ON BEING CHRISTIAN

Yesterday a young woman at work expressed her surprise to hear me mention God.

"I just never took you for a Christian," she stated.

We don't know each other very well. She is nineteen and full of the rowdy faith of the untested. A rookie in life's game. She talks a lot, and listens rarely, and we encounter each other only in passing.

I did not take offense to her comment, but I did take exception.

It is true enough, I do not wear Jesus as an overcoat, do not advertise my faith on the walls of my home, nor do I stand on the street corners handing out tracts. I will always wish you a good day but never a blessed one, and through the years my speech has become peppered with expletives of a more raw nature.

I also find it very difficult to hide my disdain for the superciliously religious among us and find them to be, to borrow a quote from Joyce Myers(Yes, Chelsea, I know who she is.)so heavenly minded they are no earthly good.

So, no, you will not find me standing under a flashing neon Jesus sign wearing a 'what would Jesus do?' T-shirt. However, do not make Chelsea's mistake and throw me into the heathen hole, for I no more fit there than I do the ultra conservative Christian one.

Sit with me a while, share your challenges, your fears, your dreams and you will find God at the heart of any advice I impart for he is the core of who I am.

When I was a very young girl, running from my fear of hell's fire, seeking God as an escape route, he showed me his love. It was this love that set my fears to rest and this love I have trusted through out the years.

During years of confusion and false guilt, when I could no longer find my way, his hand patiently lead me back home, back to him, back to grace.

At the end of my marriage, when all that remained of me were bloody, mangled bits and parts, he bundled me up, lovingly sat with me, even as I pushed him away, and gently put me back together, one jagged, shard at a time.

When my daughter left home at seventeen in an angry teen-aged huff, and my mother and sister assisted her rebellion-the worst betrayal I have ever known-it was God who reached down and pulled me back to my feet. It was his arm on which I leaned, his strength from which I drew the courage to keep going.
You will not find me in a church on Sunday, but you will find me at the homeless shelter, sweeping, cooking, cleaning, talking, listening as people open their hearts.

I will never stand on a street corner yelling scripture to the masses, but I will sit and rock tiny, sick babies whose moms and dads are too sick either physically or emotionally to do the job their selves.

You will not hear me randomly quoting Christian platitudes to life's struggles, but you will hear me encouraging inner-city school kids to read their poetry, to tell their truths through verse and rhyme.

You will rarely hear me spouting scripture to the life problems you face, but you will feel me sitting silently beside you, my arm across your shoulder for as long and as often as you need.

Christian?

Well, I'll let him be the judge of that.

When I look in the mirror, I see a sinner. No better, no worse than any other, saved by grace, shaped by love.

Merry Christmas Everyone!

I'll see you in the New Year.

ON THE SANDSTORMS OF MY LIFE

"Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn't something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn't get in, and walk through it, step by step. There's no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That's the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.

An you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You'll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.

And once the storm is over you won't remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won't even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won't be the same person who walked in. That's what this storm's all about."
— Haruki Murakami (Kafka on the Shore)

Thanksgiving was spent alone, curled up in a tight ball of fever and illness.

My children were alone as well, Elizabeth in Korea, and Michael in a bar in San Diego, where he celebrated his one year anniversary in the navy with a friend from boot-camp who he ran into unexpectedly.

My extended family spent the day in Alabama tending to the details of saying goodbye to my aunt, my mother's last remaining family member of any consequence, who passed away early Monday morning, after a seven week struggle with cancer.

Ah cancer. The great equalizer. Everyone gasps when hearing its name in connection with their life.

It is the opponent we each hope to never have to face, and yet most, in one way or another, will.

I am at the end of my battle with this Goliath, on the other side of this sandstorm in my life, and I am changed. In ways, both small and large, I am no longer the person who first stepped in, closed her eyes and plugged her ears. I made it through, and the person who stepped out from the storm is not the same who stepped in.

The changes are all encompassing, physical, emotional, and mental.

My arms seem permanently bruised from needles inserted to deliver the medicines meant to cure me. An angry line of sores march down my tongue from tip to throat. My hair is thin, dull, and lifeless, but, I do still have hair, small wonder. I am thirty-eight pounds lighter, which trust me, is not a bad thing, and I have lost all feeling in my feet.

My tolerance for BS is at an all time low. I no longer posses the ability to smile silently while watching as others are stepped on or treated with disrespect. I can no longer hear what others say, I can only see what they do. I've lost my patience with those who are careless with the feelings of others.

As I said at the start of this post, Thanksgiving was not good this year. In fact, it was the worst I've ever known, yet, in the mist of setbacks, death of a loved one, separation from the ones I love most, and silence, I found more to be grateful for this year than any other.

I was sick. I was lonely. I hurt. I felt alone. I WAS alone. I mourned. I was sad. But, I was still here!

I AM STILL HERE!

I live in a small room in my parent's home, but I am able to volunteer with the homeless instead of living with them.

I am separated from my children, a reality that can bring me to my knees some days, but my children are leading lives they love, taking pride in work they find fulfilling. They are healthy and reasonably happy, and though I am separated from them, it is life which separates us, not death.

My work is hard and the pay is obnoxiously low, with no benefits, but in the middle of one of the worst economic times, I have a place to go Monday through Friday and a pay check at the end of each two weeks time. And though the work is hard, it is important and brings to me a sense of purpose and the knowledge that in very small ways, in very small lives, I do make a difference.

I am sometimes disappointed by my friends, but never in them.

Life, with all its painful, horrid moments is amazing and wonderful, and as I laid curled, alone in the dark Thanksgiving day, I gave thanks, because the biggest change this storm has made is given me an internal recognition of just how much we are given every single day of our lives.

Even the ones that really, really suck.

I hope you find much to give thanks for every day of your life.

ON YEATS

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths.

Enwrought with golden and silver light.

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Of night and light and the half light.

I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor, have only my dream;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

ON HOME

Giving birth is the start of the great leaving.

For a time and space you are completely connected to another life, theirs completely dependent on yours, even sharing one blood supply, truly two as one, until it is time for them to leave you. It is with tremendous pain and great labor that the two are separated and into this world another enters. Small and helpless they continue to look to you for their survival, but they grow, begin to take control of their own, teetering little steps towards your outstretched arms, their eyes locked on yours, yours encouraging, cheering them on until they stumble safely against your chest laughing with accomplishment, safe in your protective arms.

Too soon, steady legs keep pace with your own as they step across the threshold of their very first classroom, their small hand clinging tightly to yours, until you place that precious hand into the hand of another, uncertain eyes looking back at yours, pleading with you not to leave them behind. The pain of that first leaving returns and fills your heart as you walk away trusting another to leave behind their own imprint on this life now so dear to yours.

Somewhere along the way of this great departure, their eyes turn and begin to look outward, away from you, towards all the possibilities lying beyond the small, safe world created for their well being, and they step towards all the possibilities, stopping at first to glance back for reassurance and advice until one day they turn to find oceans and continents separating them from you and it seems the great departure is complete.

But, whispers from home drift in and out of their hearts, and one day you both realize home isn't walls and a roof, home are the people who share your memories. Home is the heartbeat you knew before you knew anything else. Home are the ones you love.

