Hannah's Post About Our Commitment Ceremony

We arrived a half-hour or so ago at our final hotel in Japan, an inn at a hot springs area far up into the mountains. As we sat down in the lobby of this place that has been here for over 200 years, I opened up my Facebook and saw that my daughter Hannah had sent me a link to her blog post about our commitment ceremony. I am sharing that link here because it made me cry. It is so beautiful ... and I don't think I could express any better what transpired and was felt that evening.

Here's the link.

Thank you, Sweetheart.

Sweet Breezes: I Love My Children

I love my children. Although there has been much hurt and pain in our family over the course of the past three-four years (much of which has been beyond my control), every now and then – more now than then – I catch a vision, feel a breeze, sense a new creation, of a changed, different, more healthy, more vibrant family that is emerging. Not a family in the traditional Mormon sense by any means, but a collection of individuals who are bound together by love and by a common value of living life authentically within different dynamics.

I had a dream last night, or rather a series of dreams, somewhat like a movie showing then and now scenes of the lives of various of my children. Of course, I don’t remember any of the details now – I’m terrible at remembering my dreams – but what I do remember is what I felt: an overwhelming sense that things happen for reasons, people turn out the way they do for reasons, and love and authenticity are the healing balms in people’s lives.

Then this morning, I read recent posts in my older daughters’ blogs and felt such a sense of love, such a tingling of renewed life. My daughter Sarah wrote “an open letter to God,” expressing her love for her husband and appreciation for her growth. I want to quote it in its entirety:

Dear God, 

Thank you for this man. I love him. Thank you for helping me to see the good in him. For letting me make the choice to marry him. For answering my prayers to help me love him when I didn't feel like loving. For helping me let him love me, even when I don't love myself. For teaching me that the most soul-fulfilling marriages happen not when two people need each other, but when people want to share life together. For helping me see that my husband doesn't judge me. For helping me learn to accept help not because I deserve it, or because someone wants to give it to me, but because I need it. For whispering to me to not judge myself as weak when I can't do something. For being patient with me when I'm a stubborn, impertinent child. For admiring me for the woman I'm growing into. For opening your heart and your world to me. For filling my soul like nothing else can. 

I love you, God.
Love,
Me

Then I read a couple of Rachel’s most recent posts. She just left for Philadelphia yesterday to take a nanny job there. Here are some extracts of what she wrote leading up to that departure:

“The point [of my recent stay with Sarah out in California] was I will always be grateful for that time to be me with no strings attached. I learned so many things about myself that helped me understand what I want to do and who I want to be. And I learned that it's okay to not have life figured out. if you talk with most people, they will admit to having no idea what they are doing! Do any of us? None of us are experts on 'how to live life.' There is no guide, no rule book. Why should we be limited to a set path when there are endless paths to be explored?”

“But frankly, I don't like having a plan. I don't want to know what my future holds...what mistakes I will make and what opportunities will be offered to me. I don't want to know. I'd rather enjoy the ride and let life take me where it wants to go and surprise me along the way …

“So...overall if you ask me what I plan to do next I won't answer you :) I will shrug my shoulders and say, 'who knows?' No one knows what I will do next. What does it matter? I don't want to live my life waiting on the future. I want to live my life in the present.

“And I can't tell you how excited I am to go out to Philadelphia. Honestly, I'm not scared. I'm excited. So so so excited...and happy. Happier than I ever remember being. It's a good feeling to be able to smile and feel content inside. You might see drastic things happen to me while I'm gone that make you think, 'really Rachel? I didn't know you were like that.' It's because for the first time in my life I feel like I get to be me. Any kind of me that I want. There are no rules. There is no guide.”

Then there is my daughter Hannah, whose vibrancy, along with that of her gorgeous daughter Hazel, infuses her blog. This recent picture of “Nutella” says a thousand words.

I love my kids. My big kids and my little kids. Aaron, our 10-year-old, texts me short messages from time to time. The other day, he sent this one, Aaron’s spelling challenges making the note all the more endearing to me:

“Levi ses goodnight the cat ses meaw.”

