Category Archives: Sarah’s Reflections

To the sanctimonious thin person who handed me a note at the gym…

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A reflection by Sarah

This post has little relevance for the general subject of our blog, but we decided that I should publish it here anyway. Yesterday, I (Sarah) was at the gym doing my usual workout when the woman running on the elliptical next to me finished her own workout, began looking at her phone, scribbled something down on a sheet of notebook paper, folded it, and handed it to me. I waited a bit before reading it, but when I did, I saw that the note was laden with sanctimonious presumptions about people of size. A quick Google search showed me that the woman’s note had very little originality: over half of it was a word-for-word repeat of a Facebook post that had gone viral last month, apparently. Today, I’m using our blog as a medium for responding to the person who gave me the note. Thanks to all our readers who have patiently allowed me the space to process some things related to my eating disorder recovery. The past few weeks have been challenging for me, and I’ve been uplifted by the encouragement I’ve received from readers. After this post, I’ll try to give that topic a rest for a bit, and we’ll get back to our regularly scheduled posts on celibacy, vocation, and LGBT Christian issues.

Dear Sanctimonious thin person who handed me a note at the gym,

It took me about thirty seconds to find the source of your unoriginal note. It’s all over the Internet. I found it here and in several other places. I also found a response it received from another blogger who felt a sense of solidarity with the original note’s target. I have no idea what motivated you to write out parts of it on a sheet of notebook paper and hand it to me yesterday after you had finished your workout on the elliptical next to mine. Presumably, you found something inspiring when you saw the original circulating through social media. Maybe you thought it would inspire me as well. Maybe you were once my size and were trying to give me an “it gets better” sort of message. Maybe you’ve always been the size you are now. I don’t know anything about you, but I’m going to show you a courtesy that you did not show me: I’m going to give you the chance to tell your own story instead of making one up to explain your actions. I waited a couple of minutes to read your note after you handed it to me, but when I did read it I stopped mid-workout and made a run for the locker room in attempt to find you. You were already gone, so I’m using the blog I write with my partner as an opportunity to voice what I didn’t get the chance to in person.

I was not, as your note suggests, at the gym on a noble mission to reduce my body size. At one time I was as thin as you, if not thinner. But I certainly wasn’t healthy. I came to the gym regularly, wearing cute cotton lycra outfits like yours, bearing a large water bottle and an apple or protein bar. I’d alternate between the elliptical and weightlifting, sometimes hitting up the pool for laps instead. Then, I’d go home and consume an extra large pizza, which would ultimately end up down the garbage disposal in my apartment. In those days, I spent more time purging food than eating it in the first place. Eventually, this became the fate of the apple and protein bar as well. After years of this daily routine, I reached a point at which I found myself in the emergency room every other week. My eyes were sunken, my neck was sore from swollen glands, and I spent more than a few days on a potassium drip that month. But to my knowledge, no one at the gym had ever wondered what I was doing or speculated as to why I was there amongst all those thin people—I was one of them.

That was almost seven years ago. Since then, I’ve undergone a significant amount of treatment and devoted certain seasons of life solely to recovering from my eating disorder. I made it a goal to eat normal meals and snacks every day no matter what, and generally I’ve kept to that for the past seven years. I don’t always do perfectly, and I’m not 100% behavior-free, but life is infinitely better than it has been in years past. I’ve also gained a lot of weight since then, and I’m sad to say that I didn’t realize the magnitude of social stigma against fat persons until I became one myself. I like my broccoli, avocados, and flaxseed, and I can’t stand the taste of fast food. Rarely have I exceeded normal portion sizes since my time in eating disorder treatment, yet because of my wonky metabolism I’m the largest I’ve ever been in my life. But you know what? I’ll take my current size—complete with t-shirt and sweatpants instead of cotton lycra gym outfits—over my former, unhealthy, “thin” body any day.

