for all kids under 100 pounds.

So it got even more hysterical when I told Tyler he should have been in a booster seat.  We laughed our heinies off.

Finally, Ron listens to NPR quite a bit and there's this segment called "Star Date."  It unfailingly sends me to the moon (ha) because it illustrates how much money (and you know it has to be a ton of moolah) is being spent acquiring knowledge which has no practical purpose...like what's inside a star.

Show of hands...how many of you care what's inside a star?  Has anyone successfully lassoed one and performed a star autopsy?  Nah, I didn't think so.

Now, is someone was to discover that stars are full of chocolate mousse...well, that's another story entirely.

Gimme a spoon.

the other man in my life

No, I am not "stepping out" on Ron. (Fans of "Serial" will no doubt automatically hear the voice of Christina Guittierez.  For those folks who've never heard of "Serial," well, never mind).

The other man is, no surprise, my dad.  Every time I see him, I notice him slipping a little further away, and I guess I'm desperately trying to sear my memories of him into my being.  For me, that means I write.

Dad was born in 1928, just a few years before The Great Depression.  The youngest of fourteen (no, that's not a typo), dad knew first-hand the struggles millions of people faced during those barren years.  His dad was out of the picture by the time he was eight, so his mom took on the role of single parent,and, as far as I know, she never had a job!  Dad's older brothers and sisters sent home money when they could, many of their jobs coming from various New Deal programs started by FDR.

Dad tells stories of putting cardboard in his shoes to patch the holes, of preaching to out-of-work men in the city park (a foreshadowing of a future career) and then passing a collection plate when he was done (one of his older brothers made him return every penny), of collecting boxes in exchange for a few pennies.  I love these stories and never tire of hearing them...they add a depth and richness to my dad's character.

By 1950, he had graduated from college, gotten married to my mom and was ordained as a minister in the Disciples of Christ church.  Upon graduating seminary (I'm not sure why he was ordained before seminary; I asked him about that and he didn't know either...) he was hired as the pastor of the First Christian Church in Fayetteville, Arkansas.  And he was almost fired because he extended membership to an African American woman.  This was in the mid-1950's, not long before the desegregation in Little Rock.  Even in his twenties he was meting out the principles that would shape his beliefs for the rest of his life.

By the time I arrived mom and dad had moved to Marshall, my own personal version of "The Wonder Years."  I remember, as a little girl, singing the old hymn "This Is My Father's World" and thinking I was singing about my dad.  He was, after all, the guy in the black robe up front that everyone was listening to.

About that same time, I remember being terrified of robbers.  One of my classmates, during Show and Tell, related that the town bowling alley had been robbed.  Not long after that, we went to Silver Dollar City and during a train ride, masked men boarded the tram and "held up" passengers.  I began having night terrors, wouldn't sleep alone etc.  I remember my dad taking me on walks through our neighborhood at night, me in my pjs, trying to show me that there wasn't anything to be afraid of.  Afterwards we'd have orange juice, a real treat...until my mom suggested that he was making it too much fun!

Eventually the trauma subsided, but I'll never forget those late night travels with my dad and the patience and concern he showed.

In the mid-1960's, dad decided to pursue a new career in politics and ran for State Representative. Eventually, he went back to school to get his Masters and PhD in political science. He then served eight year as Missouri's State Treasurer and ran for Governor in 1980, the only election he ever lost. He was the president of two colleges and worked as the head of the Disciples of Christ's Division of Higher Education before retiring. I know I'm biased, but that's quite an impressive resume!

Throughout his life, my dad has remained true to his humble beginnings, always teaching me to be patient, kind and honest.

I'm still learning. And I still have a great teacher.

who did that?

My granddad worked for "the company" for fifty years, retiring in the mid-sixties.  "The company" was Southwestern Bell and he and my grandmother celebrated his retirement with a trip to Hawaii, quite the status symbol back in the day.

As I watch the fast-paced evolution of communication continue at warp speed, I can't help but wonder what my no-nonsense, Norwegian grandfather would have to say about it all.  Probably something like, "Now, be careful with that.  It is not a toy."

But really, isn't it more a toy now?  I mean, communicating with someone through speech is its most basic function, but no one buys a smart phone to talk on it, right?  That's so 2000.  Today's phones are used for everything from getting driving directions to answering trivia questions to charting a woman's ovulation cycle.  I can't begin to imagine what granddad would have to say about that.

Well, wait.  He wouldn't say a thing about it because I would never volunteer that kind of information to him.  He's my granddad, for Pete's sake.  AND, he's Norwegian!

Once I start down this rabbit hole of contemplating the vast mysteries of science that cause my teensy weensy brain great pain and suffering, I ease the discomfort by trying to focus less on technological aspects of our culture and more on stuff like this...

Who was the first person to shake a coconut and, upon hearing some sloshiness, thought it would be a grand idea to mash it open with a rock and then take a swig or two?

Who figured out that nasty, bitter cocoa pods could be smushed around and transformed into the loveliness we enjoy today?  Oh, I know it was the Mayans or Aztecs, but who was the FIRST person to figure it out?