This week my home is coming home and for a eight days I will breath them in, I will wake early to watch them sleep and stay up late to hear their thoughts, their plans, their hurts, their successes, and then, once again, with pride and great pain I will watch them go, but I will know they take home back home with them in their memories and in their hearts, and they will leave a bit of home behind to keep me company.

ON LOVE

I teach four and five-year-olds. I love the way their brains work. People underestimate them. They are sharp.

This week I had surgery to remove four pesky little tumors who've been giving me rather a hard time of it lately. The day before I went in, I walked into a classroom full of love. The children had brought me presents and flowers and cards. There were Band-Aid decorated cupcakes and strawberry ice-cream, my favorite, a fact one mother took the time and bother to learn.

I got some pretty good stuff. Books, Starbucks gift cards, CD's, and movies, but my favorite gift by far was a well-worn green and pink frog.

Mr. Kroakers.

He belongs to one of the little girls in my class. He's seen her through some pretty tough times. Been with her since she was tiny, not that she all that much bigger now, given to me because, "You need him more then me right now, Ms. Pamela."

I struck a deal with her, I would take ol' Mr. Kroakers home with me, but only on loan, 'til I'm feeling better, then back to her he goes.

Mr. Kroakers greeted me when I woke up in the hospital. His goofy little smile and all the love he represents made me smile.

Thank you, Mikayla for Mr. Kroakers, he really helped a lot.

ON THE THINGS THAT DIVIDE AND SEPARATE

It seems for as long as there have been societies of people there have been talks of the poor, the haves and the have nots, talks which serve only to divide and separate us.

I have long had a heart for the poor. I walk in poor circles. I am the poor, falling within the national guidelines, my earnings are considered poverty level.

Still, I supported myself and two children for eight years alone, without help. A feat I am proud of.

Life took a turn for me and I find myself now back at home with my parents. My belongings in a storage unit, my entire world now occupying a room 16X18 feet squared, filled with the leftover bits and bobs of other people's lives.

I am ill. Not fatally so, but seriously, and I go to the community hospital for treatments and my father drives me.

A few weeks back, after my treatments, I got back into the car with my father and listened as he went on about the homeless people he had spent the morning observing. They seek refuge at the hospital. He talked about the waste of their lives, and the disgrace which is theirs for allowing their lives to come to such dire circumstance, and after he finished his speech, I could not stay silent.

"Dad, these people you are talking about, these people you hold in such poor regard, these people are me."

"How in the world can you say that?"

"It is the truth. Can you not see that?"

"You are nothing like these people, Pamela, nothing at all like them."

"Dad, the only thing standing between me and the streets, are you and mom."

"NO! That is not true!"

And though I did not have the heart to continue to argue with him, I knew he was wrong and I right.

The statistics are staggering.

One out of eight people in America are homeless. That's 35 million people.

1.4 million of those without homes are children.

Families with children are the fastest growing category of homeless making up 38% of it's population.

40% of homeless men have served in the US armed forces.

22% of the homeless have serious psychiatric disorders.

One out of three Americans not on the streets are living asset poor, which is to say they lack the assets to survive three months were they to lose their earning ability.

The majority of poor are working poor. Most work two and three jobs to try and get ahead, try to keep their heads above the water, and are like I was, quite literally, three paychecks away from the streets.

I make it a habit to connect with folks who view the world through a different lens than I, believing it is important to stay aware of the other side, to meet regularly with those who hold vastly different views from my own, and the attitude I hear over and over again pertaining to the poor among us is one of disdain, like my father, a mindset that says they must have done something to deserve it, and I get it, get their need to say this. It is two fold I think.

First, if we blame the poor for their plight it leaves us free to continue our lives uninterrupted and unaffected. If we actually saw the problem and acknowledge it, we might then be compelled to do something about it, and we are, after all, leading very busy, productive lives. We made good choices. WE have OUR shit together.

Secondly, if we stopped and acknowledged that perhaps many of our poor, our homeless, are people just like us, hard-working, blue-collared, family-valued people who, by no fault of their own, find their lives up-ended, then we must accept the fact that this too could happen to us, and if we were to accept this fact suddenly life gets very serious and cold. It is easier to believe that if one takes steps A,B, and C, one gets to D and avoids E, F, and G. The illusion of control brings comfort. I fully understand that, however, this is a comfort I firmly believe our nation can no longer afford to hold.

It has become impossible for me to sit smiling when I hear someone say, no workie no eatie. It is glib. It is arrogant. It is a dangerous and ignorant mind set.

Since I was fifteen-years-old I have worked for money. I have never been without a job of some sort except for the last three months of my pregnancy with my daughter and the last four with my son, due to complications which required me to be on bed rest . For the past ten years, I've worked two jobs and went to school, so please, do not talk to be about hard work. I know hard work. I know days that start at two am and end at ten or eleven pm, going from job one, to job two, and then on to job three, raising two kids the best I could in all my spare time.

Save your glib arrogance for the country club crowd and come take a walk with me, let me show you the women I know, women just like myself who want the best for their kids. Who get up everyday and work long. hard hours, taking them away from their kids in the early morning hours and returning them late at night, their bodies tired and sore and not enough hours left to get the proper amount of sleep before their lives require them to rise and do it all over again. Come and sit at my friends' table, share a cup of coffee and some hard truths with them, then look into their faces and repeat, no workie no eatie.

Go ahead.

I dare you.

The cold hard facts are 1.4 million of our nations children will fall asleep in a car, in a shelter, or on the streets tonight.

What will you do about it?

SURVIVING THE AMERICAN DREAM

by Pamela Black

Credit

won't get me far,

living

out of a car,

dreaming

under the stars,

smothered by poverty

No one

can see my pain,

make-up

helps hide its shame,

lifetime

of dirty stains,

painted by poverty.

Paying

for others' crimes,

knocked down

too many times,

trying

to toe the lines,

laid down by poverty.

Good life

now there's a game,

surviving

is not the same,

trying

to just stay sane,

choking on poverty.

Rebirth

the preacher said,

tired

of lies I'm fed,

fresh starts

are all but dead,

drowning in poverty.

ON THE THINGS THAT WOUND AND SHAPE US

I taught myself to read at four and, as a child, could often be found up a tree, Band-Aids on both knees, nose buried in a book. I spent hours roaming the Kansas prairies with Laura Ingalls and exploring Prince Edward Island with Anne Shirley. Reading made the world wide open for me. Within the pages of books I traveled to Italy and France, experienced van Gogh's Sunflowers and Monet's Waterlilies, watched as Estella tortured Pip, felt my heart race as Ahab battled the mighty whale, and break when Romeo drew his last breath.

Through books, I lived a million different lives, but somehow failed to live my own.

I had spent my entire adult life within the confines of a forty-mile radius, worked the same job as a pre-school teacher for more than twelve years, and stayed in an abusive marriage for twenty. My world grew smaller and smaller as my body grew larger and larger.

I ate my way up the scales, stopping just short of five-hundred pounds.

Fitting my size thirty-two body into a size ten world become near impossible.

Most movie theater seats were too small for me, so I rarely went to the movies. Car shopping became an embarrassing ordeal; squeezing behind the wheel of the average car was difficult. It's hard to say who was more embarrassed by my attempts to fit, me or the car salesmen who politely pretended not to notice.

Traveling became out of the question; plane seats were much too small. Ever conscious of how much space I occupied, I quit attending concerts in an attempt to avoid crowding those unfortunate enough to be seated next to me.

