The Assault of Self-Absorption

The Assault of Self-Absorption

Hitting the six mile trail I put on my headphones and began praying crying. An array of negative emotions were assaulting me from all sides as I pressed into my time with the Lord. The previous weeks were filled with many good things in life. We were gifted with some really needed items, I met my nephew for the first time, along with other answers to prayer. With many blessings came a lot of pain that seemed to be coming to the surface. Legitimate areas God wanted to address. I began to press into time with the only one who can care and heal my heart. It was two hours (yes those were 20min miles folks…lightning speed) where anger, fear, and confusion seemed to assault my mind as I tried everything I knew to combat it. About mid way through I reached out to a few friends by text to pray for me. All the tools I knew to use were pulled and I was hammering away with no relief. Usually, my walks with God are very uplifting and I leave feeling refreshed, but that day after my two hours were over, I was in no better place. I felt like I was rode hard and put away wet. Processing with my husband that night I knew that the Lord would be faithful to direct me and so I fell asleep. As I woke up the presence of the Lord was strong and opening my eyes I heard the Holy Spirit speak to me these words: self-absorption. Self-absorption…um, like paper towels? After a few moments of running down my...
Straightforward: The Gay Blog

Straightforward: The Gay Blog

I wasn’t a pretty lesbian. Well, I think my girlfriend found me pretty, but nowadays it seems that when you turn on the TV most lesbians are gorgeous and infinitely confident. Jodi Foster, Ellen Page, Gillian Anderson, Ellen Degeneres’ partner with the name that I can’t pronounce…all strong, beautiful women. Nope. Not me, though. I was awkward. Precarious. Insecure. I was proud, but stayed in the background. For those of you who haven’t read my book The God of My Parents, it may be helpful if I give some details about my life. Deep in the mountains of Northern California rests a little town I’ll call Wilsonville. To this day the small wooded community still only houses about twelve-hundred people. My parents left their well-paying jobs in Silicon Valley and relocated there to pastor a church of about five members when I was seven. We contrasted pretty sharply with the culture of this community. As I wrote in my book, “If you were forced to lump all of the residents of Wilsonville into two primary groups you could call them the hippies and the rednecks. Hippies that grew pot, rednecks that cut timber, hippies that protested the cutting of timber, rednecks that smoked pot but hated the hippies, Native Americans that grew pot and cut timber, and the few that simply lived in the middle of it all.” Considering the environment in which I grew up I would probably identify more as a “missionary kid” than a “pastor’s kid,” because I was exposed to so much more culture than perhaps the typical ministry child. Outside of our tiny church...