Keep Calm and Carry On

When I was a young mother, I distinctly remember thinking about how difficult it would be to have a child come to you and declare they were gay or lesbian and my heart was repulsed at the image. I thought, ‘Please God, not that. Anything but that! I just wouldn’t know what to do!’ And the immediate response in my mind was, ‘Actually, it’s precisely that you will have to face. One day.’ I pushed that thought far back in my mind. Until now.

I am told to go to St. Monica. And I do. I am told to have Faith. And Hope. And that it’s not too late as long as my daughter is alive. And I do, and I know, and I agree. However, what I have come to realize is that God’s timeline is not mine. It doesn’t matter how many times someone says to me – and I have to say, usually a well-meaning soul who has young children – “It will be okay. She’ll come back” there is the very real possibility that I may never see it. None of us may. It may end up being just between her and God and I may not even be in this life to see it. God didn’t give me that guarantee, to witness her return to her faith, to her family, to her very self. No. I realize more and more that he is asking me to be faithful. Simple. And difficult. Extremely difficult. Because no matter how many novenas I do or extra rosaries or votive masses, there’s a touch of pride, even there! Of course I want my daughter to come back to her faith and be fulfilled by the only One who can truly fill her heart; but I want this wound to be gone! I want to not hurt any longer. And that’s my pride. Ego is everywhere! Moreover, if I am to believe that God is all-loving, that he knows what is best for me and those that I love and have committed to him, that he will only do what is best for all of us, then aren’t I supposed to accept this wound? Not only that, but aren’t I supposed to will this wound?

I am reminded that in this suffering, I am following in Our Lord’s path. I am learning that I may carry this ache my entire life. There is no guarantee it will be healed before I die. God never said He would heal all our suffering in this life. He does ask us however to persevere. That’s all. To keep marching. Fidelity. And if I believe that He is an all-loving God, then somehow, I must bend my will to desire what He desires. Not grudgingly so, but joyfully. I must be joyful to suffer in this way. For my daughter. For my other children. For my husband, and family, my mother and father, the Church. Whatever He wants. I just live out this faith. Not check boxes and expect a ribbon at the finish line. Christ didn’t check boxes. I pray I can be Mary to others. To be compassion to my brothers and sisters in Christ when they walk the road of suffering.

Jesus asked, ‘Who do you say I am?’ If we say He is the Son of the Living God, he simply responds:

‘Then pick up your cross. Follow me.’

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A Marian Response

A good priest friend of ours (Ah yes…another one of those good priest friends. Thankfully.) reminded me that a judgmental response, a response to suffering and sin that is critical, in fact a “checklist” response, is NOT a Marian response.

A Marian response is one of compassion.

Let that word just sit with you for a moment. Compassion. Com – passion. With…suffering. Indeed, to suffer with. What did Mary do as she watched her son ridiculed, derided, misunderstood, tortured? Did she lash out, point fingers, place blame? No. She suffered with him. She didn’t say a thing, at least not that we know of. Her action was her loudest statement. She walked with him in an attitude of humility and docility. She accompanied him. She took his suffering and his wounds to herself. And I believe this is how we as Christians should respond to the suffering of our fellow pew-mates. With compassion. Please God, let me be Mary to others.

It struck me, sometime about a year ago, that Christ asks each of us as individuals the same question he asked the disciples: Who do YOU say that I am? And he asks each one of us, our children included. Perhaps this is a little like the classic Protestant evangelizing question, “Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Savior?” Well, that’s not completely wrong. Because we won’t be saved as a family. Or as a parish. Or as a community. Jesus came into intimate contact, face to face, with many people during his life on earth. How many individual people left him? Ignored him? Walked on by? Were unmoved? In the case of my daughter, her defiant response to ‘Who do you say that I am?’ is ‘Who are YOU to say who I am?’