Eventually, I had to drop out of college because I no longer fit behind the desks and it became impossible to manage the distance between buildings.

I was mooed at in front of my husband and people would say rude, insulting things with total disregard for my children. Being pointed, stared, and laughed at in public places became a normal part of my daily life. When alone, I fought back, offering the offending parties a three-hundred-and-sixty degree view. Once home, I would bury my shame and outrage inside a bag of chips and a quart of ice cream.

Even navigating a McDonald's drive-thru became a landmine of humiliation. Teens would gather their co-workers to gape at me and share a laugh. The butt of their joke was not lost on me or my children.

Because of my frustration, and the belief that this behavior is never okay and should not be tolerated, I began to fight back with the only weapon I had. The truth.

Calmly, and with as much dignity as I could muster, I softly told them their actions were unkind. Denial and mock confusion always met my words, but their inability to meet my eyes confirmed I'd made them uncomfortable with their behavior. Small victory.

Eventually, my weight became too heavy a burden for my husband to carry. He told me how humiliated he was to have me for his wife. He said I no longer contributed anything to his life or the lives of our children. He told me I was someone no one could respect.

He left me.

Now alone, I needed a second job to support myself and my children. Physically, however, there was little I was capable of doing, and prospective employers were reluctant to hire me. Unable to make the high payments on our home, I lost it.

My children and I were forced to move to public housing where we lived for eighteen months. This was my darkest moment.

With every failure, I gained more weight, and every pound I gained cost me another part of myself. I had become the human equivalent of foreign currency in an American market. My value had not changed with the numbers on the scales. Unfortunately, the society I belong to refused to acknowledge my worth.

One by one, the parts of my life I loved most fell by the wayside, and I felt I had only myself to blame. I felt a rage towards myself that, at times, frightened me. I felt worthless and trapped inside a life and a body I hated.

I hid beneath my layers of fat and immersed myself in the imagined lives of the characters of my favorite authors. Books allowed me to escape the ugliness of my own life, but they also allowed me to evade one fundamental truth. It was not okay to be so overweight. It simply wasn't. This stark truth shook me from complacency to action.

The time had come to show up for the life I wanted, so I joined a gym. On my first visit I came wearing an attitude as big as my ass, determined that nothing as silly as fear or embarrassment would stop me from getting where I wanted to go.

The first week I could only walk on the treadmill for ten minutes, so I showed up four times each day to get the forty minutes needed. The second week I walked fifteen minutes, three times daily. The sixth week found me walking on the trails of my neighborhood park for a mile.

The weight came off quickly. Within two months I dropped almost eighty pounds and my clothes no longer fit.

One by one, I began to collect the parts of myself I had lost along the way.

I rediscovered a love for music. I fell in love with a young tenor’s voice and could hardly contain my excitement upon discovering he would be appearing at a venue in my hometown. For the first time in twenty-two years, I bought tickets for a concert and waited expectantly for the night to arrive.

Seated in front of the outdoor stage on that clear August evening, waiting for the show to begin, I found myself in tears. I cried for the time I had wasted. I cried for the depth of appreciation and emotion that were now mine because of that time. I knew for as long as I lived I would never take moments like this for granted.

As the lights went down and the tenor’s voice filled the night’s sky with beauty and richness I knew that moment, and all of its wealth, belonged to me because I had faced the truth and made the hard choices.

The concert made me more determined than ever to regain my life. I started walking two miles instead of one, began a free-weight regimen three times a week, and sought the advice of a personal trainer who suggested I reclaim activities I had enjoyed in my youth.

Swimming was the sport I loved best as a girl, so I changed my gym membership to one with a pool.

The walk of shame, from the dressing room to the water, almost did me in. Real or imagined, I felt every eye staring at me, mocking. I waded through the water until it reached my waist and I felt hidden and protected by its surrounding warmth.

Entering an open swim lane, I pushed off the side of the pool, and stretched my arms in a long-dormant windmill pattern. Water and joy swept over me. I was finally living bravely, this was me~~taking care of myself, doing the thing I loved most.

That swim turned out to be one of the most empowering moments of my life.

Eleven months into my new life, and after losing one-hundred-and-fifty pounds, I became discouraged. It seemed to me I had worked long and hard, but still found myself far from my goal.

I continued to run into small minds about big bodies, and though it was a toned-down version, it still took its toll. I wondered, just how small would I have to become before I would be fully accepted. What was the magic number?

My son noticed my melancholy mood and asked about it. I explained I felt too far from my goal and believed I had gotten nowhere. He brought me a picture taken at my heaviest, one of the few in existence, handed it to me, and asked if I still felt I had not changed. Surprise silenced my self-doubts as I compared this photograph with a recent one taken with my daughter. I was looking at two different people and could hardly believe the changes in my face as well as my body.

Armed with a better perspective, I decided to stop using my weight as a reason to avoid new challenges. In the beginning, it was terrifying.

I applied for a second job working part-time in a bookstore even though I felt unsure if I'd be able to work eight hours at the pre-school and then another six standing on my feet selling books. Refusing to use my weight as an excuse, I determined to try. Eighteen months have passed since I started to work at the bookstore and I still love it.

I re-enrolled in school. Where once my steps dragged across campus and I had to sit and rest several times along the way, resulting in my being late for class, now, with a bounce in my step I'm usually the first to arrive. Sitting in a classroom, discussing thoughts and theories I feel more fully alive than I've ever felt before.

In September, thirty-three months into my new life, I flew to visit my daughter in NYC. I will never forget the feeling of amazed joy as I sat in the plane seat and heard the safety-belt click shut across my lap. I laughed aloud.

The highlight of the entire trip was a rainy day spent at the MET, which houses both van Gogh and Monet. Standing in front of art I thought I would only ever see in a book took my breath away. It was an awe-filled moment to know my hand could reach out and touch the same canvas van Gogh's had. I saw, firsthand, the crisp lines left by his passionate brush strokes. I noticed details that were lost in photographs. The magnificence of his Sunflowers amazed me. Goodness overwhelmed me. The beauty of the art, and the knowledge that I was now living what once I had only read, moved me beyond anything I had felt before.

The birth of each of my children is the closest emotion I can relate to what I felt standing in front of the Sunflowers that day. In some ways I had given birth -- to myself. The me I had stopped believing I would ever become.

ON STANDING FOR WHAT'S RIGHT

Broadway Baptist kicked out of Southern Baptist Convention

By LEE WILLIAMS and BILL MILLER

leewilliams@star-telegram.comwmiller@star-telegram.com

Broadway Baptist Church has been kicked out of the Southern Baptist Convention because its stance on homosexuality is too lenient, convention members said.

Convention delegates, known as messengers, voted Tuesday to end the 127-year relationship with the historic Fort Worth church during the annual convention being held in Louisville, Ky.

The vote affirmed that the relationship between Broadway and the convention cease, "and that the church’s messengers not be seated," according to Roger Oldham, vice president for convention relations with the executive committee.

The committee made the recommendation Monday.

Stephen Wilson, a member of the executive committee, told the Baptist Press that "the church was in effect saying that it was OK to have members who are open homosexuals."

The 2,000-member church could seek reinstatement if it "unambiguously demonstrates its friendly cooperation with the Convention under Article III," according to the committee.

