Today is National Coming Out Day, and I intended to write a post about its significance because I am the sister of a gay brother, and because my second novel, The Edge of Grace, is partially based on our experiences.

In looking for a picture to use with the post, I tripped across the one you see above. It brought me to Canyonwalker Connections, an I-58 mission by Kathy, who states on her site her mission is: “Loosen the chains of injustice, untie the cords of the yoke, set the oppressed free and break every yoke. Then you will be called Repairer of the Breach.” Isaiah 58. To educate and create dialogue between the Christian Church and the glbt Christian community.” 

In thinking about the idea of “coming out,” it occurred to me that not only is the closet not limited to gender as in gays, lesbians, transsexuals and bisexuals; it’s crowded with straight people too. Only they’re closeted in their racism, discrimination, prejudice.

For example, the ones who look around and, not seeing faces of color, begin telling jokes about people of other races or religions. As the wife of a Jewish husband, whose daughter’s husband is black, you’d be amazed (or maybe, sadly, not) at what I hear from people who do not know my family. Pillars of the community on the outside, but their mortar is crumbling on the inside.

People with alcohol, drug, gambling and other addictions are smashed into the closet as well. Doing their best to maintain the facade of “Biff and Buffy” with all their friends and family, they hope the closet door doesn’t have a window.

And, smashed in the closet are straight Christians as well.  I’m not just talking about the ones who secretly watch The Ellen DeGeneres Show or The Nate Berkus Show.  There are Christians who struggle with all sorts of issues who fear revealing the dysfunction in their own families. And sharing that closet are Christians who tell me things like, “You know, my (insert name of family member) is gay, and I’m okay with it, but….”

Kathy is clearly a brilliant woman because she read my mind about the post I intended to write today, only she wrote it a year ago. In her post, “I’m Coming out as an Ally for GLBT Christians,” Karen writes:

“Yes, I run into closeted Christians all the time.  And no, they are not gay, lesbian, bisexual or transgender. They are straight, like me. But, they love their GLBT friends and family and are coming to a realization that what they’ve been told or thought they understood may not be the heart of God.  They see honor, integrity and even Jesus and the Holy Spirit in their GLBT friends.  Evidenced in the very same group they have been told cannot possible be Christian because they are queer.    In some churches, it is not safe to even ask questions about homosexuality, about any thing. So, how can they dare openly dialogue about this issue, this hot button topic  in most Christian congregations?”

I’ve paid a price for writing The Edge of Grace, especially because it’s published under a Christian publisher’s imprint. There are those Christians who have not confronted me or my publisher directly, only in thinly veiled references to my novel, suggesting any critical acclaim for it came from sycophantic Christians. Some who would be content if my Christian baptism could be retroactive. I know my novel brings up questions, and I never claimed to be an authority on psychology or theology. I’m a storyteller, and I know my experiences and my characters’ experiences. I believe Jesus called us to love. Period.

As Karen so aptly stated: “Is there a cost to coming out as affirming?  Yes, there can be.  Most likely not as extreme as my upfront price. You may get labeled as ; heretic, unbeliever, unrepentant, tool of Satan, words I don’t say or write (and that is by Christians!), lesbian, “at minimal” bisexual or gay.  People will argue with you over non-related topics because surely you must now be misguided, stupid and have never studied the Scriptures. Others will unfriend you, unfollow you, unlike you.  All because you think Jesus was telling the truth when He said to love your neighbors unconditionally and that “whosoever” really does mean whosoever.”

I encourage you to read the rest of her post HERE.

Overwhelming though, I’ve also been blessed, even by those who may not agree with the message of the book, but who respect the relationship my brother and I share, and who acknowledge that it gave them cause to consider “the other side” as it were.

I hope in 2013, we can look at National Coming Out day as one that gives us pause and cause to consider what we’re holding on to that we fear may cause us to be judged by others.

What closet do you need to come out of?

The American College of Obs and Gyns is recommending that every pregnant woman be offered a test to screen for Down Syndrome and other chromosomal defects.

“About one in 800 babies has Down syndrome, a condition where having an extra chromosome causes mental retardation, a characteristic broad, flat face and small head and, often, serious heart defects.”

I’ll own that I’m hypersensitive to this issue; after all, I have a daughter, Sarah, who is 28-years-old who has DS. Sarah has a twin sister, Shannon, who does not have DS. Were we surprised when the girls were born? You betcha. Even the OB/GYN was surprised.

We knew we were having twins, but twenty-eight plus years ago, one ultrasound to prove it was the only protocol at the time. After all, I was 29 and already had two other children. No high-risk or hereditary concerns.

For those of you who read my blog, you already know that Sarah is more than mental retardation, a broad, flat face, and small head. She is so much more than an extra chromosome and a “condition.” She does not have any heart defects, except when her boyfriend tells her that he’s thinking about his old girlfriend. Sarah does not think she is cute or beautiful. No, my friend, ask her. She will tell you that she is GORGEOUS. And, as for her head, I assure you it’s certainly not microscopic and, for however small it’s rumored to be, it certainly can be stubborn.

