Oh hai blog. Long time no write. It's only been like a year...or more. No big deal. I don't mean to dismiss your feelings and all but, as you might know, life tends to happen. So anyway, I thought, in an effort to get back into this semi-regular writing thing I'd do more writing. Ha ha, writing thing...do more writing...ehhhh. Let's not make this any more awkward than we need to.
This past year has been a lesson in remembering to be who I am, without pretense or false tense or past tense or future tense. When my son Rhys was born last year it was a stark reminder of the importance of being present. At 23 weeks and 5 days, I was never under any delusions that his life would be anything more than a short abbreviated version of all the hopes and dreams his mother and I had carried with us for the past 6 months. In the days and weeks and months to come I never figured out how to respond when someone said, "You'll be with him again someday in heaven," or some other similar sentiment. Usually I didn't say anything. Occasionally I'd offer something approximating a smile, the kind that doesn't quite reach the corners of your mouth. Those moments were reminders of feelings I've carried for years and buried, the kind that remind me I've felt like an intruder upon a faith practice and spirituality that hadn't felt honest or authentic for years.
It was an odd experience sitting in theology class in seminary and having to hide aspects of my own spiritual experience because they weren't fitting the mold. Even in seminary, a place where there is ample room for ideas and theological concepts, I never felt safe offering my honest thoughts and feelings . I still remember responses from a professor on a rough draft of a statement of faith that invited me to revise because my conception of god was too distant. The message I got was, "You don't sound very Christian," and the truth was I wasn't. I hadn't been for some time. I'd been spending plenty of time and effort shoehorning certain beliefs into appropriate sounding Christianese out of some misplaced sense of duty to a faith I'd grown up in, a faith that helped shape the person I am today. How do I say goodbye to that? How do I part ways with something that has had a positive and important impact on my life?
Rhys was never able to thrive, he never had the chance to tread water. He required a lot of help-extraordinary help-that couldn't do much about the fact that he just wasn't ready to be on his own in this world. In those hours Kelly and I spent helplessly watching I was reminded of a number of people I've had the privilege of knowing and stories I've heard of others who never got that chance either. Whether because of a culture that fears difference or wounds that festered and never healed those stories are important. By virtue of the fact that we are human beings, those stories mean something. What my son reminded me of in his all too brief 12 hours of life was that everyone has the right to live their life fully, completely, openly and honestly. He reminded me that it's not enough to be tolerant, it's not enough to tread water. He reminded me that, as much as I try to be an advocate for others to be fully, completely and authentically themselves, I've not been much of an advocate for myself to do the same thing. As we prepare to welcome our next child into the world I want to be able to show him that being who you are is important and life-giving. I want her to see that and not just hear that.
So, little one, whoever you are, whoever you become, know that your Taoist father only wants you to be who you are and hopes you never feel like you have to be something you're not. You can thank your big brother for that.