Article III deals with membership and says, "Among churches not in cooperation with the convention are churches which act to affirm, approve, or endorse homosexual behavior."

The vote was a disappointment to leaders at Broadway, according to a statement from Kathy Madeja, chairwoman of the board of deacons.

"We do not believe Broadway has taken any action which would justify its being deemed not in friendly cooperation with the SBC," Madeja said. "It is unfortunate that the Southern Baptist Convention decided otherwise and severed its affiliation with Broadway Baptist Church."

Southern Baptist churches are autonomous and in charge of their own affairs, although the national convention does coordinate missions and relief organizations.

Because it was voted out, Broadway will not have a voice in convention issues or participate in its activities, Oldham said.

"Tomorrow when everybody wakes up, Broadway Baptist Church is still a Baptist church," Oldham said. "The only difference now is that it . . . can’t participate in matters that it has historically been a part of."

The decision does not affect Broadway’s affiliation with the Baptist General Convention of Texas. Its executive director, Randall Everett, said he was disappointed that Broadway and the Southern Baptist Convention could not reach an agreement.

"Our prayers are with the church and its new pastor as they seek God’s leadership for the future," Everett said in a statement.

The Rev. Brent Beasley, who was named senior pastor at Broadway this month, could not be reached for comment. He begins at Broadway in July.

Beasley replaces the Rev. Brett Younger, whose leadership was called into question last year during a debate about whether photographs of same-sex couples should appear in the church directory. The photographs were eventually rejected in favor of group pictures of all church members.

Younger resigned in April 2008 to become an associate professor at a divinity school in Atlanta.

After the debate over the photographs, the Rev. Bob Sanderson of Wendell, N.C., criticized Broadway’s stance on homosexuality at last year’s convention and urged that the church be declared "not in friendly cooperation with the Southern Baptist Convention."

The issue was taken up by the executive committee, which conducted meetings in September and February.

The Rev. Jorene Taylor Swift, a Broadway minister, wrote a letter to the committee stating: "We are not a church where homosexuality is a defining issue. While we extend hospitality to everyone — including homosexuals — we do not endorse, approve or affirm homosexual behavior."

Broadway leaders also appeared before the committee in February, and were asked whether any homosexuals served on church committees.

"The interim pastor [the Rev. Charles Johnson] was gracious enough to say there were two," said the Rev. Chris S. Osborne, pastor of Central Baptist Church in College Station and a committee member.

The committee indicated that it had problems with that and encouraged Broadway to strengthen its stance against homosexuality.

The church responded to further questions from the committee about homosexuality, Broadway attorney Lynn Robbins said.

"We answered their questions by telling them we do not and never have ever endorsed, approved or affirmed homosexual behavior," Robbins said. "At the same time, our doors are open to all people, including homosexuals, without affirming their behavior."

David Lowrie, pastor of the First Baptist Church of Canyon and president of the Baptist General Convention of Texas, told the Baptist Press that Broadway "needed to express those convictions in a practical way. They, for whatever reason, weren’t able to do that."

Lowrie said, for example, that Broadway could have started a ministry to help people with "unhealthy lifestyles."

This report includes material from the Baptist Press and Star-Telegram archives.

This week something big happened in my hometown, in the center of the bible belt, a historic church took a stand and took some major hits, but they remain standing, remain standing by those who they profess to love, for those they feel they have been called to love and I am proud of them. Don't really know how to say that without sounding condescending, for who am I, but as I have been dusting off my relationship with God I've been feeling the pull towards public gathering for worship, aka church again.

It is with just such a church I would wish to commune.

What are we so afraid of?

When did loving someone of the same sex become the unpardonable sin?

It isn't contagious folks, honestly it isn't.

Why is it okay for a man who beats his wife and children to hold high offices in our churches? Why are the obese allowed to serve? Why are women who have slept with more than one man and men who have slept with more than one woman allowed to hold positions of authority in our churches, but gays are not? Gays, and if you are baptist, such as I am, divorced.

I have heard it said of my denomination we are the only church who shoots their survivors, and boy oh boy is that the truth.

And what about grace?

For by grace are we saved through faith it is a gift from God, not of works lest any man boast.

Now, where in there does it say, grace and straight? Grace and only married once? Grace and perfect, and isn't that the point of grace? Grace does for me me what I can not do for myself? Grace covers me and makes me perfect. I am made perfect through his grace. His grace covers my sins, doesn't erase them, doesn't make me perfect, just covers them.

"I've got this one, child. Don't worry, I'll cover you."

Come on folks. Stop being hypocritical, unless you have learned how to lead the perfect life, unless you are perfect without flaw, until you manage to get it right one-hundred percent of the time, leave everyone else alone, let God decide who to cover with his grace.

He tells us, if you love me love my sheep.

Love your neighbor as yourself.

No where in there does it say, unless he happens to love Steve. I read no such footnotes. Jesus just said, "Go love them." And that is just what Broadway Baptist Church is doing. They are simply opening their arms and loving everyone who walks through their doors.

We love because he first loved us. If anyone says, "I love God," yet hates his brother, he is a liar.

What is hate?

Well, I may be too simple. I may be wrong, but I think hate is saying I will no longer have anything to do with you. I reject you to the point of refusing to fellowship with you. Hate is walking into a church and shooting a Doctor to death. Hate is beating a man to death with a bat. Hate is throwing pig's blood on a woman and calling her a murder. Hate is setting off bombs in a doctor's clinic. And if I am wrong and these are not acts of hate, they are most certainly hateful acts.

Hate is taking away a church's membership from an organization they have been an active member of for 127 years and refusing to allow them a voice.

My heart overflows with pride for Broadway Baptist Church and it is on their pews I will be seated on Sunday.

I simply want a church who knows how to love whatever the cost. Thank you for showing me there is one.

The winds of change are blowing and their scent is sweetness to my soul.

ON NEEDING MOST WHEN YOU WANT LEAST

It's been an interesting couple of weeks. There have been many exciting things to come my way these past few weeks yet beneath the surface, my surface, has been a prevailing sadness.

At first I thought it was a sadness brought on by a missing of my children, my daughter in particular, and though missing them does add to it, it isn't this alone which is generating unrest in me.

By yesterday, there was no denying the deep shade of blue coloring my days.

I am a swimmer. I try to swim everyday. It helps get me back into shape, it clears my mind, it helps battle the blues, and it's just a good discipline, a promise kept to myself. Yesterday I just wanted to go home and go to sleep after work and almost gave into this thought, then I realized, when I want to the least is when I need to the most, and so I went for my daily swim.

I have long said the pool is my church. I bring those things that bother or confuse me to the water and while I swim they rather bounce about inside my brain, at first there is strong emotion, I tend to not allow myself to focus too much on feelings, well negative ones, and so they tend to be what bubbles to the surface first and fuel my swim, the stronger the feelings the faster the swim, the harder my strokes through the water, pushing towards this little internal click.

Blessed little click.

There is a point where my brain takes a step back from all the feelings and just like that first step back when standing too close to art, everything comes into focus a little more clearly, and I am better able to see what has been in front of me the entire time.

When I arrived at the pool yesterday I was pleased to find I had it to myself. Stepping into the cold water is always a bit of a shock and it took a second to brace myself for that first push off from the wall, but once I felt my body slipping through the water, I swam hard and fast.