Sure, there are people who think I’ve gone from one extreme to the other where thinness is concerned. Yes, there are medical professionals who don’t care to hear my story and would rather assume incorrectly that I visit McDonald’s on a regular basis. Some people gawk at me for eating ice cream or a cupcake when my partner takes me out for a special treat. Women in my family make ignorant comments about my body size and will probably do so from now to kingdom come. And indeed, there are and will continue to be thin people like you who feel the need to “inspire” the rest of us by presuming to know our stories and playing on size-shaming stereotypes. No matter. I’m happier and healthier as a fat person than I ever was as a thin person. And if my body were to change and suddenly drop a bunch of weight while I’m still eating normal portions, that would be totally cool too. Whatever my body does naturally is fine by me, and I’m not interested in wearing my size—large, small, or anywhere in between—as a badge of honor.

I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and say this as though you had the best of intentions when passing me that note: you may be unaware, but a person’s body size is not the sole indicator of health. Weight and shape aren’t everything. Weight loss is not the only reason a larger person might be at the gym. It might not be a reason at all—it certainly isn’t for me. Being healthy is not about being in a thin body, and size doesn’t tell you what or how much a person is or is not eating. Commending a larger person for going to the gym as “a step toward a healthier lifestyle” may sound admirable, but in reality that phrase is loaded with assumptions. The fat person you want to praise for “paying off the debt of another midnight snack, another dessert, another beer” could already be living a healthy lifestyle, and may have been doing so for years. For all you know, she might be eating more healthily and getting more balanced physical activity than you are. Please consider the content of my response before offering another unsuspecting gym patron a bit of your poorly contrived inspiration. And next time you have something to say to a total stranger, try speaking from your heart instead of plagiarizing from a Facebook post gone viral.

Sincerely,

Sarah

Comment Policy: Please remember that we, and all others commenting on this blog, are people. Practice kindness. Practice generosity. Practice asking questions. Practice showing love. Practice being human. If your comment is rude, it will be deleted. If you are constantly negative, argumentative, or bullish, you will not be able to comment anymore. We are the sole moderators of the combox.

Is there a script?

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A reflection by Sarah

The first job title I acquired after moving to my college town at age 18 was “telegiving associate.” I worked for my university’s annual giving program, soliciting funds from alumni and other current and past donors. I spent five evenings a week calling these people, attempting to have real conversations as much as I was allowed. There were perks for getting large donations and consequences for finishing a shift with little success, but the most serious reproaches came when the supervisor overheard one of my coworkers or me deviating from the script. About once per shift I would hear some variation of, “I don’t care if he told you that he just lost his job. You have to ask him for a $500 donation. If he says no, ask for $300 and work your way down to $100. Follow the script. It’s there for a reason.” According to my supervisor, I had too much empathy to excel at this job. Once, I was asked to leave my shift because he saw me tearing up during a call with an alumna who had lost both arms and legs in a horrific accident. I resigned as soon as I found a position at a local independent bookstore.

I don’t have much patience for scripted conversations. I never have, and that sentiment only increases as I get older. Scripts don’t do justice to the complexities of real people with real experiences, emotions, and stories. The telegiving position was an extreme example because in that case, there was a literal script to follow as a requirement of the job, but subtler scripted conversations exist in other places too—sometimes where we wouldn’t expect them, and sometimes in contexts where the stated intention is, ironically, to create space for authenticity. Here’s one such example from a conversation I had with a therapist seven years ago while eating lunch in her office:

Therapist: “Why are you tearing your peanut butter and jelly sandwich in half?”

Me: “Because I don’t have a knife to cut it.”

Therapist: “But why do you have to eat it in halves?”

Me: “I don’t have to. It’s the way I’ve always eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”

Therapist: “Let’s talk about how that’s related to your eating disorder.”

Me: “It isn’t. It’s normal.”

Therapist: “But are you a normal eater?”

Me: “Well, no…”

Therapist: “So can you see why we need to talk about how this is related to your eating disorder?”

Me: “I’ve already told you—it isn’t related.”

Therapist: “How do you know that?”

Me: “Because it’s not the same as x, y, and z behaviors that are actually disordered. And normal eaters eat sandwiches in halves.”

Therapist: “Do you think someone in your position knows what it means to eat normally?”

Me: (Huge sigh) “This isn’t helping. This isn’t the conversation I need to be having. What I need to talk about has nothing to do with tearing a sandwich in half.”