I love my kids.

"They all found me ..."

I have written in previous posts about my daughter Hannah's blog post at the end of June, in which she wrote about her efforts to reconcile her love for her father and his partner with what leaders in the LDS Church had taught and told her about relationships such as I have with my beloved, Mark.

The line from her post that stuck with me, that resonated the most, was this sentence: "In a moment of frustration, [my husband] said to me "You need to stop looking for the negative things about the Church!" But I know, and he realizes now, I never looked for any of them. They all found me"[emphasis added].

How profound, and how true. When one is gay (and Mormon or various permutations of "Mormon"), the whole world looks different. But especially, the Church looks different. Because one is "other." The same often applies to family members of such "others," such as my beautiful daughter, Hannah.

Hannah went on to write, "The Mormon world is a beautiful, happy, wonderful one. I never wanted anyone or anything to ruin that for me. I WANT to be a part of that world. But my integrity won't allow ignorance anymore."

How beautiful is that? How poignant? 

I wanted that beautiful Mormon world more than anything for so many years. I tried SO hard to obtain it, to make it mine, to be a part of it, to breathe it, to live it. The Plan of Happiness. But it was not the Plan of Happiness. It was, sadly, a difficult, hurtful, destructive path. 

And ... at the end of the day, that [Mormon] world was and is ... an illusion. And being gay, accepting gayness, accepting loved ones who are gay, makes everything different. Because the old world no longer fits. It no longer exists. It is lost forever. And that is frightening ... and liberating.

If the second most senior apostle of the Mormon Church, Boyd K. Packer, had not given his infamous October 2010 Conference address, this blog might not exist. I might not exist as an openly gay man. 

I never planned to come out of the closet in which I had deposited myself many, many years ago. I resisted divorce and the end of the Mormon idyll, even when my ex-wife was pushing for divorce long before I "came out." But, in the end - as my daughter Hannah wrote - I didn't look for the negative things about the Church, they found me. Boyd Packer's words found me. And they catapulted me out of the closet ... and, ultimately, out of the Church to which I had devoted almost three decades of my adult life.

Talk about tragedy (in the truest sense of that word ...

My wish tonight, as I sit on my front porch on a Summer's eve, is that all those out there who, through no fault of their own, are finding troubling truths, might find peace and comfort. Because, there really, really is, LIFE ... somewhere over the rainbow.

You Just Haven't Tried Hard Enough

"Women who can't or who choose not to breastfeed 

are treated in much the same way as gay people."

Thus commented Cynthia, my counselor after I had told her about an experience I had had in Vancouver during my recent visit to my married daughter, Hannah, and her family.

As I have described in previous posts, my daughter gave birth to a beautiful baby girl in early November (which Mark and I have dubbed "Nutella"). She anticipated nursing her little girl. Hannah's mother was and is a huge breastfeeding advocate, and Hannah had been told her entire life, both by word and example (with her younger siblings), that nursing is good and bottle-feeding is bad. Numerous were the times that she heard that women who can't breastfeed simply haven't tried hard enough or they choose not to be bothered with it.

So Hannah was pre-programmed to breastfeed. But, when it came time to nurse her little baby, Nutella would have none of it. Hannah described these early days in a post on her blog, found here.

The experience was devastating for Hannah. She told me that one of the worst days of her life was on a day that she would have liked to have been visiting with her siblings and her mother, who had come up for the funeral of my former mother-in-law; instead, she was crying her heart out in her room, desperately trying to make nursing work.

But it didn't. For the next two months, Hannah struggled with this, as she described here on her blog. She eventually gave up trying to actually nurse Nutella and instead started expressing her milk. But this took a horrible toll on Hannah and on Nutella.

What was more important? Nursing or Nutella? And Hannah? What about her? She had been so programmed and felt such a failure. But she knew that what was "supposed" to be could not be. It has been said that suffering is the result of trying to pretend reality is not really reality, that it can be changed. Hannah suffered. Nutella suffered. Hannah's husband, Cary, suffered.

