What You Can Do

In 2007, I was part of an AmeriCorps program in which we traveled around the country trying to make a difference.  We spent a whole lot of time together - training, working, traveling, hanging out - and soon enough we became a bizarre yet tight knit group (see entry below, explanation of "the Moment").  There is no way to describe how 100 people can develop such an intense feeling of community over such a relatively short period of time. But through crazy adventures, crazy drama, and lots and sweat and tears, we became family, and we got each other through 9 months of beautiful insanity.

It's been over two years since the program ended, and many of us have not seen each other since.  I myself am notoriously bad at staying in touch with even close friends, and 100 people is a lot of close friends to keep track of.  Still, occasionally I check in with (read: stalk) my AmeriCorps family on Facebook, which I suppose makes it appropriate that Facebook is how I heard the news of one of the other program members passing last Monday.

A lot of us heard that way, actually.  Shock, fear, confusion, and grief exploded outward across walls, status updates, texts and messages to one another.  How could this happen?  Is this for real?  Could we have done anything?  What if something, anything had been different?

Why him?


Grief is a mysterious, terrible process, and we are still wading through these and many more questions.  I suppose if there is any silver lining to be associated with this blackest of all clouds, it is the re-manifestation of love and connection between those of us who knew him and who now need one another's support to make it through these days.

The world is darker without our friend.  But his passing has reminded us of the light we have remaining in each other.

I should say here that I cannot and would not speak for all of the others affected directly by this news.  I should say that silver lining is where I am at least finding my own comfort in this moment, along with warm memories of his humor, kindness, openness, and inimitable hair.

Additionally, this blog is about my experience with another traveling project, which at this point hasn't even really started, and upon which this friend never commented.  But I am telling these stories in this particular forum for a very simple reason:

All we have is each other, you guys.  That's what AmeriCorps was about, that's what this Ride is about, and ultimately that's what family is about.  Life, however long - or short - is never easy, and is often filled with pain, fear, and isolation.  We have to do whatever we can to make it better for one another.  We will sometimes, probably often, fail at this, but we have to try.  We just have to.


Those of you who are taken to doing such things:  sending love and prayers to him, his family, and those closest to him will mean so much.  Additionally, his family has requested that donations in his memory go to the Red Cross.  Considering how much time we all spent in the Gulf addressing hurricane aftermath, and how much work the Red Cross is now doing addressing earthquake aftermath, I believe that any gift would have been meaningful to him.

Beyond that, volunteer somewhere.  Give charitably.  Vote.  Stand up and speak out for justice every chance you get.  And go tell someone you love them today.  Completely, unconditionally, honestly, and openly.  It's okay if you haven't talked to them in awhile.  Because family is still family, and that is what we can do to help each other through.

Bridges Burnt, Briges Built

If you asked me in casual conversation why I'm going on the Equality Ride, I'd probably tell you any number of true things: that Christians need to be shown the true consequences of their beliefs; that real people are really suffering every day from not being able to talk about this stuff; that it's an amazing opportunity to be proactive in the fight for LGBTQ equality and acceptance.  I might even say that it will be a good story to tell the grandchildren one day.  I'd say it, and I'd mean it.
But there's more than that, of course.

Really it comes down to this: I love Jesus.  Like, a whole lot.  He's angry, and messy, and compassionate, and vulnerable.  He really puts it on the line for folks on the outskirts, for people who know what real pain is.  He does everything he can to help them know they are normal, and that they are loved, and that they are going to be okay.  He's got something quieting and calming that radiates from him that the rest of us find elusive in ourselves. And he connects people to each other in this bizarre, irrational, beautiful way, as if he sees life like some great romantic comedy with actual depth.  He builds bridges.

I have always thought Jesus was awesome.  From the time when I was a very small child, barely old enough to even know who he was, I have loved Jesus.  He was my very best friend.

Here's an example of how Jesus was my best friend: When I was about twelve years old, I took over my older brother's neighborhood paper route (this was way back in the days when kids could still have paper routes).  My parents thought our neighborhood was safe and we were lucky enough for that to be true, but that truth didn't stop me from being scared while riding around the pitch-black streets by myself at five o'clock in the morning, approaching strangers' doorsteps.

So, when those morning shadows moved just a little bit too strangely for a twelve-year-old boy to know what to do with, I comforted myself the best way I knew how:  I sang songs I learned at Bible camp.  Songs about following Jesus, and knowing he was there for you, and believing no matter what.  You know what?  I felt better.  And eventually, despite my adolescent body screaming at my insistence at waking it so early, those mornings alone with me and Jesus became the most peaceful part of every day.

Jesus did that for me.  He turned my fear into peace.

Then I got a little older and started to realize I was different from other people, that I was gay - and those strange morning shadows came back to life as a fear of others responding to my true self with rejection.  When I came out and those fears proved to be prescient, I could certainly not have been blamed for beginning to feel differently about Jesus.

But for whatever reason, that never happened.  Not when my Christian friends said gay jokes in high school, not when my college friends prayed earnestly for "those homosexuals" to be healed, not when I lost friends who just couldn't understand, not when my church suggested I find another place to worship, not when my family couldn't talk to me, not when I messed up in some really big ways and thought he couldn't possibly want me anymore.  I had a lot of fear as all this was happening, as all my bridges were burning.  Yet throughout it all, Jesus was there for me, a still, small voice turning my fear into peace.  And so I made it through.

Which is not to say I am not still afraid.  Like the child whose burns taught him not to touch the flame, I will probably always be afraid of church, and Christians, and the Bible, and anybody else telling me who I am or who God is or what is best for me.  I don't think you can unlearn fear.  Just overcome it.

And so while I may say that I am going on this journey because there are people out there who are hurting and alone, and because there is a lot of education that needs to happen, and because it will be an amazing road trip, and all of those are partly true, my main reasons are much simpler, and much more selfish.  I am going on the Equality Ride because I need peace.  It will probably be pretty messy sometimes.  But I am choosing to believe Jesus will be there for me, no matter how the shadows may move