It's almost like a movie playing itself out in my head, a crazy independent film where there are flashes of this and that, taken out of order and random, all these thoughts and emotions flashing about, and I allowed them to play as they would, trusting the rhythm of the swim to sort them out, grateful to find myself alone and my rhythm uninterrupted by another's body in the water.

Great sadness and hints of anger washed over me and so I increased my speed, kicked harder, pulled myself through the water with greater force, pushing, pushing toward the little click.

It finally came, more than twenty minutes into the swim, my mind grew quiet as my body picked up on its own rhythm and my brain rather released and I became only body, only breath, legs and arms and lungs, everything else slipping away, sinking to the bottom of the pool to be left behind.

I feel the tug of blue on my soul again today, and there were no epiphanies carried from yesterday's swim, so I know there are still things to be sorted and figured out.

I don't want to write today.

I don't want to go to work.

I don't want to wake up.

I don't want to swim.

But I will, I will do all four and more because I know when I want to the least is when I need to the most.

I have been able to sort out enough to realize, this all has something to do with getting closer to who I am, who I am meant to be, and it seems as I approach those things blue surrounds each step closer, now I need to figure out why, but I have lived long enough to know the how of things.

How I work these things out is I get up. I write. I go to work. I smile. I swim. I make myself do those day to day sort of things and trust myself to recognize the answers when they come, and believe life is kind enough to revel the answers to those of us who seek them.

ON FATHERHOOD

This has long been my favorite picture of me with my dad. It embodies everything wonderful about dads. My tiny hand in his big one, him bent down to my level, the arm behind me ready to catch me if I stumble backward, the look of love on my dad's face, the patience in his stature, me completely unaware of the fact that I am only able to stand and gather the pretty flowers because my father is there beside me, supporting me, allowing me.

My dad has long been the standard by which all other men are measured.

Dad has been a lot of things in his life.

Football hero. Juvenal Delinquent. Sailor, See Bee, to be more precise. Student. Pastor. Sheet Metal Foreman. Inventor. Artist. Historian. Woodworker.

He used to be bigger than life. Loud and full of life, he boomed into rooms and would fill them to overflowing. He never considered himself a smart man, and yet my best memories are of falling asleep on the sofa to the sound of his voice mixed with those of his bible school buddies debating philosophies and biblical theories. He can talk for hours about history and his thoughts on the different events that have shaped our county's.

He never pretends to be anything other than who he is, and I grew up watching the contradictions that was my father.

Rough around the edges construction worker, soul stirring artist, theologian who tells you what the bible says while cussing like the sailor he was, every guys guy, blue collared worker who passed along a strong work ethic to his children and his children's children.

Dad loves music. He was a whistler. For as far back as I can remember, I would wake to the sound of my dad trilling away in the kitchen as he started the morning coffee, and even as a girl couldn't help but wonder at such joy.

I was always dad's buddy. When I was a tiny girl I used to hear my dad turn the key in the downstairs door of our apartment, and would crawl to the upstairs door and wait for my mom to open it so I could greet dad as he came up the stairs. He would swoop me up and dance me about, and in his arms I would stay until I fell asleep for the night.

I remember feeling that nothing bad could ever happen to me in dad's arms, in dad's presences. Dad's shadow was the only protection I needed as a girl.

He was sweet, harsh, funny, demanding, loving, tender, understanding, strict, and I never once had to wonder if dad loved me. I knew. I still do. All the way down to my toes know. And I am grateful to have a dad such as mine.

They say our earthly fathers determine the size and shape and nature of our heavenly father, we see God in our Fathers, and our fathers in God. If this is true, and I believe it is, I have been given such a gift, because this song could apply to either for me.

Happy Father's Day, Dad! You deserve all the best this world holds, for through out my life you have been beside me, allowing me to stand, ready to catch me whenever I've stumbled, supporting me as I gathered all the pretty flowers, and I want you to know, I am aware. Fully aware, and I love you for it more than I will ever be able to express.

CORNERSTONE

(for my dad)

Once solid rock now life-slammed sand

Shuffles lost, in search of what, I do not know

We sit together, him and me

Silence where chatter used to be

Searching his eyes for the depth they once held

Hollow green surface is all pain has left

Crag under whose shadow I once hid

How I long for the safety of your shade

Bedrock from which my life was formed

How I miss the comfort of your warmth

Foundation on which I did rest from the squall

How I need the support your arms once allowed

Would that I could, like a small child crawl

Back to the rock which once sheltered me

Where have you gone to and will you return

Whisper the words that will bring back again

The keystone who always stood watch over me.

ON MORNING

I was suppose to have met Ronald for lunch yesterday, instead I went to his viewing. I hugged his mom who seemed numb and as blindsided as I felt. I sat with his sister for a little bit and we exchanged our favorite memories of him, then she turned to me and said, "I just can't believe after tomorrow I won't ever see him again."

I knew just how she felt.

What we have lost hasn't fully sank in yet. As much as we are hurting there is still a numbness brought on by shock, and we will never be the same people we were Wednesday morning, some more pronouncedly changed than others, but there will forever come moments when we think to ourselves, "Oh my goodness, Ronald would love this!" and we will, for that portion of a second, forget until loss slaps us across the face with its cruel absoluteness. We will forever be reminded of our loss.

I said goodbye to Ronald today. Slip in near the back and listened as a pastor talked about a boy I hardly recognized, and it made me sadder than I was. I wonder why we find it necessary to sanctify our dead?

It was not this spit and polished person I had come there to grieve, wasn't this boy who was so, so good, I had grown to love, it was Ronald in all his flawed humanity that I will miss for the rest of my life.

Ronald who others had a cause to fear, Ronald who shot heron, and stole, Ronald who lied and manipulated, Ronald whose laughter would make it impossible to remain unhappy, Ronald whose art amazed me, Ronald who would have stood between me or my daughter and anyone wanting to harm us, Ronald who remembered my birthday every year and made me breakfast three mother's day in a row, Ronald who sat beside my daughter when she got her heart broken the very first time, silently, with his arm around her shoulder never saying a word, until she laid her head on his shoulder and finally let herself cry. Ronald who, much to our horror, beat the boy responsible and issued a warning to never ever harm Elizabeth again or he would finish the job. Ronald who understood things on such a deep level it astounded me. Dark skinned, long curly haired, brown-eyed, Ronald, who smiled easily and often, who teased and tormented, who cajoled and charmed, who lied and frightened, who loved unwaveringly and unconditionally.

This was who I said goodbye to today. Beautifully flawed Ronald, a boy I will always love and call one of my own.

After the funeral, I went past my son's girlfriend's house so I could hold Logan, my grandson.

As I sat rocking my tiny little guy, he looked up at me and smiled and cooed and I finally let myself weep. Kayleigh, the sweet girl that she is, slipped from the room and left me alone with my grandson, this little tiny bit of his daddy, and after my tears I sat talking to Logan, telling him about his daddy who he has yet to meet, and gratitude began to fill me because it could have been Michael as easily as it was Ronald back in the day, and I now need never fear my son's death to drugs as those days are long behind him, long behind us.

I want to write my son a long letter of thanks for making the hard choices he did. For stepping up and allowing himself to become a man. For giving me Logan. For growing up and believing he deserved a better life than the one drugs would afford him.