Therapist: “Let’s do an experiment and see what happens when you eat it without tearing it in half.”

It’s clear that despite my suggesting the conversation’s direction ought to be changed, the therapist wasn’t able to move past her initial question or the right answer she already had in mind—that eating a sandwich in halves was based on some sort of illogical food rule, that it couldn’t possibly be normal. My experience didn’t make sense to her because it didn’t fit her expectations. As I’ve seen with some regularity, the sincerest, most authentic means of approaching a problem doesn’t always fit within the accepted script for conversation about a given topic. Often, the script short-circuits any attempt at real dialogue. I’m simultaneously amused and frustrated by how frequently such scripts–no matter the conversation topic–claim to “challenge black-and-white thinking” while unwittingly promoting the same old black-and-white tropes dressed up in a new wardrobe. I’ve grown accustomed to asking, “Is there a script?” when I’m concerned that I might be interacting with one. No one ever comes forth and says, “Yes, there is a script.” Most often if there is a script, the response to that question will be ambiguous. And that’s when I take my leave. I think in many cases, even those creating the script aren’t entirely aware of its existence.

All this has been on my mind because recently, I had to leave another recovery resource because of the thinly veiled script I had begun to observe there. It’s not the first time this has happened as I’ve sought resources aligned with my goals for becoming well, but every time it does occur I end up feeling very much like Donnie Darko…

…and in my most uncharitable and immature moments, I find myself falling to the temptation of Donnie’s “take the lifeline exercise card and shove it up your ass” response (revealed in the next scene, in case you aren’t familiar with the movie). Disclaimer: I wouldn’t recommend taking that approach, as it isn’t consistent with cultivating any sort of Christian vocation. In case you’re wondering about the scripted recovery conversation I recently abandoned, I made every effort to do so with grace and dignity…though I’m still fantasizing about calling up the powers that be to deliver the “I’ve got two words for you” message. Sounds like I’m in need of a good confession.

It may seem that my ramblings today have little to do with celibacy, vocation, LGBT issues, or Christianity…but the truth is, I see the same dynamic constantly playing out in conversations about all these topics. There’s a script that LGBT people, allies, and even non-allies are supposed to follow. It used to be that straight, anti-gay Christians wrote the script, which included several rounds of, “Being gay is a sin and a choice,” followed closely by the passive response, “I’ll ask God to change my sexual orientation or gender identity.” In some denominations, that’s the way the script works even today. In others, it is changing…but it’s still a script.

With gay and straight Christians in denominations accepting a modern, liberal sexual ethic, I’ve had many a conversation that looks frighteningly similar to the one with my former therapist. Take this one for example:

Liberal Christian: “Why are you celibate?”

Me: “Because I believe God has called me to celibacy.”

Liberal Christian: “But why do you have to be celibate?”

Me: “I don’t feel forced. I chose celibacy because I felt called.”

Liberal Christian: “There has to be some level at which you’re feeling forced. Let me talk with you, pray with you, and help you to understand that God will still love you if you have sex with a woman.”

Me: “I already know that God loves me, and even though celibacy isn’t easy, I see it as a joyous vocation.”

Liberal Christian: “But don’t you think it’s unnatural to deny your sexuality?”

Me: “Not having sex isn’t the same as denying one’s sexuality.”

Liberal Christian: “I don’t know how you do it. It must make you feel miserable not to let yourself have sex.”

Me: “I define my vocation in the positive, not the negative. And I’m far from miserable.”

Liberal Christian: “Have you ever experimented to see if you might be happier as a sexually active person?”

Celibacy is forced. Celibacy means lack of self-acceptance. Celibacy is misery. Celibacy is a problem to be solved. Never mind my authentic responses. Those are the right answers because the script says so.

And don’t think for a moment that denominations supporting a traditional sexual ethic while seeing a difference between orientation and action are any more adept at preventing scripted conversations. I could just as easily plug a different set of tropes and responses into the text above and replicate about 75% of conversations on sexuality I’ve had with people in my current and former Christian traditions:

Conservative Christian: “Why do you say you’re gay if you don’t have sex?”

Me: “Because I’m attracted to women. Being gay/lesbian isn’t just about sex.”

