“The last time you and I saw each other was the funeral. I remember that day especially because I felt like I had to hold the family together. I didn’t have the right to grieve, so I ran around playing host and making sure everything went smoothly, because I didn’t want to hurt my family any more than I already had. It has been the single greatest struggle I have ever experienced…I am still trying to process all of it.”
“But you don’t still think it was your fault, do you?”
“No. But that is the problem with what you and I have always been raised to believe. We were taught that if you didn’t live up to a certain set of guidelines and standards, that God was out to
get
you. That He hated you, and His vengeance would be swift. At the time, blaming myself was the only thing that made sense.” Elizabeth speaks, and I know that no amount of words could ever hope to capture the intensity of the pain and heartache she felt over the past thirteen years. I cannot really ever understand, but I feel sick as she pours out her heart. And as she tells me her story, part of me is overcome with shame because I have said to so many people, so many times: If you don’t follow the letter of the law, God will punish you. Elizabeth’s face shows me the consequences of that mentality.
I wonder how many people have experienced what Elizabeth experienced and felt that their orientation was the reason something bad happened. I wonder how many parents have told their children is was their fault and forced guilt and shame upon them. I wonder how many times I have used those same tactics to try and “save” someone.
“It has taken years of counseling and therapy to get past that guilt and self-blame. And it doesn’t help that I have to hide who I am to my family. I love them so much, and I just wish I could be in their lives authentically. I wish I could be honest with them,” she says.
“For whatever it’s worth, I know Jacob didn’t die because you are a lesbian. He died from a rare strain of a virus that has taken many before him and will probably take many more before it’s all said and done. Never, never, never think that God works so maniacally. You were fearfully and wonderfully made, and I hope you’ll always remember that.”
Elizabeth reaches across the table and grabs my hand, and for a moment I feel like a small child again, like she is my pastor’s daughter who comes over and orders pizza and watches movies with me. I feel that childhood connection and that bond and know that she is the same person now that she was then. Yes, she is older and wiser, but she is the same. She was always so kind, and I am happy that she hasn’t lost that trait. I am happy that she is not bitter and jaded and hard-hearted…that through all of the years and all of the pain, she is still the beautiful person I knew as a boy.
The three of us walk to our cars and spend another hour in conversation. I know this is the start of a beautiful friendship, and, more, I know that in seeing each other, part of us both is finally able to heal. We have been given a rare gift. We have witnessed each other as functioning, healthy adults: two people who have made it through an upbringing of faith that teaches works above faith and guilt above love. And we are stronger for it, I think. Elizabeth is strong. I know because she overcame her dark night of the soul, but instead of running away from her faith, she ran to it honestly. I hug my friend and her partner, and we say our goodbyes.
I feel profoundly blessed as I navigate this crazy journey that will soon be coming to a close. Elizabeth has confirmed the powerful truth that our God is not vindictive. When He acts in our lives, guilt is not His medium. Love is. Love is the conqueror of guilt and shame. I get into my car and wave to Elizabeth and Nicole. I hope they enjoy a long and happy life together, and that my old pastor comes around. I hope he understands how precious life is, and that Elizabeth is not a ghost. She is a vibrant and loving young woman, and he is lucky to have her for a daughter.
My brother and I were inseparable as children. When I was two or three, Andrew invented a game called “Baby Human.” In this game, I was baby human, but for some reason I always acted like a dog. I think it was Andrew’s attempt to show our parents that he wanted a puppy, but my only motivation was making my big brother happy. And I loved it when he laughed, especially when I was the one that made him laugh. He was my hero and has remained my hero for most of my life.
I was always the less athletic one. When Andrew and I played football in high school, I remember his devotion in teaching me the plays and helping me work on my three-point stance. We would stand in the yard and practice together, and in true big-brother fashion, he was always there for me when I needed him. I remember one grueling practice in particular. We were running extra laps as punishment for having lost a game the previous weekend, and when I was two laps away from finishing, I fell to my knees, exhausted. I wanted to pass out, to throw up, and I wanted water. I wanted to quit. Andrew had already finished his laps but saw me from the other side of the field. And so, in the ways befitting a big brother and team captain, he ran around the track and helped pick me up. He ran those last two laps with me and pushed me forward with words of encouragement. He wouldn’t let me quit. He wouldn’t let me lose hope. He wanted me to succeed. It was a pinnacle moment in my young life, because it was the moment I saw my brother as a man instead of just a boy. He had grown up. I hoped when I grew up, I would be at least half the man and half the leader he was.
Two months before my experiment began, I was the best man in my brother’s wedding, and with the help of his friends, we threw him an incredible two-day bachelor party. I knew what was about to happen with my life, and he had no clue, but at least I got that moment with him before I leapt into the unknown. The morning of his wedding, we sat and drank coffee on the porch of the farmhouse and talked about what he thought being a husband would be like. I told him he was going to be a great husband for the same reasons he is a great brother. He is faithful, and he is a servant. That’s really all there is to it.