Do we honestly think we can guarantee sainthood for ourselves or our children simply by following a formula? If we had a sure-fire formula, I’m pretty sure we would have all been following it for a long time now! But our faith is not formulaic. It is beautiful and awesome and grand. It is alive and involves others. It is not a checklist. It is not guaranteed even. There is one option though as a community that I think is the best response to families with children who have fallen away and fallen away big time. And it’s one that hits at our pride. That is precisely the way of Mary. The way of compassion.

Why do I say that compassion hits at our pride? Because we can’t stand apart from the one doing the sinning if we are suffering with those involved: in this case the family and the child. We can’t play the Pharisee if we are walking with those who are suffering. Sin does not like to be seen. It hides itself, much as our daughter slipped away from us. She hid herself so well, I didn’t even realize what happened until she was gone. But when you suffer with someone, you do truly see them. You are present to them. You behold them. Isn’t it interesting that the word “behold” has the verb hold in it? It’s a much stronger verb than to merely “see”. When we look at an individual who has left the faith and place them outside of “us” and begin to see them as “those”, we are not truly beholding a person. As a mother, I tell you, that person is someone’s daughter. Someone’s sister or brother or son. As followers of Christ, striving to walk in Mary’s steps, we need to behold one another. We need to compassion one another into our very hearts. To see and hold and be present. Not to categorize, judge and check our own boxes.

Read Part 5

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Checking Boxes

Let’s admit it, we have ALL looked askance at our neighbor and said in our heart of hearts, ‘I’m glad I’m not like that person.’ Sound familiar? It should. I believe there was a Pharisee who said about the exact same thing while praying in the temple in the gospel of Luke. Going a step further, I bet we have all scanned the heads of our fellow parishioners in the pews and taken mental note of the hair not quite right, the untucked shirt, the skirt too short, the sleeves a bit too revealing or, Lord forbid, the piercings and the blue hair. (No, she never came to church with blue hair.) I know you have done it. Because I have too. I recall as a young mother, with that ‘the buck stops here with me’ attitude, certain that my child would never do such and such. My husband and I would never have allowed our child to do thus and so. Because we were going to do things Right. Without realizing it, I had fallen into a checklist mentality for living out my faith. And this is a mentality that is a trap for faithful Catholics, indeed, for anyone striving to live a holy Christian life after the pattern of Our Lord.

What do I mean by a “checklist mentality?” By this, I mean a mentality that searches for the perfect recipe for living out our vocation, in my case, of raising children, of living out a vocation to the family life in the role of wife and mother. It’s a mode of living that is concerned with checking the boxes that will guarantee a successful outcome. The outcome being, children who will never leave the faith (indeed, not even deviate one iota or question or step out of line), become saints even, and where we as parents can stand back and admire what?…OUR work. Self-satisfied and content.

But I am telling you, this does not always work. I’m sharing with you the pain of my mother’s heart so you realize that this is not always the case. I think young families, understandably so, look for the role model family to pattern their lives after. ‘If only my kids could be like their kids. Their kids are so respectful, so studious, so obedient, so reverent…’ etc. etc. And so, they plant their flag there. Only to find that, perhaps, sin visits them as well as the next person. Sin, the lot we are ALL born into, that we cannot escape, that cuts across ALL families. I’m here with my mother’s aching heart to warn you, be careful how you judge…lest you too be judged. (ref: Matt. 7:1)

“What did I do wrong?”

When a child goes astray the tendency as a parent is to ask ‘What did I do wrong? Where did I fail? As a mother, as a father?’ As valid as this self-reflection is for a conscientious parent, it also belies a bit of pride, does it not? As if my child’s salvation and walk with Christ is entirely dependent upon me! We parents all appreciate hearing the phrase ‘You should be so proud. Your son/daughter is such a credit to you.’ Only in the past several years have I come to distrust that phrase. As much as I’d like to relish that compliment, my first thought now is ‘You want to see my other child? You may not be saying we’re so perfect.’ So, if I can’t take the blame for one child who goes astray, can I really take the credit for those who don’t? No, not really. In the case of our daughter saying she is now “trans” the anguish we have experienced as parents, while grappling with confusion, anger and loss, is compounded when the greater Christian community asks the same question. What did they do wrong? To which parent can we trace the sin? ‘Well, it’s all because the mother did….’ fill in the blank. ‘If the father had only been more…’ you finish the phrase. I know people think this, because at some point in time in my life, I have thought it about others myself.