Even as I grieve the loss of Ronald, I realize just how fortunate I am that my son chose a better path.

Because of his choices there is a new life in my world, and tomorrow I will wake up, sit on my patio drinking dark, rich coffee with some sort of flavored cream, writing, reflecting and when sadness comes and sits in the seat next to mine, I will go hold my grandson and breath in his baby sweet smell, and know, no matter how dark the night, morning always comes.

ON LOSS

It is one o'clock in the morning and I am sitting on my patio with a heart that is heavy and broken.

Three hours ago my phone rang. The mother of a boy who spent more time in my home than his own when he was fourteen, fifteen, and sixteen, called to say he has died.

Cause of death?

Drug overdose.

What do you say? How do you help? How do you make sense of such senseless loss?

He was the brightest and most promising of all my son's friends, second favorite of mine. Born in Costa Rica, in American since he was twelve. He was smart, dark, and so good looking I often teased him calling him pretty boy. Fiercely loyal, and sweetly protective, yet self-destructive and volatile, I always worried most about him.

He had a charming disposition, and could wheedle me into doing pretty much anything he wanted.

"Ms. Pamala, will you bake me a cake?"

"Oh, please, Ms. Pamala, you know how much I luve your cakes."

Cocking his head to one side, making his brown eyes all big and puppy dog sweet, smiling his crooked little smile, his accent more pronounced for impact and effect, and soon the smell of cake was filling the apartment.

We used to sit around the table late into the night, my son, myself, and his little group of friends playing scrabble, or cards, or dominoes, and through the hours, through the years, I grew to love these boys.

I knew they did drugs, some of them very serious drugs, I knew they did things that would horrify me were I to be given complete privy into their world, I knew my son would be better off, safer, without them in his life, but these were the friends he had chosen, and so I concluded my best line of defense would be to get to know them, really get to know them, to make my home a safe place for them to be, no judgments, no calling other parents, no anger, no threats, just honest input and perhaps they would come to care what I thought enough to afford me some influence.

I figured they were safer in my home than running the streets, and though I did not allow drugs or alcohol to be openly used in my home, I was not so stupid as to believe they were not, and I never fussed or griped at them when they arrived, clearly under the influence. I wanted to keep the lines of communication opened between my son and myself, wanted him to be able to trust me, wanted him to know he could talk to me about anything and so we formed a crazy, mixed up little family, me, Micheal, and four crazy, bad-ass boys I soon grew to love so much I would be willing to lay down my life for theirs.

Now one is gone. Dead at twenty-one.

Shortly before his eighteenth birthday, Michael came to me and told me he wanted to go to a different school, one that specialized in at risk kids, they had an accelerated program, lower teacher/student ratios, and special training. He wanted to sever all ties, understood if he didn't he would end up dropping out of school, which he no longer wanted, and so we moved into this school's district away from his boyhood friends, and they were not invited into his new world, so I honored his strength, his choice for a better life and said good bye to these boys as well.

I ran into Ronald a year after we moved. He was in the cigarette store I buy my cloves from, looking so thin, covered in pock marks, so strung out I burst into tears and asked him what the hell he had done to himself, didn't even try to hide my horror.

He laughed his silly little dismissive laugh, cocked his head, smiled his smile, and said, "Oh Ms. Pamala, you are being so silly." Then went on to try to pursued me he was clean and had his life together.

For once he was not able to wheedle his way around me.

I told him outright that I was terrified for him and it was clear he was not clean nor sober, I hugged him and told him I loved him, then teasingly smacked the back of his head and said, "Of all Michael's friends you are the one who could go the furthest, you're the smartest, the best looking, the most driven, and I just want to see you live long enough to get there. Please, Ronald, Please use that head of yours,"

That was the last time I ever saw him. He was seventeen almost eighteen.

Three months ago I ran into his mom at the gym. She told me how he was finally clean. He was attending the local Jr. college, and working a full-time job. She gave me his phone number and I talked with him a handful of times, the last two weeks ago to make plans to take him to lunch.

I don't know what happened. I don't understand. Maybe he thought one more time for old times sake, maybe it was the end of a long hard day and he just needed a little help to make it through, I don't know, it just doesn't make any sense.

ON THE POWER OF WORDS

Words are powerful. They can heal. They can destroy. They can create war. They can bring peace. They can motivate and they can devastate.

I do volunteer work for an organization whose mission is to empower young people through literature and the arts. We go into the inner-city schools and work with at risk kids, fifth through twelfth grade. We teach, among many things, performance poetry. The kids work all year, individually and as teams, for our annual poetry slam.

Each month we hold an open-mic poetry night at the local Starbucks as one of our fund raisers.

Through the years a core group have emerged both in our school programs and our open-mic nights. Sitting, listening as young and old alike stand and read their poetry you start to know them, understand their struggles, their lives, see a bit of their hearts.

It has been my honor to be trusted with so many of their stories, and in each one, at the point of resolution, lies the power of words. Of putting what is inside down on paper and there finding the strength to do those things necessary to make life better.

It fell on me one year to write an article for the local paper promoting our big poetry slam and as I struggled with what to say and how to say it, it struck me, "Simply tell these people's stories, how writing has helped to change their lives." In telling their story, I had my story. After finishing the article a poem came to me.

The last verse came first, for I hadn't included her story in mine.

She was a quiet, shy girl. I came to know her when I worked at Barnes and Noble. She always wore dark clothes with a bit of a male dash to them, men's vests, ties, or hats. She was smart and polite, but there was a bit of an edge to her. One knew she was kind by choice and could, if provoked, level even the toughest of tormentors. She was not easily won over, and kept things very close to her chest. Her tastes in literature were eclectic but always, always smart, and through the months I rather wore her down and she slowly began to open up.

She always included some poet in her purchases and was opened to the ones I suggested she try. Discussions about other's poetry led to talks about her poetry as I began to encourage her to come to our open-mic nights.

Finally, after months of nagging her, she showed up. She sat near the back and though she brought along what was clearly a journal of her own poems, she never budged from her chair or gave any indication she intended to read.

I smiled a greeting when she arrived but her response made it clear she did not wish to share mine or anyone else company that night, so I gave her her space and privacy. Before she slipped quietly away, she came up to me and thanked me for talking her into coming. She said she had really enjoyed herself.

She came every month after that. Always sat near the back. Always brought her black leather journal, well worn and much used. It almost hurt to watch the way she stroked the pages, her desire to stand and show the world her creations, at least the tiny little corner of it gathered around her, was so clear, so pronounced, but she never budged from her chair.

Six months she came. Six months her hands flipped pages filled with her words while her mouth refused to share them, then one night she stood, and came towards me, took the mic from my hand and began to share her poetry without ever opening her journal.

The room seemed to shrink, grow smaller, more intimate, as her soft voice floated above and around our heads, filled with words of pain and growth, and beauty. When she finished there was silence. Her words were stunning, older than her fifteen years. Her talent was instantly recognized by all who had heard. Then applause exploded from the silence and thundered around her. The look of shy wonder and pride on her face brought tears to my eyes.

As she moved to take back her seat someone yelled for her to read another, a request that was soon echoed by many.

She shared three more poems, and there would be no slipping out unnoticed this night. A circle surrounded her, moved with her as she made her way to the door. After that there was no stopping her. She came every month. Her readings became louder, more confidante as she allowed herself to be what she was born to be.