Conservative Christian: “But why do you have to talk about it the way you do? I’m okay with your blogging about sexual orientation, but you really should include a clear statement of ‘gay sex is a sin’ at least once in every post.”

Me: “I’m not interested in talking about what is or is not sinful. There are other places where you can have that conversation. I’m interested in exploring how to develop a meaningful way of life.”

Conservative Christian: “And you shouldn’t say you’re in a relationship. People might think you’re having gay sex while saying otherwise, condoning gay sex, or not accepting the Church’s teachings on sex and marriage.”

Me: “If people make assumptions about what I do or don’t think without asking me, that’s their own problem.”

Conservative Christian: “Have you thought of just trying to be single, or maybe joining a monastery?”

Different issues, different words, different ideologies, different agendas, but the message is all the same: “Follow the script. Don’t question it. Don’t deviate. The constructed narrative isn’t the problem—you are.” Rubbish. While I don’t see myself as some unique butterfly exempt from norms that other people must follow, I’ll not waste my time force-fitting myself into someone else’s scripted reality…because the truth is, no two people are exactly the same. That goes for people with eating disorders, LGBT Christians, and any other demographic you might be inclined to name. Dissimilarity matters. Complexity matters. The right answers aren’t always the real answers. And no matter how comfortable it may feel to do so, you can’t place every problem, issue, feeling, and person into a black-and-white category, denying all other aspects of lived experience.

Comment Policy: Please remember that we, and all others commenting on this blog, are people. Practice kindness. Practice generosity. Practice asking questions. Practice showing love. Practice being human. If your comment is rude, it will be deleted. If you are constantly negative, argumentative, or bullish, you will not be able to comment anymore. We are the sole moderators of the combox.

Adventures in Praying Together

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A reflection by Sarah

“The poor shall eat and be satisfied and the hungry shall be filled with good things. O Master Christ our God, bless the food and drink of these, thy servants, for you are holy always, now, and ever, and unto ages of ages. Amen.”

That’s the blessing Lindsey says over every meal we share together. Since the first time Lindsey and I joined over Skype for dinner, I’ve known that I can count on hearing this prayer at least once a day. It has become a key element in our shared spiritual life, and during certain seasons it has been the only prayer we’ve consistently engaged in together.

Concerning spirituality, Lindsey and I have discovered that we take very different approaches. Our dissimilar preferences are likely rooted in the two distinctive contexts in which we came to faith. Sometimes, I find myself surprised that we both ended up in the Christian tradition we now share, traveling to it from pathways so unalike. I grew up in a Christian family and was exposed to a variety of Christian spiritualities from childhood through college. Though I lived in an area where the Freewill, United, and Southern Baptist denominations dominate the religious landscape, I knew early on that I felt God’s presence most profoundly in liturgical worship. I’ve always believed in God, but if I had to identify a specific “this is real and I accept it” moment in my faith journey, I’d say without hesitation that it was during a Eucharistic holy hour one autumn when I was 18. I knelt in silence before the tabernacle in a rural Kentucky Catholic church and felt Christ’s presence as I never had before. I was overcome with peace and relief from the anxiety I had been attempting to ward off earlier that day, and I knew without a doubt that I was kneeling before Christ himself.

In contrast to my experience, Lindsey grew up not going to church and first became part of a faith community by playing electric bass in a praise band. Lindsey made a personal commitment to Christ during Lindsey’s freshman year of high school at a youth event, and later became active in various evangelical ministries during college. Because Lindsey came to faith within a contemporary, evangelical context–a world which was almost totally foreign to me until college–there have been times when I’ve experienced difficulty understanding Lindsey’s spirituality. One example of this is that I’ve never been especially drawn to free-formed prayer. It doesn’t come naturally, and historically I’ve had some experiences with spiritually abusive free-formed prayer. Whether my intention is to praise God, to give thanks, to ask forgiveness, or to cry out for help, I’m more apt to search the traditional prayers of the Church for something appropriate than to begin with my own words. Typically, I’ve found greater comfort in the rosary or prayer rope devotion than in approaching God informally. Lindsey, on the other hand, can articulate any diversity of prayer intentions with eloquence, yet in a conversational manner. I remember once after we first met, I asked Lindsey to pray for me regarding a health issue, and a second later Lindsey was responding to that request on the fly with an evangelical-style free-formed prayer. It took me a moment to catch up with what was happening. I recall staring blankly at Lindsey afterward and asking, “How did you do that?”