I carry this wound to my mother’s heart. We ask God to let us participate in his suffering…but as long as it’s an acceptable suffering. What I mean by that is, as long as it is a suffering that appears noble, or that elevates the piety of the one doing the suffering. We may not realize it but often, when we desire to suffer “for Christ”, we are thinking of suffering that entails loss, or pain, illness, persecution for the faith. But this suffering of mine is, well, embarrassing. This causes side-glances and misunderstanding. This suffering is confusing to parents and siblings alike. Unfortunately, I think society has become complacent about certain sins. We “accept” certain youthful transgressions as we like to call them. “She’s living with her boyfriend…I know, it’s not ideal, but…” Or, “He’s just going through his rebellious drinking-in-college phase. I know, it’s not what we want for him, but…” But isn’t all sin a turning away from God? Isn’t it always a refusal to become who God intends for us to become?

I don’t intend to go into the nuances of what leads a person to choose a trans lifestyle. I have my theories about that that come from observation and experience. But they are certainly not the world’s view. My view is that the trans lifestyle is one that is in complete opposition to the Christian way of life. Which makes it, the trans lifestyle, so tyrannical. It is a whole package. The chooser can’t possibly keep the same relationships they had with family members and friends of their “past.” That earlier person simply doesn’t exist, so they say. The whole idea of being in a family as a certain member, having been given a title, a role, a relationship, is rejected. The world would say we are being unkind. Narrow minded. Un-charitable. And this type of suffering of the parents and family members is not one most people want to share in. This is the suffering from wounds to a parent’s heart when an adult child leaves the faith, indeed runs to the far country, and is all but dead to the family who’s left to grieve.

Read Part 4

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“Got any tips for being a saint?”

When my daughter was little, back when we only had half of the number of children we have now, she was a sparkly-eyed, enthusiastic, outgoing girl. She read early. Was very verbal. Had a flair for the dramatic. Loved people. All people. She was beautiful. From the beginning of our courtship, my husband and I have been undeservedly blessed with the friendships of many good, strong and faithful priests. I don’t know why we are so blessed to call so many good men of God ‘friends’. (I always joke that it’s because God must know we need the extra help!) It was during a visit of one of these dear priest friends that she, unsolicited and in all sincerity asked him “Father…do you have any tips for becoming a saint?” She was about 6. Tips. I still smile and shake my head when I think of her innocence and clear-eyed openness that moved her to genuinely ask such a question.

I recall in about 8th grade, she would wake early to come share in our quiet prayer time before her day began. She loved ballet and art and I thought, being a sister in this family. I suppose I felt like we were doing our job well, all was working as planned in our child-rearing endeavors. I never would have foreseen the person she has become now.

“I’m living a queer lifestyle.”

Which brings to mind that wound.

I recently listened to a friend recount his time in a college class he is currently taking as an adult learner. To be sure, being surrounded by today’s average undergraduate student would make anyone 40 or older feel a bit alien. But when he commented with no lack of derision on his younger classmates, “those people, tattooed and pierced, the ones with blue hair…” I immediately thought…’you mean my daughter?’ Yes, she is now one of “those” people. She’s in “that” camp.

There’s that wound again.

Not only is she not practicing her faith now, zero desire for knowing any “tips” about achieving sainthood, but she is now grouped with “those” people. Those others who…and now you fill in the blank. No, I’ll fill it in for you. She is living the trans life. She has left her beautiful name we gave her, chucked it out, for a gender neutral one. She speaks the name ‘mother’ and ‘father’ with scorn. She doesn’t call herself ‘sister’, but rather ‘sibling’. She wouldn’t like me calling her “she”. And it has left a gaping, jagged hole in my mother’s heart. Not only for me, but for the chaos her choice is causing for her brothers and sisters. It’s a double wound then, and one I feel I must carry for my children’s sakes. I watch. And I feel helpless.

