My Father’s Daughter

always holding hands

holding hands with my mom
it's the way he lived
and the way he passed peacefully
from this world
 
it's weird to know that he's gone
our relationship was
...
let's go with
...
complicated
...
but he was my dad
 
while he wasn't a perfect …
  father
     husband
	grandfather
    	   uncle
		son
     		   brother
			cousin
     			    teacher
				friend
				     neighbour
					follower of Jesus
 
these things I know
 
he loved with his whole heart
as unconditionally as he able
and family,
especially my mom,
meant everything to him
 
he strove to make the world better
for those in need
he taught with every breath
and not just knowledge, compassion too
 
he sought connection
with everyone he encountered
(I used to tease him that he'd have talked to
a fence post if he thought it would've talked back;
he never disagreed.)
 
he created in many forms
from poetry to bread-making
to graphic design to woodworking
 
he trusted and believed in a God who extends
mercy and grace to all
 
I don't think either of us ever liked it
when my mom would tell us we were alike
most often in our
...
let's go with
...
tenacity
(She used to blame that trait ...
though she called it stubbornness ...
on my Dad's side,
but I'd ask if she'd ever met her own mom,
and then we'd laugh;
I'm clearly genetically predisposed.)
 
but the truth is
...
I am my father's daughter

we're different in many ways,
but, also, in many, many ways,
this apple didn't fall far
from the tree
...
and that's not a bad thing

---

My Dad passed away late in the afternoon on April 27, 2020. The picture with this post was taken March 21, 2020. We knew then that his time was coming to an end and he was at peace knowing that my Mom would continue to be well cared for by the amazing staff at the care home where they live.

What does it say?

 what does it say
 when we leave room for
 hate?
  
 when we choose a
 semblance of unity and
 attempt to avoid offence
 rather than speak
 clearly and ensure
 human rights and 
 dignity 
 for all
  
 I know you are trying
 to encourage
 tolerance to 
 make space
 for people who disagree to
 coexist
  
 I know they think they are
 defending a biblical view 
 of marriage
  
 I know we need to protect the
 rights of our indigenous siblings to 
 self-determination

 I also know
 we, the colonial church, are
 responsible for the damage
 done to the Two-Spirit community
 we taught our homophobia
 when we enforced our doctrine and 
 ignored their spirituality and 
 understanding of the Creator
  
 and I know you don't want to 
 break the communion
  
 but the hard truth is this
  
 the communion is 
 already broken
 when some members are
 treated as less
 when parishes and
 deacons and
 priests and 
 bishops and
 archbishops 
 are allowed to 
 exclude from the life of the 
 church
  
 there is no unity in that
  
 it's not just a 
 theological opinion
 it's our lives
 it's human beings
 created in the image of God
 being told we cannot have 
 we do not deserve
 we are not entitled
 to dignity
 to love 
 to respect
 to equality
  
 in a place that is called
 to love 
 as Jesus loves
 extravagantly
 sacrificially
 unconditionally
  
 what does it say
 when we leave room for
 hate?
  
 take a look around
 the world sees what it says
 and God weeps 

---

I’ve had the phrase “what does it say when we leave room for hate?” bouncing around my brain for months. I think it started when I first realized it was likely that the amendment to the marriage canon for the Anglican Church of Canada would not pass and that even if it did (which it hasn’t) it would still leave open the option for bishops and diocese and priests to opt out.

This is not a matter of theological conscience.  It is, and always has been, a human rights issue.

The image shared with this post is a modified version of the Equally Anglican logo that was created (I’m not sure by whom) in response to the failure of the amendment to the marriage canon on Friday evening as a result of receiving less than 2/3 support in the House of Bishops. The orders of laity and clergy were overwhelmingly in support.

This is also shared with gratitude to the youth delegates at Synod who have reminded me by their example of the need to speak clearly of what I know to be truth.

Maundy Thursday

There are only a few minutes left before this day is over, but I realized this evening that it’s time to share something I wrote last year on Maundy Thursday.

Even a few weeks ago, I didn’t think I’d ever share this poem. It still sat too close to my heart. In some ways, sharing this poem is also a coming out. Not that I’m queer. I think I’ve already made that clear.

I am a person of faith. For my world to make sense and my life to feel like it actually fits who I am in my innermost being, I am queer and I am a person of faith.

Maundy Thursday last year was when I knew that I could no longer just be one of those things. I had to accept all of the parts of who I am.

Saturday night, I am being confirmed in the Anglican Church of Canada, because that is the place where I have found a home and a community of faith that affirms and celebrates all of who I am.

To Patrick, Alastair, Bill, Gillian, Kevin and all of my church family at St. John the Divine (there are too many to name, but Michael and Paul get special mention since they convinced me to come to last year’s Maundy Thursday potluck and service), there really aren’t enough words to say thank you for welcoming me and helping me find my way back home. Instead I share the words I wrote last year on Maundy Thursday.

Maundy Thursday at St. John the Divine

The altar stripped bare
each piece carefully and thoughtfully removed
layers peeled away
harsh, barren surfaces
and yet ...

The light dimmed
The sanctuary in near darkness
and yet ...

I cannot look away
I long to stand up
to walk out the door
to return to the life
I'd chosen away from
all of this
and yet ...