As Lindsey and I have been developing a way of life together, we’ve had many conversations about how different our processes were for coming into our shared Christian tradition. Lindsey first felt compelled to explore this tradition after attending Liturgy and observing the centrality of the Gospel in worship, making connections between this and the emphasis evangelical Christianity places on spreading the Gospel and encountering Christ in a personal way. Having been part of a liturgical tradition previously, I was attracted initially to the level of reverence people within this tradition have for the Liturgy and sacraments, and the mystical (and in many ways, organic) approach to theological issues I had previously been exposed to in more legalistic terms. Lindsey and I enjoy praying together during Liturgy, and because of the differences in our backgrounds sharing the experience and talking about it afterward becomes even more fascinating. Often, we’ll spend the drive home on Sunday discussing our responses to and observations during worship that day, and frequently the conversation will lead me to further reflection on my own experience based on what I’ve learned from Lindsey’s.

We learn a great deal from observing each other’s personal devotional practices and experimenting with ways to draw connections between our individual spiritualities. Sometimes, I see a bit of Lindsey rubbing off on me. There are times when I can sense the Holy Spirit’s presence during one of Lindsey’s powerful free-formed prayers—sometimes so much that when I need Lindsey to pray for me I ask, “Could you channel your former evangelical self for a moment?” And while I’m sure I’ll always prefer Gregorian and Byzantine chant to contemporary Christian music, thanks to the influence of Lindsey’s former praise band experience I find myself asking Lindsey to turn the car radio to our local praise and worship station occasionally. At the same time, Lindsey has begun to take great joy in asking me historical questions about the Liturgy and occasionally praying one of my favorite litanies with me when I’m feeling the need to be surrounded by the entire communion of saints. Our personal quirks and their impact on each other make for a rather unique learning experience as we approach the question of how best to cultivate a shared spiritual life.

In some seasons, we’ve made a regular practice of praying parts of the Divine Office together. In others, we have gravitated more toward praying individually, but joining together in discussion of scripture and spiritual reading materials. Still in others, the only prayer rule we’ve been able to follow jointly is Lindsey’s blessing over our evening meal. Endeavoring to pray together consistently is a challenge, and I imagine it will be for the rest of our lives together. We’re still learning how to appreciate and honor each other’s spiritualities because we believe it important to respect the different ways we came to know God individually prior to meeting each other. We see all of this as yet another adventure, and are eager to see all the places it will lead us along our journey towards Christ.

Comment Policy: Please remember that we, and all others commenting on this blog, are people. Practice kindness. Practice generosity. Practice asking questions. Practice showing love. Practice being human. If your comment is rude, it will be deleted. If you are constantly negative, argumentative, or bullish, you will not be able to comment anymore. We are the sole moderators of the combox.

Terms of Engagement

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A reflection by Sarah

On January 8, 2014, one evening before the opening session of the Gay Christian Network Conference, Lindsey and I visited a small, independent bookstore in Chicago. We had spent the entire day driving to the Midwest from our city, since 3 AM in fact, and were exhausted. I was still shaken from a car accident we had experienced just hours earlier, and after meeting up with our friend Alison at the last minute for dinner at a nearby Mediterranean restaurant I was ready to turn in for the evening. Still, Lindsey insisted that we take some time to stroll around the bookstore and see what hidden gems we might find. We split off into different sections for a while. Later, Lindsey met me in the adventure books where I was perusing a copy of Jules Verne’s 20,000 Leagues under the Sea. We began talking about all the amusing situations we’ve found ourselves in since we first met, and I noticed a positive shift in my mood. Ultimately, we ended up in a conversation about how our life together is turning out to be the craziest adventure upon which either of us has ever embarked.