Finally, they accepted reality. In a heart-rending post, Hannah described this moment. What clinched it was a visit to Nutella's doctor, who summed up the situation, and their choice, like this: "Breast-milk is ideal, but life is not ideal." They switched to formula, and both Hannah and Nutella are thriving.

Hannah was describing this experience as we were driving into Vancouver a couple of weeks ago. She had been hurt because she felt like she hadn't been supported. Breastfeeding was treated as more important than her and Nutella's happiness. The principle was more important than the person. She felt that she had been treated like a failure and told, in effect, "You just haven't tried hard enough. Any baby can nurse if the mother just tries hard enough. There's no such thing as a baby 'not getting it.' The fault is with you, the mother, and not the baby."

As Hannah told me this, I couldn't help but draw an analogy to gay boys and men, particularly within a conservative religious environment like the LDS Church. Like Hannah and other women who are treated as defective if they, for one reason or another, are unable or choose not to nurse, these boys and men are castigated and told, "If you tried harder, you could overcome your homosexuality; you just haven't tried hard enough." They go through the hell of trying to be someone and something they are not. They try to ignore reality, and the result is suffering. Not the least of this suffering is the bitter disappointment and hurt of being treated, by those who are supposed to love them, as secondary: the principle is more important than the person. Denying your sexuality to support a belief system is more important than you are.

Thankfully, Hannah is in a much better "place" right now, having accepted reality. So is her gay father.

Of Granville Island, House Plans and Secret Passageways

"I don't think I knew that."

My daughter Hannah and I were browsing through shops on Granville Island in Vancouver and were walking towards the Kids Market - a little mini-mall of shops, each one of which sold children's goods - whether toys, books, clothing, etc.

I don't remember what triggered her comment, perhaps something in a shop window, but Hannah mentioned that she loved interior design.

"I don't think I knew that," I said. She then proceeded to tell me how she liked to rearrange the furniture in her room when she was younger. I laughed and told her the story about how I re-arranged the furniture at the house of my mother's friend when I was 5 or 6 years old and joked that perhaps that was one of the earliest indicators that I am gay.

As we walked, Hannah told me about how, when she was 10 or 11 or so, she started drawing house plans, down to the detail of where the appliances should go. I stopped in my tracks and simply said, "No way!" If I ever knew this, I had forgotten it; but I'm pretty sure I never knew this.

I was literally flabbergasted. The air seemed almost electric. I told Hannah about how I had done exactly the same thing when I was 10-12 years old - the exact same age Hannah was. I am quite sure I had never told any of my children this. It was part of my past that was too "gay" to talk about - or at least that's how I had felt. So between what I deemed too "gay" to talk about and what I was too ashamed to talk about, i.e., my family's dysfunction, my mother's abuse and my father's abandonment, my children knew very little of my childhood.

I proceeded to tell Hannah how I used to go down to the news stand in the little town in southern Illinois where I grew up and buy house plan magazines to look at the plans, then use them for ideas for my own plans, which I drew one after the other on graph paper. I further related that I would then proceed to furnish and decorate each of these houses with stuff picked out of the Sears and Montgomery Ward catalogs, making detailed lists of catalog numbers and prices. I mean, really, how gay is that?!

Telling Hannah all of this somehow seemed to open a secret passageway between me and my childhood and my daughter. Such a simple thing, yet so magical. It made me feel alive and connected to both myself and my daughter in a new way.

Vancouver: Of Granville Island, Dreams and Reclaiming My Family

I sat and watched my daughter Hannah feed Nutella, my little granddaughter. We were sitting in a food court area at Granville Island Market in Vancouver.

This had always been a favorite destination during our return visits to Vancouver since moving to Utah 16 years ago. Could it possibly be that long? When we lived there in the late 80's and 90's, we rarely went there; or at least I didn't. I was busy going to law school and working. It was only once we left that we came back.

So many of the visits over the years had seemed ... perfunctory. But this one was different. This one was special. I knew it would be as we were driving in from the foggy Fraser Valley into the city.