What is it about sin – this sin in particular – that has left me paralyzed? I’m caught flat-footed. I can’t act; indeed, I’m not sure I really could act. She is an adult. If she were a teen, it would be different. But she seemed to slip away from me so quickly and quietly that I feel caught unawares. She has gone away from me in such a profound way. She is dead in a deep sense. And I don’t have a body to bury.

Read Part 3

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Let me begin selfishly…by talking about me.

I am an only child. My parents divorced when I was 7. I lived with my mother throughout my childhood and watched both my mother and father marry and divorce multiple times, searching for happiness and fulfillment in another person. According to whichever study you care to follow, my path through adulthood should have followed a similar trajectory of failed relationships and familial brokenness. My father was not a figure in my life, but when he died three years ago, I was able to honestly forgive him for his negligence and mistakes and hurts he had carelessly or unknowingly inflicted on me over the years. With God’s grace – and it was a miraculous instance when it occurred, I assure you – I was able to. I could pick up those grievances no longer. I tried, but I just couldn’t. God had removed the burden from me. Those childhood wounds were healed. Scars remain to be sure, but they are not painful to the touch or to probing. They just…are. The Great Physician can heal in a deeper way than we can ever heal ourselves.

But today, I carry a different wound. Not one from childhood, but from adulthood. Indeed, it is one that has come precisely because of my vocation to married life and to motherhood.

When my husband and I married, both of us coming from broken families, we felt a true desire, a calling even, to stop the brokenness of our pasts. ‘NO!’ we said, ‘The buck stops here. With us. It will go no further.’ I suppose implying to ourselves that somehow, we would do better than our parents. We wouldn’t make those mistakes. Sure, we said, we knew we’d make our own, but in our blissful youth and ignorance, we figured they’d somehow be more acceptable, or golly, not half as bad as our parents’, right? I mean, we were turning out alright, so we could do even better and turn out terrific children, model adults who would love and cherish the faith, this faith we as converts chose. Our children could be saints even! We would just need to do things a certain way, and all would be well.

So why all this talk of woundedness and such? Sounds rather melodramatic indeed. I have come to realize though that I had not experienced heartache – true to the name heart-ache – as I have during the past three years. It is a wound that most of the time I prefer not to see, not to look at, to cover up and turn my eye from, to ignore so I can go about my daily business of caring for a home, teaching or being mother to my other children. It’s too painful. Too jagged and gaping. And no one wants to look long at that, for goodness’ sake. Today, at this moment, I am willing to uncover it, air it, probe its diameter and depth just a bit in order to share with you something that I have learned from it. And perhaps in the probing, there will be a bit of healing. For me as well as for you.

As a convert I realize more and more the less and less that I know about this audacious faith I am in. Daily I thank God for it. I have been told to look to St. Monica at this time of my life. And I am trying, honestly. I certainly made my choices as a young adult that led me far from Our Lord, and, with His Grace, made choices that brought me back to him. Much like the prodigal son. Only, daughter, in my case. Now, as a mother watching her child move further and further away from faith and family, experiencing the pain inflicted not only on my husband and I, but watching the ensuing pain brought on brothers and sisters who now also carry a secret sorrow, I can only say with the psalmist, ‘The waters have risen to my neck, and I have no foothold. Lord, save me from drowning.’ (ref: Psalm 69:1)

Read Part 2

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He opened the door; we shook hands, and he led me into a small living room. Near the kitchen entrance was a small table with four chairs. On the kitchen counter was a picture of his wife and two children. I thought that perhaps that was one thing that he should not have brought: a relic from his previous life.