I think about my brother often—every day, in fact—and my heart aches, knowing it has been a little over five months since we last spoke. Only a few weeks ago, I heard from my mom that my brother and his wife are trying to have a baby. The thought of this silence between us lasting longer than it already has is crushing. The endless depression, knowing that my family is splintered, has weighed heavily on me. I did what I had to do, and I would do it again, but I hate myself for having lied to Andrew and Maren. I remember that first morning after I came out, when I came out to them while we stood in the kitchen, and I remember the feeling of my nerves boiling over. I remember throwing up and crying at the same time, and how Maren brought me the can of Sprite and asked me to come back inside. It was the first true act of kindness during my experiment, a lesson in humility, and a realization that I really am lucky. So many others aren’t. Liz surely wasn’t as lucky. Nor was Will, or Shawn, or so many others. I was lucky.
To have a brother is to have a second self, a companion during the formative years and beyond. Having a brother means having a co-conspirator, and someone else that understands your frustration with your parents. It truly is a beautiful relationship, being brothers, and when Andrew and I stopped talking unexpectedly, part of my being vanished.
It is time to drive to my brother’s house. I decide to go under the guise of delivering a a book that I think Andrew will like, and I write him a letter and tuck it inside the front cover. I do not know what to expect from this encounter, but I hope that he will at least read the letter and know that I miss him.
I turn the keys to the ignition, take a deep breath, and pull out of the driveway. The burden of reconciliation belongs to me. My year is winding down, and this is another thing I know I have to do. A part of me is thankful, though, that he found out when he did. Where would I be and what would I do, if I was just about to tell him the truth? I’d be emotionally unstable, like I was that morning before I told him I was gay in the first place. And while my second coming out still looms with others, I feel a small measure of peace knowing that with my family, all that’s left is communicating the lessons this year has taught me, and praying that those lessons are as eye-opening for them as they have been for me.
As I drive to my brother’s house, I think about other areas in my life where the burden of reconciliation belongs to me. I used to believe that it was the responsibility of gays and lesbians to come to me and to the church, but now I see it has always been the opposite. The damage done by the mainstream church is vast, and the burden rests on our shoulders to apologize without expectations or reservation. It is not come be who I am; it’s I’m truly and deeply sorry; and, please, let me be in relationship with you.
I park on the street in front of the house like I did that day five months before, and I sit. My brother’s truck is in the driveway, so the inevitability of seeing him becomes real, and I am so overcome with fear that my body shakes in response. Apologizing for the pain I have caused is one thing, but not knowing how he will respond is almost more than I can bear. I grab the brown paper bag, take a few deep breaths, and walk down the driveway and onto the walkway leading to the door. Every step makes me feel like I am wearing an old diver’s suit, the ones that weigh hundreds of pounds, and I feel constricted. With each breath I am acutely aware of every rib inside my chest, and by the time I reach the door my palms are sweaty and I feel dizzy. If I hyperventilate, at least I have the brown paper bag the book is in. Always be prepared: a lesson my brother and I learned in Cub Scouts.
After taking one last deep breath, I make a fist and knock. I knock and then I wait, and when my brother doesn’t answer, I knock again.
What if my sister-in-law opens the door?
What if he opens the door and tells me to leave?
What if he’s here and purposely ignoring me because he doesn’t want to see me?
I live in these doubts, trying to convince myself to leave. Instead I knock again, more loudly. A minute passes and still no answer.
My breaths come shallow and in rapid succession. I have to close my eyes and just focus on breathing. With the exception of coming out, I have never been so nervous. The possibility of rejection has never seemed so real. Why won’t he answer?
I knock again to the same result, and so I sit on the top step and light a cigarette, looking out onto the familiar scene of their yard, wondering where the past five months have gone. Has it really been almost half a year since I sat and smoked in this very spot? Andrew’s truck is parked in the driveway, so he must be ignoring me. I decide to leave the book and the letter and go, so I walk to his truck and put it in the passenger seat for him. Walking back to my car, I feel defeated and cold…but more than anything, I feel hopeless.
For months I have felt an overwhelming burden to share stories with Andrew. Not to speak in broad concepts or theological terms; just to tell him stories from my year that helped me understand. I want to tell him about Jason and Scott, Will, Shawn, and my trip to New York, and I want to tell him about Jesus in drag. I want him to hear about these people that our church wouldn’t let us know before. I want to share the epiphanies, and the stereotypes that my experience has proven to be myth, and I want to humanize these beautiful people so that he doesn’t see labels, just people. I think it is the only way for him to understand why I did this. It may just be the only way for anyone to overcome their aversion to labels.
An hour later I am sitting at a café by my home, having already made plans to hang out at Tribe. I need a good beer. My phone rings. I look down in time to see my brother’s picture flash onto the screen.
What
? He’s calling me?
He’s calling me!
I answer nervously, hoping for a positive moment, something I can hold onto to feel better about this schism.
“Hello!”
“Hey, Tim.” His tone is more even than mine.
“How are you?”
“I’m good. I just got the book and your letter. Thank you.”
“No problem. I just hope you enjoy it.”