She writes stories on her computer, her AlphaSmart, and any notebook she can find. She’s an avid Word Search puzzle fan, and she works the most complicated snake-around things I’ve ever seen. She folds clothes, she empties the dishwasher, she helps me cook, she sets the table, she cleans her bedroom and bathroom, she rakes and sweeps outside, she bowls, she is wild about going to LSU games with her father, she loves “Game Days” when LSU plays, she loves hanging out in book stores and picking out books to read, she has extensive movie and CD collections (some purchased with her own money from her own job), she has her own cell phone and knows how to use it to call anyone at anytime (ask her siblings), she orders her own food at restaurants, she adores her niece, she can spell better than many of the high school juniors I teach, she reads and studies her Bible almost every day.

And if you’ve never been to church to witness Sarah singing, you are truly missing an extraordinary worship experience. Sometimes she signs along with the songs. Her love for the Lord transforms her when she is celebrating. She tells me that some nights the moon looks like a banana, and on other nights it looks like a pizza. She listens to “I Can Only Imagine” by Mercy Me and talks to me about Bailey, my grandson/ her nephew who went to heaven when he was a month old, and how happy he is with her Meemaw and Papa in heaven.

For the record, she has the small ears and crooked little fingers also characteristic of DS. She has forearms that are not exactly proportional. She missed the simian crease in her palms. She has the misfortune of having a short mother (4’11″), so that combined with the tendency for DS adults to be below average height–we’re just glad she’s 4’5″. And, also for the record, her twin, Shannon, is vivacious, beautiful, equally stubborn, and also without heart defects.

So, if 1 of 800 babies have DS, that leaves 799 who do not. And what guarantees do those 799 have that nothing will ever happen to them for the rest of their lives that will, in one way or another, damage them mentally, physically or emotionally? Any one of my other four children could, by virtue of an auto accident or sporting accident or random mishap, be rendered as retarded or more so than their sister.

My children learned sympathy and empathy at early ages. Some kids at school would ask if they were retarded like their sister, and sometimes adults would make the dumbest statements, often in front of Sarah. We’d have to remind people that having DS did not mean she was deaf. Once someone asked me which of the kids were the twins. One lady looked at me, and I couldn’t make this up, said, “Are you sure?” Another genius, when I was having the girls’ pictures taken at a studio, pointed to Sarah and said to me, “What’s wrong with her?” (I think my reply was, “Nothing. But what’s wrong with you for asking?”).

If I had a choice, would I want Sarah to be “normal”? Well, of course. ( And I’ll save that definition of normal for another time.) For years I was terribly angry with God. God, who could raise Lazarus from the dead, wouldn’t take away a chromosome? Then a friend of mine pointed out to me that Lazarus died twice.

But God didn’t fix Sarah. God used Sarah to fix me.

I am a better person for having had the privilege of being Sarah’s mother. Her life is infinitely awash in goodness. At times, she’ll look at me and say, “I love my life.”

I dare us normal people to say that with the conviction she does.

After yesterday, I have an idea for a book. But, it’s totally raw and totally not yet discussed with anyone whose opinion matters (agent/editors), but in the name of Beth Jusino (read the post!) honesty, here it goes:

First…a disclaimer: I love my husband. We’ve been married twenty years. He is an incredible man. He is also, at times, woefully clueless.

So, this post is primarily aimed at husbands ( and if you’re one of those reading this-I know, I know-you have wifey issues. Start a blog, write a post about it):

Your wife says:

I waited a [specify period of time] to [do/be something], and it didn’t happen, and I ate [something off the chain for any meal] and [name something equally outrageous behavior for wife].

DO NOT-IN THE NAME OF ALL THINGS HOLY-DO NOT  pause or grunt and then reply with any or all of the following:

a) What’s for dinner?

b) How’s the weather over there?

c) Did you remember to [name anything annoying]?

For the sake of your relationship and to insure marital harmony and to avoid martial (no, that’s not a typo) unrest, I present a few alternative replies:

I’m so sorry, my [term of endearment]. I know how important that [do/be something] was to you. Do you want me to:

a) beat up  [people/things responsible for wife's angst]

b) take you out to dinner?

c) make an appointment for a massage for you?

d) watch the kids so you can [an activity she rarely has a chance to do alone...like drinking a cup of coffee, taking a shower, going to the bathroom...]

GOT IT?

photo credit: kmohman

In “Write for Your Life” Anna Quindlen writes, “Wouldn’t all of us love to have a journal, a memoir, a letter, from those we have loved and lost? Shouldn’t all of us leave a bit of that behind?”

I’m certainly hoping my children will answer a resounding, ” Amen, yes, sister!” to that question; otherwise, what in the blazes will I do with the mountains of marbled composition books lying in wait?

Some days, I’m terrified that I will be left drooling in a hospital bed, conscious enough to know my kids are attempting to revive me by smashing me over the head with my journals in retribution for the words that they may feel that I’ve hit them with.

Let’s face it; there’s some putrid stuff in those pages. About myself, about my marriage(s), teaching, my kids both biological and classroom. Some days were just not pretty. I’ll own that. But, honestly, I don’t have the kind of time it would take to edit them.

And what would I be saying by doing that? That I don’t trust them to understand that I was human? That if that know that I hated and doubted and envied and angered and pouted, they will be disappointed in me? That they won’t understand that those words on the page were my feelings at that particular time, on that particular day, in that particular year?

It takes a lot of manure to produce a garden. I hope my children can plow through what they find in my journals to understand that I always prayed to use it to produce a fertile life, abundant with hope and joy and laughter and gratitude. I didn’t always succeed. But I never took my hands off the plow.