We sat down and caught up with each other’s lives while having corned beef sandwiches and coffee. A favourite of both of us. I was pleased to hear that things were going well for him. His smile and hopeful demeanour were a pleasant contrast to the person I found last time broken and nearly dead on a garbage strewn floor.

I told him how happy I was to see that he was on the mend. He thanked me and said, “I want to show you something. It’s a gift I bought for myself when I moved here.” He led me to his bedroom. I expected to see something pleasant and encouraging like exercise equipment or a big TV. What I saw made me stand still with some unease.

Depictions of the crucifixion that I favour are usually for the lack of a better word ‘artistic’. Jesus’ body is athletic, beautiful with some trace of the wounds He experienced. His face an expression of divine acceptance with thin streams of blood running down from the crown of thorns. These representations are just unpleasant enough to remind us of why we revere Him, to meditate as we adore Him. But that was not what I saw.

The cross was a strange shade of metallic grey and His body of carved wood.

Jesus looked all twisted and abused. His flesh marked from every lash and bruise. His torso strangely stuck out. His face looking upwards, with rivulets of tears, sweat and blood. His mouth open in agony. Even the cross that held him looked mangled and tortuous. This was not some romanticised, aesthetic rendition of the divine suffering of Our Lord. This was definitely something else. Something that seemed to me, obscene.

I wanted to look away like I did that night when I rushed to his former place with my friends. We saw him huddled on the floor slowly rocking back and forth. We tripped over empty bottles and garbage to get to him. The odour of his despair hit us as we gently picked him up and took him outside. I wanted to look away as we waited for the ambulance, but I couldn’t. To see someone fall so far was a stark reminder of what can happen to any of us. The only words that came to mind as I stared at that crucifix were misery, desolation, and pain.

“You don’t like it,” he said, his voice shaking me out of that memory.

“It looks…interesting,” I said trying not to sound disapproving.

“I bought it,” he said, “because it reminds me of His torment. How horrible it must have been taking on the misery of the whole world. When I look and think about it, mine pales in comparison. If he endured this for all our sakes and His Father rewarded Him, then that means there is hope for me.” Then he smiled.

“I think I understand,” I said to him, but the words were mainly to convince myself.

We went back to the living room, and he picked up a gift bag and handed it to me. “This is my way of thanking you for saving me and happy birthday.”

“Thank you,” I said. He had been through so much and now he looked so content. He went through misery and found peace. Maybe that gift for himself was what he needed. I asked him if he wanted to come with me to my party, but he declined saying that he was not yet ready for those kinds of celebrations.

We shook hands and I left. When I got into the car, I opened the gift bag. There was a small box and inside it there was a little version of the cross he had in his bedroom.

I held it in my hand for a few moments as though it was the most precious thing in the world. This time instead of unease I felt a strange sense of calm. I have crucifixes in my home, a sign of my faith, but I will keep this one on my desk. A reminder that we must learn to shoulder our burdens and offer them as He did for all mankind. And if possible, teach others to lift their burdens as well so that we will all inch towards heaven and not careen towards disaster. I closed my hands around it and wished for my friend to always have peace. I started the car and went home to celebrate.

Author: Greg

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Many of our kids seem to experience a weight lifted from them when they “come out”. In the same way, family members also have a weight lifted by having a place to tell their story, and even a place to rant, rage and cry. The catechism says that we don’t know why people are attracted to the same sex. In our meetings, we explore some of the factors in our particular families that may have contributed to our loved ones’ situations. We often find points of commonality – and also much variety.

Resources – Often a group member will share a recommendation for a book, a website, video or podcast that speaks to a specific aspect of our situation. In my own case, a fellow member recommended a book to me early on. This book gave me some ideas on what my loved one may be experiencing but was not yet willing or able to express to me.

A class in loving my child better – In Encourage, I’ve met people who love their children dearly, yet don’t affirm every choice their children make, or everything they believe about themselves. I’ve learned to lovingly ask for respect of my beliefs, opinions, house rules, etc. I’ve learned how to express myself to my child without harshness or sarcasm.