As my soul is stripped bare
tears of anger and bitterness
of regret and heartbreak
stream slowly down my cheeks
and yet ...

I cannot look away
I long to stay and never leave
this moment
and yet ...

I've never felt so broken
and yet so completely whole
so lost beyond hope
and yet so relentlessly found
so without a single word to speak
and yet so full of truth undeniable

 

Cookies and so much more

I baked cookies tonight.

I like baking and cookies are quick and easy.

These cookies are going to the Out of the Rain program so that there are homemade cookies when the youth arrive.

Normally that would lead to an extra happy baking feeling, but not tonight.

Before I started baking, I got a message that an old work friend died unexpectedly the other day. She’s older than me, but not by much. We’re close enough in age that it definitely gives me pause.

So there’s that, but while we worked together for three years, I haven’t seen her since 2008 and we’ve only kept in very occasional touch via facebook. I figured baking would feel therapeutic and life-giving, it didn’t. Not like it usually does.

When I started to tidy up, I found myself staring at the recipe card.

It’s in my mom’s very distinctive handwriting.

She wrote out the recipe for me many years ago. I was living away from home at university, and she decided to start a recipe box for me with all of the family favourites from her recipe box. She wrote out recipes of all sorts, but there are definitely a lot of cookie recipes.

I couldn’t possibly try to count the number of hours I’ve spent baking cookies with my mom. If you tried to count the number of cookies we’ve made together it would easily be in the thousands.

That might seem unlikely if your mom was the sort who only made a couple of dozen cookies at any one time. But that’s not how my mom baked.

She didn’t believe it was worth dirtying the mixer if she wasn’t at least making 6 dozen cookies of one type. Doubling or tripling a batch was standard. The chances that she was only making one type of cookies? Almost non-existent.

I can remember covering most of a large kitchen table with paper towel (my mom’s preferred method for where the cooling cookies went) and soon the table would be filled with cookies.

She had the biggest cookie sheets. Three dozen cookies on each sheet. With three of those sheets, we would just keep rotating them through. Sheet after sheet of cookies.

If it was Christmas or she was baking for something at the church, there would be hundreds of cookies. All magically appearing from the oven over the course of a morning or afternoon.

My brother would arrive as the trays started coming out of the oven. He could demolish a lot of cookies very quickly.

I was there, doing whatever task I could do depending on my age. Measuring. Mixing things. Putting cookie dough on the trays. Setting the timer. Putting the warm cookies out onto the table to cool. Filling cookies tins. So many cookie tins, filled with so many cookies.

My mom (and my grandma too) taught me to love baking and to love what that baking symbolized. Sharing what we had. Investing time to make something delicious. Love expressed in very tangible ways.

Unlike my grandma who died twenty years ago, my mom isn’t physically gone, but advanced dementia means she’s gone in other ways …

We can’t bake cookies together anymore.

We can’t talk and share what’s going on in our worlds.

I could tell her about my friend who died, but she wouldn’t understand, she couldn’t share her wisdom, and she can’t hug me like she used to.

That might be the thing the I miss most.

But at least I can make her cookies and carry on her traditions.

Triple batch of cookies complete.

Goodbye GLBG (Good Little Baptist Girl)

once upon a time I knew

Child of God

Created in His image

Christian

Believer

 

or at least

I acted like I knew

 

I did believe

I wanted to believe

I was scared if I didn’t believe

 

The GLBG

“Good Little Baptist Girl”

was what I knew

all I knew how to be

all I thought

I should be

 

but The GLBG

was always afraid

what if someone finds out?

 

what if someone realizes

The GLBG doesn’t

read her Bible

or pray

everyday

or even

every week

 

what if someone discovers

The GLBG would rather do

anything other than

pray out loud

in a group

 

what if someone discerns

The GLBG doesn’t believe quite

as hard as they do

or that the GLBG can’t

just take it on faith

because the bible

or the church

or the pastor

says it is so

 

The GLBG always knew

if she were known

she would be cast out

adrift

cut off

unwanted

unloved

because she was never

enough

 

Not good enough

Not spiritual enough

Not … something she didn’t even have words for …

enough

 

The GLBG knew if anyone

God included

looked deep enough

she would be found out

 

The GLBG hung on to faith

for as long as she could

she hid her GLBG heritage

and tried to live into

the faith she claimed

with freedom

and compassion

and grace

 

but eventually

she failed

 

even freedom

compassion

and grace are not enough

when you don’t actually believe

they could ever apply

to you

 

so I left

I wandered

I explored

I listened

 

eventually

I found words

for what was deep inside

 

I cried

I raged

I hated

I loved

I listened some more

 

The GLBG

slipped away

I learned

not to be afraid

not to hide

 

Goodbye GLBG

I don’t need you anymore

I am enough

 

unexpectedly

my path wandered back

I didn’t plan it

I tried to avoid it

but I found myself

at home in a church

where I am not afraid

where I hear words from the pulpit

that assure me of

unconditional love

grace

acceptance

as I am

 

a queer person

of faith

who doesn’t really know

what she believes

but does know

that if god

by whatever name you call

is to be found

they

 

(singular or plural

you choose

but definitely

non-gender specific)

 

they will be found

in the depths

in the darkness

in the margins

in the hopeless

in the lost

in the wanderers

---

This post is my entry in this year’s Queer Theology Synchroblog on the theme of “Identity”.