Writing, Parenting, and Working in the Mess: Authentic Spirituality and Social Justice

  To: All-Employees RE: SOFA at our home! We’re THRILLED to be hosting SOFA, the weekly end of week party that travels from home to home, for the first time in many years! If you remember the last time I hosted, please don’t hold that against me (or my spouse, whom I didn't even know at the time)–that was a long time ago! Anyway, we wanted to give you some information about our home to prepare you for what we hope will be an amazing party! We’ve broken this invitation into sections for ease of navigating. Please read them all, even if you don’t think they pertain to you. What You Should Know About Our Vibe Before you enter our home, we’ll be asking you what Zone you’re in, and what your plans are to get back into the Green Zone if you report being in blue, yellow, or (God forbid) red.  Please provide your own fidget and coping cards so you can stay in the Green Zone, because no one at our home is going to share theirs. We will be checking in with you at least once an hour abou...

Here, Again I am at the shore of Lake Crystal, looking out over the expanse toward the island on a wintry November day. I can’t get there–the lake is beginning to get slushy, so a boat (if I had one) is not an option. But it’s not frozen, either–walking is also out of the question. Somehow, though, I know I need to get there. I know the water will hold me. I step gingerly out over the edge, and the water holds–like a glassy version of the flat escalators meant to carry weary travelers from one part of the airport to the other, I am slowly carried toward the island. Sometimes, I walk. Most of the way, though, I just watch as the island’s shores get closer and closer. I climb the bank, reach the island’s center. There are remnants of a fire, and I am warmed by its embers. Beside it, my sleeping bag, sitting atop a soft material–like a cloud, but solid. I climb in, wrap the warmth of the sleeping bag around me, securing the hood around my head.  And–look!--the trees here (but not o...

We’re at some kind of rally. The night before, my mom was using spray paint and old boxes to make signs the night before in our garage, while my sister and I ran through the sprinkler, shrieking. All I know for sure is I’m between 6 and 10 years of age, because my mom is alive and healthy, and we’re living in our second house. Now, in the crowded parking lot outside a building with a balcony, where a man will soon be giving a speech, she’s clutching each of us with one hand while my dad and Connie (my cousin who after my mom’s death would become a mother figure) carry the signs.  “He’s the best thing we’ve had since Kennedy,” my mom tells Connie while he’s speaking. “I can’t wait to vote for him.” I wish I could remember who we went to see, what the signs said.  “I’m going to try to go meet him,” my dad says after the speech. “I want to find out what he thinks about Cyprus.”  “You need to go up there and thank him for what he’s already said about Cyprus. That’s the way to...

  Make radiant the vesture of my soul. –Greek Orthodox Holy Monday Service On Palm Sunday, also American Easter, the day started with my three year old grandson throwing up a blue peep all over my shirt. It continued with my knocking my cell phone into the tub while trying to clean up everybody who had been affected by the earlier incident–a cell phone that was already on the brink of dying because it had been chucked too many times in angry outbursts by one of our children. The day ended on the floor of my 12-year-old son’s room, holding him while he raged, wept over trauma that will never leave his soul. On Holy Monday, I couldn’t find my Holy Week book, one of my prized possessions, a gift from my church when I was about 14. It has been years since I was able to experience Greek Orthodox Holy Week in person. I live three hours away from the closest Greek Orthodox church, and besides that, I left the church when I came out, and sealed the deal by marrying a woman.   Neverthe...