Wonderful prayer partners – This group has given me wonderful prayer partners and intentions to bring to my own prayer. Outsiders might think that in a group like this our first priority would be to “pray away the gay”, but I haven’t found this to be the case. Would everyone in the group be thrilled and eternally grateful if our loved ones were touched by a healing grace that took away their SSA? Absolutely! But I would say that we have many other (admittedly related) issues that are often higher on the priority list:

• Family relationships
• Mental health issues
• Relationships with Jesus and His Bride

Certainly, I can ask any of my brothers and sisters in Christ to pray for my kids, and I don’t necessarily have to tell them why I’m asking. But, it is a great thing to be able to say “____ is moving to a new city, will you pray that she finds a good community there?” or “_______ is going through _____, please pray” and know that the askee has some context for the request. I’ve gained encouragement to persevere in prayer and in developing my relationship with my child.

Serenity – I’ve gotten to know people whose family situations are similar, but who are a few years further down the road. I’ve also gotten to know people who are dealing with situations much more challenging than ours (there but for the grace of God, and all that…). In all, I’ve learned that we will survive and even thrive as a family through this experience. The world will not end if my child goes public in a way that I’m not ready for, or makes a choice that I don’t accept as valid.

Perspective – I’ve also been reminded that all this is not my responsibility. God has a relationship with my child, separate from my intervention and mediation. He is calling her to Himself, through inspirations, other people, and experiences. I need to get out of the way. I guess every parent needs to learn this lesson at some point and it’s probably never an easy lesson to learn. But this is the context of my schoolroom.

Written by an EnCourage Mom from the Midwest, USA

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I was in such a fog of anguish that first night after our son told us that he was “gay”, that I couldn’t sleep. All night long I just prayed “Veni Sancte Spiritus” (Come Holy Spirit). Early the next morning I began to look for help online. Surely my favorite Catholic radio priest would have something helpful to say on the subject of homosexuality. When I went to Father John Riccardo’s podcast site, the first thing I saw was a video of him preaching about Psalm 23. He spoke about how — when we find ourselves in the “valley of the shadow of death” — it is not enough to just know about God, but that we have to actually know God.

Being a Christian is more than just knowing the facts about our faith, and it’s even more than just following the rules of a good moral life. It’s living in union with the God who made us. And I wasn’t living that way. I knew lots about God, but my relationship with Him was primarily intellectual. Sure, I went to Mass on Sunday, but I didn’t have much of a prayer life. I only went to Confession a couple times a year. While I avoided serious sin, I had made little effort to really grow in holiness and virtue. In the busyness of being a dedicated full-time mom, prioritizing making sure that my children knew about God, I had simply been too busy for God Himself.

So Father Riccardo went on, “If you don’t know God, then cry out to the Holy Spirit and beg Him to break into your life.” Well, “crying out to the Holy Spirit” was exactly what I had been doing all that previous night! I took that as a confirmation that God was already leading me.

Totally stripped of any illusion of self-sufficiency, utterly unable to control the situation, I threw myself into the arms of a God I finally realized that I desperately needed, and, lo and behold, I found He was actually there! I began to see His action in a wonderful series of small and sometimes more dramatic incidents that when taken together I could no longer write off as mere coincidences.

My favorite story of God’s personal care began with a divinely orchestrated meeting with a holy priest. He told me that what my son needed more than anything else was an intimate relationship with Jesus Christ, but that I couldn’t give him what I didn’t have myself. So, the priest encouraged me to work on my own relationship with God. He suggested I start by praying with a poem by St. John of the Cross called “Living Flame of Love”. The poem and John’s commentary are about the depths of union that God desires with each of us. Then, in a suggestion which struck me as odd, the priest also recommended that I give my son a song version of this poem.

I found a couple of song versions that I did not like at all, and quickly dismissed that idea of sharing a song version with my son. Still, I did go ahead and slowly pray my way through the poem and commentary. It spoke deeply to my soul.