“I’m sure I will.” He pauses, and I wonder what he’s about to say. “I’m just calling because I wanted to see if you wanted to go grab a beer or something. Maren is out of town…and it’s been a long time.”
“You’re telling me. Five months. I’d love to grab a beer with you, but I made some plans and I can’t break them with these friends.”
“What plans?”
“I’m going down to Tribe to see meet some people I met back in Memphis who are passing through.”
He knows what Tribe is. I tried convincing him to go with me when he thought I was gay.
“Oh, that’s fine…” He seems disappointed.
“How about tomorrow afternoon?”
“That works too.”
“Great! I’ll see you tomorrow, then!”
“See you then.” He sounds positive.
We hang up the phone, and elation overtakes me. Could I really be getting my brother back?
I knock on the door and the doorknob turns. This is it, the moment I’ve imagined for months. The door opens and I see a huge dog, and my brother holding him back. Andrew looks the same as ever, but the dog looks like he’s going to pee, he is so excited.
“Jack,
down
!” Andrew yells. Jack obeys and sits, and Andrew opens the screen.
“Brother!” I say, smiling. Before he can say anything, I pull him into a hug and I hold him tightly.
“I’ve missed you, man,” I say, trying not to cry. Like always I kiss the top of his head and he laughs.
“I’ve missed you too,” he replies.
We move to the couches and while Jack sniffs me and licks my face, Andrew goes to the refrigerator and grabs two longnecks.
“How’s life?” he asks as he sits in his usual spot on the couch.
“Life is great, actually. I’m very happy.” I take a sip of the seasonal ale and read the label nervously.
“That’s good to hear! Mom says you’ve been traveling a lot.”
“Yes. I spent some time in Memphis, and I’m going to Kansas City for Christmas. It’s been a busy year.”
“Sounds like fun.” He takes a sip of his beer. “Maren is out of town right now at a wedding. I’m just trying to get stuff done around the house while she’s gone.”
“The house looks great!”
“Yeah. We’ve been doing a lot of work on it lately.”
“I hope I own a house someday. I’ll have to find a woman with great credit, though!” Andrew laughs, and I feel good just talking to him.
“How’s your project going?” He broaches the topic diplomatically, and I can understand why. My project is what created the need for this “reunion” in the first place. I think for a moment before answering. I want to be as thoughtful and intentional with my response as I can be.
“It has changed me and my life—and my faith. This year has taught me more than I could have ever anticipated, and the whole thing has been humbling. To say the least.”
“What do you think is the biggest change this year?”
“So far, the thing I’ve learned is that this experiment has less to do with being gay than it does with people in general. I always felt superior to anyone who didn’t believe as I did, but now I’m seeing that that mindset really is dangerous. I’ve learned that gays and lesbians aren’t anything like what we’ve always been taught. They are every bit our equals. For instance, I have friends here who have deep, fruitful relationships with God. Before, I didn’t think it was possible.”
“You’ve met gay Christians?” He seems puzzled.
“Let me tell you about a few of them, and about the night that really changed my life.” I pull out my laptop and open up the file that has all of my pictures of the year. He moves next to me on the couch and I start telling him about some of the people I’ve met.
And he listens. He sits and looks at the pictures and asks the occasional question, and he listens. I show him the picture of Jesus in drag, and he seems fairly shocked. I pat his back and tell him I understand. My brother may never agree with the things I tell him about my friends and their impact on my life, but he doesn’t discount any of my stories. He just asks questions and listens as I tell him story after story after story.
“You know, the hardest part of coming out was lying to you.” I look at him in the eyes and take a deep breath. “I vomited outside, after telling you.”
“I just wish you’d told me the truth all along.”
“I couldn’t, though, man. I had to try to understand the fear that people feel when they come out to their families. I had to open myself to the possibility of rejection from
my
family. But you’ve got nothing to worry about. If I were really gay, I would’ve been blessed by your response. You loved me through it, and it meant a lot to me.”
“I’m sorry we haven’t talked, but you’ve got to understand where I’m coming from. Maren has been a part of the family for two months and her brother-in-law comes out, and then several months later she finds out it’s a lie and sees how it hurts me. She was angry, and I was angry, and we needed time to process things.”
“I get it. I really do. I can’t apologize for my experiment, but I am truly sorry you were hurt.”
“And I’m sorry if I made you feel like I didn’t care about you when I thought you were gay. I really didn’t know how to process your coming out. I don’t think any of us knew how to process your coming out.”
“I know you may not want to hear this, but that is because of the religious system we’ve been captive to for so long. I’m not trying to preach to you, but I have gotten to see things, to witness firsthand how violent and hypocritical it is to claim to follow a God of love—and then treat family, friends, and strangers the way we do, because of our religion. It reminds me of the words of St. Augustine,” I add: “’The Church is a whore, but she is my mother.’”
Andrew smiles at me. “You’re growing up, Tim. You’re really growing up.”
“I couldn’t be ’baby human’ forever.” Andrew and I laugh and raise a toast to Baby Human.