The one thing that always stood out to me about her, bothered me, worried me, was the way she would always wear long sleeves, even on the hottest of Texas days, long sleeves, and I knew something was wrong, knew she was hiding something. I never asked, realizing to push this girl would be a serious mistake, and so I waited to see if she would ever grow to trust me enough to share.

She finally did. She was a cutter. She would take a razor and slice her arms and legs. I simply listened as she told me her story. How her dad had left her when she was small, and how she worried about a mother who drank too much and laughed too little. How a grandmother was her only line of security, and how dragging that razor across her flesh felt better than everything else.

She shared how each time she would cut a little bit deeper than the time before, until she finally cut deeply across her wrists, and how her grandmother found her, and her gratitude and rage at being found. She went on to explain how the staff at the treatment facility showed her how to get rid of the pain through other means, and how writing poetry kept her sane and helped her not to cut.

I will never, for as long as I live, forget her explanation for cutting.

"It just feels so much better."

"Better than what?"

"Better than everything else."

Now she has words to help. Putting it all down in a poem now feels better than everything else.

Words are indeed powerful.

WORDS OF REDEMPTION

Mrs. Smith

With blackened eyes

Fear and doubt

Now

Voiced outrage

Finds the lines

To free herself

Mrs. Smith

With blackened eyes.

Mr. Jones

who's chasing death

dreams revived

once

numbed by gin

Pouring words

Instead of Jack

Mr. Jones

who's chasing death.

Martha Sue

Of a thousand pounds

Buried pain

now

Verse revealed

Filled with rhyme

In place of shame

Martha Sue

Of a thousand pounds

Little girl

With scar raised wrists

Blade to skin

now

pen to pad

Spilling ink

Instead of blood

Little girl

with scar raised wrists

ON LOOKING TOWARDS THE EAST

South Korea morns. South Korea cries. South Korea fears. South Korea waits to see what tomorrow brings.

North Korea tests nuclear weapons , firing six short-range missiles this week, and publicly tears up the truce which ended the Korean War and made a peaceful coexistence between Pyongyang and Seoul possible since 1953, stating, "We will no longer be bound by the armistice accord." "...the Korean peninsula will go back to a state of war..." "We will deal a merciless retaliatory blow at any attempt to stop, check, and inspect our vessels, regarding it a violation of our inviolable sovereignty."

Washington plays off the events of the East as "saber-rattling and bluster and threats." While stating, "We're certainly concerned and take any threat seriously..." and then the "BUT"

My children stand in the dead center of all this commotion.

My daughter lives and works in Icheon, Korea a short commute from Seoul, and my son is aboard the USS Boxer in waters between Singapore and Japan.

It's funny how life reminds you of the other side of things. Love may be a universal language, but so are hate and fear.

A leader, a good and strong leader, removed from his position for acts he may or may not have committed hates where his life has lead him and fears the future so much he steps from a mountain top, leaving his country to morn and ask questions they will find no answers to.

A country hates so much they risk not only the well-being of their perceived enemies, but their own as well, willing to declare war to protect their selves. But from what?

Or could it be more a love of power which motivates these leaders?

I wish I were wiser, but then again, no, for it seems to me wisdom comes with it's own price. Perhaps what I really wish for, sometimes, is a more clouded view.

I tried to express my concerns to my mother this morning over coffee, and though she is a very intelligent woman, one of the smartest people I know, she wanted to sweep these issues under the, "God will take care of your children, you just have to trust him." carpet.

When I reminded her that I trusted God to not allow my family to fall apart and it still did she said, "God had nothing to do with that, Pamela."

To which I said back, "He's either God or he isn't, Mom. He had something to do with that or he has nothing to do with my kids and Korea."

I was told to stop being difficult.

If by difficult she meant honest, well, okay, I can do that outwardly, but inside, I am scared. I am worried. I am angry.

The truth is this, God is in control and he still allows bad things to happen to good people and though he will be there to see us through whatever comes our way, God is not an insurance policy against hurt, loss, or pain.

And so I stand, looking towards the East, waiting to see what emerges.

The You Tube link is taken from a wonderful documentary from a forward-thinking Mark Johnson. Play for Change: Peace through Music.

ON IMPRESSIONS AND IMPACTS

I used to work a second job at Barnes and Nobel as a bookseller. There was a young man who would come into the store who loved books. He loved words, and writing, and there was always something just a little sad and lost about him, like the swan trying to fit into the world of ducklings. I don't know how often he came in before I became aware of him, could distinguish him from the other hundreds of customers who came up to my cash wrap on any given Saturday or Sunday. But, I will never forget the night he became Eric to me.

He had been given a gift card for his birthday, he was all of fourteen, turned that day. He was small for his age, all arms a legs. Light freckles across pale white skin, fair sandy hair, thick coke bottle lenses, voice not yet changed. He stood for a long time at the end of the cash wrap, sorting through his books, making what were clearly painful choices about which books to keep and which to put back. After making his choices he turned to replace the rejects back on the shelves from which he had taken them, thus endearing himself to me. Most would have simply left the books at the end of the cash wrap for me to put away.

He made his way back up to the register and placed his treasured books on the counter for me to ring up.

I already knew the answer to the mandated question, "Do you have a Barnes and Noble card to save ten percent tonight?"

"Oh, yes. This card saves me tons of money."

I rang up his books, bagged them, slid his discount card through the register, and then signaled for him to slide his gift card. Being the nosy person I am, I had already asked about the card and found his grandmother had bought it for him for his birthday. He blushed when I asked, "So when is your birthday?"

"Today."

"So you just couldn't wait even a day, huh? "

A deeper shade of red flushed across his cheeks, as he shrugged, "Well, ya know."

"Yes, sir, I surely do know. Books are my best friends too. Happy Birthday!"

We shared a chuckle and he allowed himself to make eye contact with me finally.

"Thanks."

"Ok, that leaves three dollars and forty cents."

His eyes flew to mine as a look of horror flashed across his face along with the deepest shade oh crimson I have seen on any living human.

"Um, well...I'm going to have to put one back. Are you sure, 'cause I did the math?"

"I think when you did the math you took the ten percent off but forgot to add back on the tax."

Though I didn't think it possible, his face grew an even deeper shade of red.

"Damn, I mean... um, damn."

"Hey, listen, you come in here a lot don't you?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, look, I have that much right here." I said, as I tipped my badge over to secure the money I always kept tucked there for just such cases, "Let me cover your tax. You can pay me back later if you remember and if not, we'll just call this a birthday present from me to you."

"No, you don't need to do that, honest."

"Yes, I do, honest. I know just how you feel. I love books too. it would destroy my day to have to put another one back. It's not a big deal. This happens all the time, it's why I keep this money tucked away. So? Come on, what do you say?"

"Thanks, I'll pay you back."

"Okay, if you do. Okay if you don't. No worries either way."

When I came to work the following Saturday, my boss handed me a bag. Inside the bag was the book Perks of a Wallflower, and a short note along with the three bucks and change.

Thanks for the books. Here's a good one from one book-lover to another.

Eric

I wasn't surprised by either the note or the book, though I was touched by both. I had been covering book-lover's taxes for a while and I almost always got paid back and usually there was a little something extra, though I never expected it, I had just come to trust the goodness of people.