A few months later, while I was praying in adoration of the Blessed Sacrament, I found myself led to pray for a young man I barely knew who was going through a particularly difficult time. I got the sense that I should give him John of the Cross’s poem. At first I protested — I barely knew this guy! But just in case it was the Holy Spirit prompting me, I figured it was worth the risk of looking foolish. So I tracked him down on Facebook and sent him a short message with a link to the poem. I didn’t hear anything until a month later when he wrote back, “I can’t thank you enough for sending me the poem. As soon as I started reading it, I knew I would be setting it to music.” It became this gifted young singer’s very first chorale composition. A few months later I attended the concert where his college choir performed the song for the first time. I wept uncontrollably at its breathtaking beauty.

(Listen to song here. Follow along with the words of the poem here.)

Remember that the priest had suggested I give my son a song version of the poem? Well, now I had an exquisitely beautiful version to give him. I sent him an mp3 file with a short explanation. He never replied, so I don’t know what he thought or if he even listened. Still, I hold out hope that one day, he will be able to see this song as tangible evidence of God’s very personal love for him.

In the meantime, when I am tempted to despair, this song reminds me that God is very much alive. He intervenes in our lives and in the lives of our loved ones whenever and however He pleases. He has neither forsaken me nor my son.

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When we brought our son to college, the Dean of students had assured us that all her counselors were trained to work with people who were on the Asperger’s spectrum.  We hoped that his counselor recognized his challenges with fitting in socially. When my husband and I met with the counselor and our son, however, she completely ignored the Asperger’s and focused on his questioning of his gender.  At that point Tommy was still communicating with us, and was open to receiving help.  Instead of helping him, this counselor encouraged his brokenness.

I wanted Tommy to stop going to counselors at all, and he did begin to improve somewhat once he had graduated, had stopped seeing the college counselors, and focused on getting a job.  But after he had a good job and passed his probation period, he found a new therapist who supported him in his desire to be treated as a girl. When we again met with Tommy and this therapist, she acknowledged his Asperger tendencies but would only treat “what the patient wanted.”  She told us we were on the wrong side of history and that down the road we would all be accepting of gender “fluidity.” My husband and I did not sleep that night.  We felt as though we had descended into hell, helpless to save our son. Our son has since given up his faith.

Any time we expressed our concerns to the professionals who were treating Tommy, they would only respond by quoting the American Psychological Association (APA), which stated that gender expressions could never be questioned but must always be affirmed.  This has all been, and continues to be, so very painful.

Our Lord sent help. He has not abandoned us. One kind priest has gone out of his way to be there for us. He has met with my husband and me privately, spending hours with us, and with other families with similar stories. His deep intellectual knowledge and caring heart has helped us greatly. He stands in truth and gives us hope.

My husband and I also attend an EnCourage group that meets locally on a regular basis, which has been helpful and has given me hope, as have our on-line group and our prayer conference calls. The pain remains, but God is with us, and I am committed to persevere in faith.

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The opinions and experiences expressed in each blog entry in “The Upper Room” belong solely to the original authors and do not necessarily reflect the views and policies of Courage International, Inc. Some entries have been edited for length and clarity.

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“Who Are You?”  

In the early 00’s, my then-lover moved to San Francisco and I wept with sadness and joy. Ultimately all the things I was doing were for him. In December of 2003, I hit the proverbial rock bottom. I dropped to my knees and after being away from the Church for a solid 12 years, prayed the most honest prayer, “God, I don’t know where You are, but this cannot be what you wanted for me. I don’t know what it looks like to put You in charge, but if You are, and You love me, please take control of my life; get me off the drugs and I’ll obey you.”  Within six months, I had weaned myself off the drugs. I had taken to reading Thomas Merton’s “Seven Storey Mountain” (even to my happy hour clientele) as well as Scripture. I came to Proverbs 16:25 (RSV): “There is a way which seems right to a man, but its end is the way to death.”   

