Out of the Closet

I received the call the day before leaving for a new job in England. It was from my best friend from college who called to tell me he was gay. I was shocked, but, looking back, I shouldn’t have been. Still, on my flight across the ocean, I thought about our friendship, about my friend and what it must have been like to have lived in the closet for all those years, as well as what a relief it must have been to come out. Living in a closet is not unique to people hiding their sexual orientation. Closets come in all shapes and sizes, and the reasons to hide in them are countless. 

Everyone, I believe, has found refuge in such a place at some point in his or her life. I grew up with a room that had a big closet. I used to bring my stuffed animals in there with me, a blanket, and a flashlight. It was cozy and safe. Over time, however, cozy became cramped, safe became lonely. I remember the cool air waiting for me when I opened the door. I’m sure my friend felt that way after he came out of his closet. 

Closets provide refuge. In them, we can hide part or all of us because, for whatever reason, we feel something about us is wrong or needs hiding. Fearing we’re not good enough, we retreat to a place where no one will see, judge or laugh at us. Just writing that makes me sad. 

I marvel at my friend’s courage even after all these years. I give thanks for the way he expanded my heart and empowered me to see in a new way. I believe we’ve all been given the gift of life, and God wants us to live life fully – with all that we are, with all that we have. That’s what an abundant life is all about, and on this, my friend’s birthday, I write to invite you to open the closet doors and breathe the fresh air waiting for us all.

Extra Credit:

1.     What parts of your life do you hide from others? From yourself?

2.     Why do you think those parts need to be hidden?

3.     What would it take to bring them out of the closet, and what would such a full or abundant life look and feel like?

Fathers' Day 2020: New Frames

Like many people living though COVID 19 times, I used the stay-at-home days to tackle long neglected home projects. Piles of paperwork were filed, new batteries were put in the fire detectors whether they needed them or not, and each bicycle is now is operational form. Recently, I’ve turned my attention to the many photographs displayed throughout our home and my studio. Some needed to be replaced with more current photos, but others just needed to be reframed. I always marvel at how much better a picture can look if it’s put in a suitable frame. 

I suppose that work prepared me for today, Fathers’ Day. I know it’s a wonderful celebration for many, but there are those for whom this is not an easy day. “It’s complicated,” said a friend when he spoke of Fathers’ Day, and I couldn’t agree more. Searching for father songs for my Spotify Fathers’ Day playlist, has shown me what a common struggle today can be. 

My father died when I was a freshman in college. I adored him. In fact, I’d say I idolized him. A kind and loving man with a wonderful sense of humor. A consummate performer, he was brilliant and enormously creative. He was a man of faith and lived out that faith in word as well as deed. The problem is, when someone like that dies so early in life, their reputation becomes legendary, their shadow all-encompassing.

Then there’s the whole being a father thing. Like New Year’s Eve, when people put on silly hats and drink too much all in the name of forcing a good time, Father’s Day can feel a bit orchestrated. Like midnight on January 1, we wait for the band to play only to see all the ways we haven’t been the fathers we hoped to be. 

This year I’m going to fight such morose thoughts and let the day be what it is. I’m going to accept my fatherhood for what it is and give thanks for the father I had. I’m going to look at Fathers’ Day anew, giving thanks for the many blessings rather than bemoaning the many shortcomings. In other words, I’m going to take all my old thoughts and images out of their frames and move them into new ones.

Just a Draft

It’s just a draft. It’s finished, but not completed. Someone once said of art that a piece is never done, it just ends at an interesting moment. Looking at the draft, I see a piece that’s reached an interesting moment, but there’s so much more to do.

The draft has a beginning, middle and end. It has characters, a plot, and many themes. I should celebrate all of that, but there’s more to the characters than what I’ve written, the plot has more twists and turns than I understand, and I think I know what the story is about, but themes keep showing up and demanding my attention.

I guess this draft has more to teach me than just how to write. Like it, I have a life story that I think I understand. It’s one with twists and turns that leave me questioning my life’s purpose and whether it has a theme at all. There are specific moments in my story when I can look back and see myself as if a character in a novel, but, like those in the draft, I realize there’s more to each of those characters than I’ll ever fully understand - there’s the boy driving away from the hospital with all his father’s possessions in a tied-up garbage bag who wonders how to be a man, the young man who has his son on his lap and no idea what it means to be a father, and the boy putting on a plastic collar in the mirror before his ordination shaking his head in disbelief, and the successful chaplain tripping over his academic robes in England wondering if he’ll ever find his home, to name a few of my characters. You, I’m sure, have many characters of your own. 

Doing the work is not easy. Whether creating a novel or a life, it’s a continuous effort that never ends. It requires showing up, or getting your ass in the chair, as one writer colorfully describes it. We also need a willingness to go where the story and characters lead. There will be interesting moments that allow us to pause , but then there will be more work to do. We’re all works-in-progress, and that can be as frustrating as it can be comforting. 

As I crawl from my therapist’s office, I can at least take comfort in one thing: I’m just a draft. We all are.