That discussion was one I’m sure I’ll never forget. It was the evening when, after months of discernment, Lindsey and I affirmed to each other that we feel called to continue living our celibate vocations together for the rest of our lives. We came to a decision that after spending the next year to reflect further, we will pursue some form of legal protection and find the most appropriate way to honor and celebrate our family. A couple pursuing marriage (however one defines that term) might consider such discussions characteristic of “engagement.” But we aren’t preparing to enter a marriage, so most people we know are baffled by our discussions of commitment and share life.

As I’ve reflected before, Lindsey and I have always struggled to find the best words to describe our relationship and our way of life. The English language and societal expectations don’t make it an easy task: there isn’t exactly a concise term for “couple committed to living a celibate vocation together that isn’t a marriage, but still allows for financial security, the ability to make health care decisions for each other, etc., etc., etc.” There’s no option for “preparing to live fully into a lifelong celibate partnership” on Facebook’s “relationship” dropdown menu. Even more significant a complicating factor is that our Christian tradition offers us little language beyond “celibacy” for describing our vocation and no guidance at all for developing a meaningful way of life in our specific circumstance.

Another layer of difficulty in determining what language to employ is that people in our lives don’t always understand why we believe it important to use certain descriptors and not others. At one extreme, we have acquaintances who urge us not even to identify as being in a relationship with each other. They encourage us to describe ourselves as “best friends” and “roommates.” In most cases, these same people become uncomfortable when we use the phrase “lifelong commitment” in relation to each other, but experience no discomfort with the idea that monastics enter lifelong commitments to each other in their communities. On the other hand, we know people who have trouble recognizing why, as an LGBT couple doing life together in a committed relationship, we wouldn’t want that referred to as a marriage. Many of these folks urge us to discuss our relationship in spousal terms, and some have indicated that our disinterest in doing so sets us in opposition to the movement for marriage equality. With minimal availability of comfortable terminology and an abundant presence of people ready to tell us how we ought to define ourselves, the quest for the best words can leave a person (or a couple) feeling very isolated. Yet despite these experiences, we are heartened by the number of people who, in diverse ways, have been unapologetically supportive of us in our vocation. We have many friends who offer us encouragement daily and show interest in helping us engage with the tough questions, regardless of what conclusions we reach and how those may or may not match with their own conclusions.

As of now, we find that the terms “family” and “team” roll most naturally off the tongue when describing ourselves to others. “Partners” also seems to fit well because this word implies shared work and a shared journey. Despite the fact that many equate the word “partnership” with “sexually active relationship,” we feel drawn to the basic meaning of this term, as we do understand our vocation to be shared responsibility for serving others and serving Christ.

It’s regrettable that people in various types of relationships aren’t always free to define those relationships such that all involved parties feel comfortable with the language used. Language around relationships is highly politicized. How one identifies one’s relationship can raise all kinds of associations for other people. In America, both religions and the government define marriage. In the eyes of a public audience, one’s willingness or unwillingness to define a particular relationship as a marriage often carries ideological connotations, regardless of whether one actually identifies with said ideologies. If any freedom to define one’s relationship and not be pigeonholed into a political category ever did exist, it seems that freedom is now gone. The terms of engagement for discussing our own life situation do not belong to us, and that will never change unless we make an active decision to take them back. With this post, consider it done. Lindsey and I are a team, a family, and a partnership, even if those words don’t have the same meanings for you as they do for us.

Comment Policy: Please remember that we, and all others commenting on this blog, are people. Practice kindness. Practice generosity. Practice asking questions. Practice showing love. Practice being human. If your comment is rude, it will be deleted. If you are constantly negative, argumentative, or bullish, you will not be able to comment anymore. We are the sole moderators of the combox.