Eric became a fixture at my cash wrap. He would come in on my days off and ask when I would be in next then show up at the start of my shift and follow me about talking books and life, school and philosophies. I challenged him to try different books and he threw the challenge right back at me, and so we each learned and grew from the other. Each of our lives opened a bit, expanded a tad.

Through the months I came to know him in a real way as book and philosophical talks began to bleed into real life. His life. We would talk about the wisdom of allowing government to legislate morality and end up talking about his rejection and hurt. His talks about the pain of the protagonist from his latest novel would soon lend themselves to talks about his own personal pain.

As I put away books left carelessly behind, I also picked up bits and parts about this young man, a boy really. His aloness was palpable. He spent most of his Friday and Saturday nights following me about the aisles of the B&N.

I watched him turn fifteen, and then sixteen. Slowly through those years a group of friends started to join him. First two girls, dressed all in black, with Emoness oozing from their pores. I watched as his too-high-waisted dark blue-jeans became faded black, knee torn, silver studded belted jeans and his polo shirts became dark torn t-shirts sporting some dark and I'm sure meaningful to someone saying. Soon three other boys joined the group as they made their weekend visits to the bookstore and coffee shop. The one thing that never changed were our talks.

He would leave his friends in the attached Starbucks to follow me for a bit and talk about this book or that article in the paper, or this current affair and what did I think? Or was I aware?

Towards the end of my time at the Barnes and Noble he came into the store alone and antsy. I didn't know what was up, but within five minutes of his entrance it was clear something had happened--something big. It was a fairly busy Saturday night and he came to the cash wrap several times to try and say something that he never was able to start before a customer would come needing to pay for their books.

I could finally take his discomfort no longer and suggested we have a talk outside when I went on break in half-an-hour. I told him I would meet him at the far east steps. He agreed and left the store.

I was surprised to find him waiting at the door when I came through. His nerves were contagious, and I found myself becoming jittery. It took him several false starts to tell me what I had long suspected.

"Well, you see, the thing is... Well, there is someone I want you to meet. He's really important to me."

He led me to a forty-something looking man who put his arms around Eric and gave him a snugly hug reserved for ones most intimates.

I was keenly aware of Eric's studying of my face, though pretending to be casual. I was being watched very closely, ever eye flicker, every scrunch of the forehead. His eyes were pleading with me to not let him down, to please, understand. It was difficult to control my face for I was very disturbed by the age difference between this boy and what I perceived to be a dirty old man, and in all fairness would have been equally horrified had Eric been a girl, but I knew the way I reacted would be a deal breaker for Eric. He was coming out of the closet and he would perceive any negative reaction on my part as disapproval and would forever close the door on any influence I may have earned through the years.

"I want you to meet Tim. He's my boyfriend."

My brain scrambled for something safe to say, any safe reaction to buy me time to process this situation. I offered my hand to Tim and asked how they had met, meaning, "What in the world can you have in common enough with this young boy to justify sleeping with him."

"He works at Borders." Was Eric's quick response. Tim stood by silently letting this boy do his fighting and talking.

Lucky, Eric's answer offered me the escape I sought.

"So, let me get this straight, you've been cheating on me with Borders?"

The relief felt by all was tangible. Mine, for being spared a tough choice between being honest and alienating a young man who needed trusted adult counsel or lying and there by being a part of something damaging to this boy I had come to care for. His for having been proven right in trusting me. For not having been rejected and let down. Tim's for simply not being called on poor behavior and spared the discomfort of my judgments.

In the weeks that followed, Eric talked about the difficult days he was facing. He had been raised in the church by very firmly religious parents and though they loved Eric and were doing their best to accept him, accept this difficult news, for it had to be difficult, they were not completely accepting. They tried to talk him out of his feelings, and I have to say, I'm not sure I could or would have done much better were he my child, though the age gap between his first chosen lover and the youngness of his years would come into play more soundly than the fact that his first lover was a man,though that would be something I would have to work through and come to terms with as well.

Many of Eric's friends turned on him, they were, after all, raised in the church along side Eric, but his core group, the ones who came each week with him remained steadfast, if somewhat perplexed.

Eric faced difficult days at school as he came out in the grandest of styles, tapping into some stereotypes and waving them about him like a rainbowed flag.

Too often I wanted to ask him to be more subtle so he could be spared the hurt, but this was his road and he had to decide where and how to step.

I only got to spend a few more weeks with Eric before life forced me to quit the bookstore with only a days notice.

I haven't seen Eric in over four years. I have thought about him often and wondered how he was. Hoped he had found peace and happiness.

Today, I found a friends request waiting for me from Eric. I was stunned. I haven't a clue how he found me. I don't think I had ever shared my last name with him. I was just Pamela from the B&N, but found me he did.

I accepted Eric's request and gave him my number. Within ten minutes of responding my phone rang.

He is now twenty. Lives in Italy and speaks the language fluently. He wants to be a linguistics, and work as an interpreter. He is in a loving relationship with a young man his own age, and they are currently learning to speak Japanese, and plan to move to Japan to live. He is happy. Says his journey through accepting and dealing with his own sexuality has brought him closer to God.

He is smart, and sweet, and still full of insights and passion.

He expressed his dismay at my disappearance from his life, the void it left. He shared his darkest hours with me, where he knew who he was but before he was able or willing to show that person to the world. He spoke about finding strength in our talks. And then he completely stunned me and brought me to my knees.

He shared how he had waffled for many months between showing his true self and risking what felt like everything to him, or simply choosing to be no more. He said many of the conversations we had shared were his seeking his own answers, testing to see if perhaps I would/could accept him no matter what, and then deciding if I would maybe others could too.

The thing is, when brushing against the lives of others we don't know what impact we are making.

Eric is a reminder to me to be careful to leave a loving impression behind.

I am also astounded by the loving care of God the Father. Never have I been so intensely and intimately aware of the truthfulness of Romans 8:28 "for all things work together for the good of those who love the lord and are called according to his purpose."

Eric did two things today that impacted my life as surely and soundly as he claims I have his.

As mere humans we are rarely given a glimpse into the time frame of God's hand, but in sharing with me today, Eric showed me a tiny, tiny bit of his time line.

During my time with Eric I was watching a student of mine, a little four-year-old, struggle with his sexuality, as I have shared here in an earlier post, and because of Cooper I was struggling with my own ideals and beliefs and many of these personal conflicts worked their way into conversations with Eric. God used Cooper to challenge me and he used my conflict and growing awareness to comfort Eric, give voice to his own confusion. In watching me come to terms with my own wrong thinking, Eric found the security to find his own terms.

Now here is the truly amazing thing to me. Today Eric gave me some long sought answers. I am struggling within my relationship with God, wondering if he hasn't closed the door on me and left me for lost, and it has only been in the pass few months that I have even considered there could be grace enough for me, to cover even the sin of rebuking him. I would not have been opened to the idea before now. Eric told me how he has been looking for me, on and off, through these four years. It is not chance or circumstance that he only found me today. It is the hand of God, showing me his grace, showing me that even when I felt myself lost to him, beyond his grace, he was still using my life to touch the lives of others for him. I can feel the dawning of acceptance growing inside me today.

What a mighty and loving Father we have.

Today my heart breaks with love and gratitude, fully aware how undeserving I am of such love.