Granville Island is a special destination. It is one of those places, such as Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco or Pike Place Market in Seattle, that captures and concentrates the essence of a city. It is a place where memories are made. The location in the heart of the city, yet removed from the bustle of downtown, nestled against False Creek with views past the Burrard Street Bridge to Stanley Park and Burrard Inlet. The water taxis bustling back and forth. The seagulls. The variety of the Market, the quaintness of the various shops, studios and places of business.

This visit would mark a first: the first time I visited Granville Island with a grandchild. Similarly, it marked a first for Hannah. After we had found a place to park, unfolded the stroller, installed Nutella inside, and set off walking toward the market, she commented, "I am fulfilling a dream. I have dreamed of this day, when I would stroll around Granville Island, pushing my baby in its stroller, taking it all in, sharing it with her. Now, that day is here." I smiled, basking in the sweetness of that moment.

By the time we had walked around the market a bit, it was time to feed Nutella, which brings me back to my opening sentence. As I sat there watching my daughter feed her daughter, thoughts came into my mind about my family.

I reflected upon the family I had hoped to have before my marriage to my former wife turned south and ultimately crashed. I thought about what had happened since the separation and divorce. In so doing, I realized that I had unconsciously, or perhaps semi-consciously, clung to the idea that we all could still be part of one larger family, that my "old" family would sort of subdivide into two parts of the same whole with my partner added to the mix.

But I realized that this was wrong. What we have instead - and what I need to consciously embrace - is that two completely separate families have been created by the divorce - my ex-wife's being one and mine being the other. We - the two families - are independent, and the only connection we now have is that the two families consist in part of the same members, but with others added to the mix.

What's more, I also realized that I have allowed myself to view my family as being "alternative," which automatically denotes into "less than," "not the ideal," "different," "not the norm." As I wrote about this later in my journal, I expressed how good it felt to write "MY" family:

"I received a head rush of, like, wow, I am a person. I have a family that is mine - not in a possessive sense but in a sense that I don't have a family via or through of mediation of my ex-wife, which is how I viewed things for so long."

I could remember saying, after the birth of my first child, that my wife has a child and I'm married to her; therefore, I must have a child, too. Weird? Not. I viewed everything through my ex-wife, subrogating my role as parent to her. [Subrogate: to put one person in the place of another in respect of a right or claim; connected to the word "surrogate" which means to put in place of another, to appoint as a substitute for oneself.] Such an apt word! I allowed her to be the gateway through which my relationships with my children were channeled - just (as a matter of fact) I did the LDS Church (a subject for another time).

Thus, as I sat gazing upon Hannah and Nutella, I think that, for the first time, I realized/grasped/saw clearly that my relationship with my children is not dependent in any way, shape or form upon my ex-wife; that it is totally independent of her. I am a person and a parent independent of her.

Does this make sense?

What it boils down to, I think, is that for so long I saw myself as an appendage to someone else (in part, I think, because of low self-esteem and sense of self). Now (thanks largely to coming out and the consciousness that this has bestowed upon me), I am independent and I have a much stronger sense of self. When I saw myself as an appendage, I allowed all my relationships with my children to be filtered through my "host." Now, that is no longer the case. I am claiming my family, claiming my right to act as a parent and father in my own right, appointing no substitute for myself, devolving none of my rights to others.

Furthermore, my family is not less than. In point of fact, it is more than.

I am father, hear me roar. ;-0

Vancouver: Encounters with Fear

The young man stepped forward. "Excuse me, sir," he said, a hopeful sound in his voice. "Do you have a few minutes?" He appeared to be in his early 20's, about my oldest son's age, and was accompanied by a young woman of the same age. They were Greenpeace volunteers. 

We - me, my married daughter and her baby - were on a street on the edge of Gastown, an old section of downtown Vancouver. It was a week ago today. The skies were grey and overcast and there was a pronounced moist chill in the air.  The gentrification that is pushing its way steadily through the surrounding area hadn't quite made it to this street, and the shops that we passed had an edge of seediness to them, though they probably looked considerably better on a bright sunny day. Most things do.