Children, Connectedness, and the Vocation to Celibacy

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A reflection by Sarah

Four afternoons a week, I have the pleasure of watching a delightful little girl whom I’ll call Ksenia. Each afternoon, like now, I’lI sit in the same spot beside her crib with my laptop and ear buds as I try to steal some writing time while watching her nap peacefully. I feel as though I’ve known her since before she was born: over a year before she came into this world, I was giving her mother English lessons in preparation for entry to an American law school. I began watching now-seventeen-month-old Ksenia during her eighth month of life, and our first moment of real bonding came when she laughed at my pathetic rendition of “Rainbow Connection” during an attempt at rocking her to sleep. Since then, I’ve come to know her as a tiny human with a vibrant personality. Far more active than any child her age I’ve ever known, Ksenia has taught me not to turn my head for more than a second lest I find her standing atop the dresser or scaling the nearest bookcase. Preferring borscht and hotdogs over most other foods, she seems oddly aware of her parents’ wish that she grow up proudly Russian, yet undeniably American. Each afternoon I spend with her, I find myself entering a world where old boxes transform into caves, happiness is plunging both hands into a container of homemade finger paint, and a walk outside brings pure enchantment. And though it may sound unusual, because of the time I spend with Ksenia, I return home in the evenings feeling strengthened in my vocation to celibacy.

Like many gay and lesbian young people, I was terrified upon realizing my sexual orientation. However, I remember clearly that my first fearful question was not, “How will I tell my parents?” or “What will my church community think?” It was, “How can I make it through life without having children?” For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a strong maternal instinct. I recall that as early as age five, I had imagined becoming a mother. Since the 8th grade, I’ve known that if I ever have a son or daughter, his or her name will be Patrick or Catherine. And from high school forward, I began keeping in mind the possibility that someday I might take a break from my future career to fill the role of homeschool mom. As a young woman coming to full acceptance of myself as a lesbian in the midst of a life stage when my biological clock was ticking loudly, I found the prospect of never giving birth to children especially difficult to swallow. This didn’t become any easier after discovering my vocation to celibacy. Instead, it became significantly harder.

For years, I’ve gone around in circles with questions regarding how best to welcome children into my life. Certain as I am that God has called me to celibacy, I’m equally confident that my vocation involves loving and caring for children in some capacity. I’ve spent a great deal of time over the past decade exploring ways that I can extend hospitality to kids at a variety of ages. I’ve taught Sunday school—every class from toddler to teen. I’ve volunteered with camps and summer education programs for elementary school children, and participated in social justice projects focused on improving early literacy and parent-child bonding. For three years, I provided homework help in inner city public school classrooms. Currently, in addition to watching Ksenia, I’m tutoring Jacob, a high school senior, in calculus and Sam, his eight-year-old brother, in reading skills. Sam and I have just begun reading Charlotte’s Web, one of my favorite children’s novels, and he’s trying every trick in the book to get me to reveal Charlotte’s plan for saving Wilbur before we arrive at that chapter. Over time, I’m discovering that in witnessing Sam’s eagerness to devour a story, Jacob’s smile when he finally succeeds at calculating an integral, and Ksenia’s excitement about spotting a dog on our afternoon walk, I experience the rich connectedness that makes my vocation a joyous one.

As we’ve mentioned on more than one occasion, Lindsey and I spend a lot of time praying about how to extend hospitality to others. That necessarily includes children despite the fact that our society often treats them as lesser humans who can be ridiculed without consequence, and many churches treat them as nuisances who ought not to be welcomed fully in worship as members of the Body of Christ. If I were to make a guess at where God might be leading us on this question, I’d say that a substantial part of our extending hospitality to children means being there for future nieces and nephews in ways that aren’t part of their parents’ roles. There are advantages to being the cool aunt with a history of crazy life experiences: sometimes, I think I’d rather be the adult who can offer nonjudgmental advice to an adolescent on the tough stuff than the adult charged with enforcing proper discipline when that same young rebel breaks curfew. Truth be told, I’m not well suited to the latter. I have no idea what God’s plans are for us with regard to welcoming children into our lives in the future, but I savor every moment of time we get with Lindsey’s nephew, and I look forward to the day when my sister will tell me that she and my brother-in-law have decided to become parents. And for now, I cherish each moment I get with my favorite Russian toddler and her magical cardboard box.

Comment Policy: Please remember that we, and all others commenting on this blog, are people. Practice kindness. Practice generosity. Practice asking questions. Practice showing love. Practice being human. If your comment is rude, it will be deleted. If you are constantly negative, argumentative, or bullish, you will not be able to comment anymore. We are the sole moderators of the combox.