*That* was it, a moment of grace. I quit my job at the bar & walked out of the gay community on July 4th, 2004.  My permanent-Deacon brother introduced me to the Liturgy of the Hours and I established a strong prayer life. Monastic spirituality became the vehicle for my reversion and in 2005, I joined the Courage Apostolate. The first years back were not easy. Fr. Knapp, S.J., our former Chaplain, was fond of saying that “we long for the flesh pots of Egypt.”  That became my image of the gay world: flesh pots. But when you’ve spent so many years being affirmed as gay, and in the depths of your being that just feels “right,” how do you let go of that? I kept asking the question, “Who am I?” I thought I was a good Catholic. A model cadet. An Officer. A talented mixologist. Now an insurance adjuster. None of it and all of it seemed to be true. But if I wasn’t gay, then who and what was I?  A friend told me once that alcoholics and self-centered egomaniacs suffer from “terminal uniqueness.” (I’ll leave it to my friends to decide which of those apply to me.) In the gay world, being unique and fabulous is the stock-in-trade.   

It was a psychologist friend who woke me up when she coldly queried, “Who are you? Who do you think you are? What makes you so special?”  Our conversation was in the context of my clinging to all the things I’d done wrong in my life as well as the question of identity. I had gone to confession numerous times but my past clung to me like tar. How could Christ really forgive me, especially if deep down inside I still secretly *wanted* to do all those things I’d walked away from?  What I still had not grasped in my heart was the fact that sin resides in the will, not one’s feelings. And it doesn’t matter that I may have the tendency towards something sinful; what matters most is what I do about it.  And it doesn’t matter what my occupation is. My identity is “Child of God.” THAT is who I am. And this child will fall down and get up…fall down and get up…fall down and get up.    

Nunc Coepi 

It’s amazing how pride can cloud the perception of one’s true state. “I can’t be one of those.”  What, you mean a homosexual? Or a sinner? Yeah, I’m one of those, and a sinner. My sister Cheryln and I were talking about the long road traveled; moments of grace that flashed just when I needed it, how one day I was deep in the muck and the next, miraculously restored.  She reminded me of the long nights in prayer my Mom and Dad spent over me. When I had seemed so far away and entrenched in ‘the life,’ Mom and Dad were praying the Rosary, the Divine Mercy chaplet, daily Mass, offering weekly devotions to Our Lady of Perpetual Help. God stored up all that grace and dumped it on me, right when I needed it. It was evidence of what St. Augustine mentions, the exchange between St. Ambrose of Milan with Augustine’s mother, St. Monica: “When that woman implored him to consider speaking with me, to refute my errors, …he refused her…(he) responded that I was yet indocile…’but let him be. Only pray for him to the Lord: he will discover by reading what his error is…’ She would not acquiesce…but continued imploring… ‘Go away,’ he said, ‘while you live, the son of these tears of yours shall not perish!” (The Confessions of St. Augustine III, 12). I take great comfort from that, now more than ever since both my parents have passed on.  I see each day as a new opportunity to begin again. “Nunc Coepi.” Words to live by. Take comfort, all you parents of EnCourage, and don’t give up on your sons and daughters. Because of your long-suffering and prayer, Jesus comes to us. We are redeemed and restored.  Over and over. As much and as long as it takes. 

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Jeron S., aged 50 from St. Louis, Missouri, has been a member of the Courage Apostolate since 2005. He has a varied military and civilian history including Protocol at Andrews Air Force Base, adjuster for worker’s compensation in the moving and storage industry, Benedictine Novice, and licensed mixologist. Currently he is supervisor for Military Funeral Honors at Jefferson Barracks National Cemetery in St. Louis, MO.

The opinions and experiences expressed in each blog entry in “The Upper Room” belong solely to the original authors and do not necessarily reflect the views and policies of Courage International, Inc. Some entries have been edited for length and clarity.

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