Who figured out you could take the goop out of a pumpkin and bake what's left and make a pie?  Who figured out how to make a flaky crust?  Who figured out that cinnamon and cloves could give some zing to said pie?  And don't get smart and say "Betty Crocker."

As you can see, the list of these firsts is infinite.  And did you notice they're all food related?  That's just my brain being weird, which I warned you about yesterday.

To take these queries a bit further, because, let's face it, I'm not doing anything very productive these days and I can only watch so many YouTube videos at a time...

You gotta know that some of these taste tests had to go very wrong.  For every yummy discovery there had to be a couple of "hmm, a bit on the salty side, oh wait...cough...cough...gasp...um, having a bit of trouble over here...wheeze...gasp...oh, dear me."  Thwump.

Do you suppose they had designated taste testers?  Perhaps instead of capital punishment you had to do three months of berry tasting.

Not a bad idea.

this guy, post script + some other random stuff

I totally forgot to mention one of the best things Ron has been doing for me...making my bed.

I'm sure I've mentioned this before, but I can count on one hand the number of times I've not made my bed in the last fifty or so years.  I cannot fathom getting into an unmade bed.  It's like fingernails on a chalkboard.  Gives me the willies.

Every morning my bed looks like a major military campaign has been waged during the nighttime hours.  Covers strewn about, pillows tossed hither and yon.  Remote controls either on the floor or MIA under the bed.  By the time I've done my morning toilette, Ron has righted the ship and made it PT certified.  And he does it several times each day.

If I could figure out how to clone his skills set, we'd be sittin' pretty somewhere warm with fruity cocktails.  Ok, Ron's would be Scotch, but you get the picture.

Speaking of getting the picture...

When Ron and I were in the "honeymoon" phase of this caregiving role reversal subplot in our marriage, one thing became very clear to me.  I have a very weird brain.  This is not a huge revelation to anyone who knows me, but seeing this particular situation play out made me face the grim reality of being a weird brainer.

It started out innocently enough.  I was getting dressed, with Ron's assistance, and I was trying to decide which top to put on.  Here's the gist of the conversation...words in () are my thoughts...

Me: Can you bring me my purple Estes Park t-shirt (oh, wait, that's a little too tight). No, wait.   (Which one will be most comfortable?).  Bring me the gray one.

Ron: this one?

Me: no, the one that's kind of a turtleneck, but not really.

Silence.

Ron: is this it?

Me: no.  Wait.  (That other one isn't warm enough.) Just bring me my Kanakuk sweatshirt.

If I was playing this little scenario by myself, it would have been resolved in, say, ten seconds.  But bringing in Ron (or anyone, for that matter) took a good three minutes!  And not a small amount of exasperation.

In a slightly raised voice, as he looked at me with a "you have GOT to be kidding me" stare, I said, "Now you have an idea what goes on in my brain every single minute of every single day."

He quietly handed me my sweatshirt, still looking into my eyes.  I stared back.

Was that pity I saw?

Or fear?

this guy

Up until now, Ron's had the corner on the market when it comes to TLC...two knee replacements, two shoulder surgeries.  I happily donned my Florence Nightengale uniform and puttered and hovered and futzed, plumped pillows, and adjusted blankets.  Anything to make him as comfortable as possible.

I was in my element.

Now, I don't want to negate the major strides women have made in the past few decades (still some issues to be addressed, thank you, Patricia Arquette), but women are innately wired to be caregivers.  Men, on the other hand, are innately wired to fix things with their hands and gather firewood.  That's why women have wombs and men have tougher skin.  I know these are stereotypes and generalizations, but for this particular musing, just amuse me and don't judge me too harshly.

So, it was with some trepidation that I approached Ron about taking off two weeks to help me in my recovery.  I may or may not have said three or four times that I took off FIVE weeks to nurse him back to health on his first knee surgery.  It might have been as many as eight or nine.  Trust me, a good dose of guilt or "you owe me" attitude can go miles in getting what you want.

One of the things you need to know about this man o' mine is that he cannot sit still.  If he does, he falls asleep.  Boom.  He's also a projectaholic.  He's usually got a couple of things in various stages of completion in the garage and another dozen or so floating around his Temple Grandin mind (he totally sees things in pictures in his brain like the fascinating Ms. Grandin).

So when he responded to my request with, "I'll do whatever you need," I just kind of stared at him.  There was probably an arched eyebrow involved as well.  "Do you have any idea what this will involve?" I wondered, silently.

After two weeks, I can pretty safely answer, "No, he did not."

He did his best. He tended to my every need...but, let's face it ladies...there are some things a girl's gotta do herself, no matter the circumstances. He loved me, he encouraged me, he made sure I was as comfortable as possible. He set the alarm at night to come give me my pain meds and refill my cooler with ice every four hours.
But, bless his heart...it wasn't easy for him.  Which makes it all the more dear to me.  Ron Martin, you are my best friend, my helpmate and the one I want to grow old with.

But for now, get the heck outta here.  You're driving me a wee bit batty.

And just like that the color returns to his face, his shoulders straighten and he's out the door before I've finished typing "batty."

"I love you, too!"