I was familiar with Greenpeace. They have been around a long time. Not surprisingly, my daughter hadn't heard of the group, so I briefly filled her in on its work.

The volunteer held a clip board in his hand and a bright smile on his idealistic young face.  Back in the day, I would probably wouldn't have given this guy the time of day, even though I was sympathetic to their cause. I just wasn't a stranger person. I didn't do strangers very well, in part for reasons I explain below.

As it was, we only had so much time together. This guy looked like he wanted to talk to us about signing a petition. I frankly didn't want to take some of our time and give it to him, rationalizing that, in any event, I wasn't a resident of Canada. I politely declined and we moved on.

Later, after lunch in a neat little Peruvian place, we were walking up the street toward Canada Place (where all the cruise ships dock), my granddaughter nestled in a snuggly against her mother's chest. Ahead of us, we could see a short, crow-like woman, bent over a rolling walker, moving from person to person, obviously asking for money. As we drew closer, we could hear her yelling at someone, presumably because the person had been rude to her as they declined to give her any money.

Like many people, I hadn't particularly liked encounters with panhandlers. Partly, it was because of my not liking encounters with strangers. Partly, it was for the same reasons others don't like confrontations (which is often what they are) with panhandlers.

I steeled myself. I knew she would approach us as we drew near. Sure enough, as we pulled up beside her, rounding the corner, she turned to look at us. Inside a nest of very-nicely streaked hair was a wizened face with tiny eyes.

It's amazing what sorts of communication can pass through the mind in a split second. I made up a story about this woman, where she lived, what had brought her to this point in her life, how old she was, etc. I imagined her to be in her 60's, but in reality, she was probably about my age. Hard living prematurely ages.

She looked for a moment as though she was going to ask us her standard question: "Can you spare a quarter?" But then her eyes fell upon Nutella (the nickname for my granddaughter) behind me, and I could see them widen.

"Oh!" she crooned. "What a beautiful baby! Ohhh, look at the tiny little feet. Ohhh, isn't she precious? Ohhh, she's so beautiful!"

I felt nothing but goodness flowing out of this woman, and I could, with my mind's eye, see her being fed by simply gazing upon the image of my beautiful granddaughter, drinking in Nutella's sweetness.

The spell only lasted a few moments, then she looked up at my daughter and said, "You are so lucky." Then, looking at me, still smiling, she said, "Have a nice day."

She then turned, but after a second, pivoted back toward me and said, "I don't suppose you could spare a quarter?" I reached in my pocket. All I had were four pennies (which that very day, the Canadian government had started removing from circulation).

"I'm sorry," I replied. "This is all I have." To my shame, it didn't occur to me to reach around for my wallet and pull out some American bills. She looked disappointed for an instant, then smiled and turned away, making her way to her next encounter. I watched her for a moment. Then, as I was turning to walk away with my daughter, a couple came up to us, heading across the street.

"Did she creep you out?" the man said as he approached.

"No," savoring the sweet exchange we had just experienced, "not at all."

As I turned to walk away, I saw out of the corner of my eye a look come over the man's face that I would described as "perplexed." A few steps later, my daughter turned to me and said, "I'm proud of you, Dad."

Warmth. Love.

A little further on, as we walked back to the car, we again came upon the Greenpeace volunteers. Passing them, I turned, smiled and said, "You guys do good work." A brilliant smile lit up the young man's face. "Thank you!" he replied. "Have a great day!"

I felt good.

I entitled this post "Encounters with Fear." As it turns out, both my daughter and myself were affected by these encounters in Gastown. On her own blog, my daughter has written about what this encounter with the old woman on the street meant to her and how it prompted her to examine her own fears.

For me, there was a time - before I came out - that I was afraid to approach or interact with strangers, whether they were servers in a restaurant, people I passed on the street, panhandlers, whoever. I attribute that fear to life in the closet and to life in a religious system that engenders a categorization and judgment of people, particularly strangers.

Since coming out of the closet and leaving that religious system, I have found that I am much more open to encounters with strangers. And to the wonder within and stories of each person I might meet. And for that, I am grateful.