Brothers

My dad was born a triplet, though only two of the three survived infancy. From all accounts I've heard of their lives before I came along, they always shared a special bond, as twins often do. It's been deeply moving to watch that bond as Kay comes in to sit with Dad or check on him periodically. Their connection goes beyond brotherhood to something deeper, something more profound than I'll ever likely know. I'm so grateful Dad has had recourse to that source of strength as he's struggled to recover from what his body's been through in the last week.

How does this relate to the theme of this blog? My relationship with my father is elemental to my pieces, and finding peace with him is crucial to being all one peace.

Mirror, Mirror

At the gym today, a guy got onto the machine next to mine while I was in the final few minutes of my workout. Everything about his appearance screamed Peter Priesthood Return-Missionary, from his crisp T-shirt and haircut to the "7-Habits"-type book he had brought with him to read. I finished my workout, went to the cleaning station to get paper towels, and on the way back, caught myself thinking derogatory things about this perfect stranger. I mentally derided his time efficiency. What a show-off! Bringing a book about how to increase his productivity while exerting himself on a machine that climbed to nowhere obviously showed what a stick-up-his-you-know-what, self-righteous, pretentious...and that's when it hit me.

I cleaned my machine in silence, stunned by what I'd just heard myself think. I didn't even know this guy! Where was all this mental bile coming from? It didn't take much self-analysis to realize this guy was the embodiment of what I'd been told I was supposed to be all through my adolescence. In fact, from his appearance, he was what everyone I grew up with assumed I was. I had tried so hard to be this guy and failed miserably...several times. I resented his existence. He was too good to be true. No one was that guy. There was always some hideous flaw hidden under the perfect surface.

And I stopped myself again. Obviously my problem wasn't with this stranger innocently chugging away on his elliptical stair-climber, but with myself. If I truly want to be a happy whole, I thought, there has to be a reckoning and a reconciliation. Self-hatred often manifests itself in hostility to others. What to do?

As it is in most of life's dilemmas, love was and is the answer. I need to love both Peter Priesthood and myself. In fact, taking a page from His book, in loving and serving others, one finds love for ones self. I can address both the symptoms and the disease. The next time I catch myself thinking unkind or outright vicious things about someone else, I can stop and find love in my heart for them. I can find ways to serve that person, if it's merely through courtesy if not something greater. The next time I think derisively about myself, I can stop and find love for myself through service for others and in other ways. It really is that simple.

There is more that could be said here, but this is sufficient for now, as one more small piece of me joins the others in peace.

Ice Chips

The helpless feeling I mentioned in my last post was greatly ameliorated today by the several opportunities I had to feed my dad ice chips and bring him water to sip. It's amazing how much joy I find in being able to carry out the smallest acts of service for him. I'm grateful for the opportunity to give back a little of what Dad has given me.

Stirring the Pot

I had a discussion two days ago with an uncle in the EIRMC surgical waiting room while my dad was undergoing his second surgery in a week. Discussions like these usually cause my internal existential debate to erupt from a low simmer on the back burner of my soul to a rolling boil right at the front of the range. I think it’s an indicator of where my soul is that I’m not more upset. I also think that arching over the experience is the love my uncle was showing by just being there with my mom and me, which made the discussion easier to bear.

It all sprang from a conversation I was having with this uncle, whom I’ll call “Bob” for now, about his younger son, who is my age. “Bob” had decided not to go with this younger son on a motor bike trip up the Big Butte because his back was bothering him, and he didn’t want to take the chance of having it go out while he was in a remote area. This led to the topic of growing older, and my uncle threw out the term “safely dead.” Although it felt like a lure, I decided to take the bait anyway. Of course, to die safely, a phrase used by an LDS prophet, meant to be as obedient to the commandments as you could and repent when you fell short of that ideal, so that when you left this life, you wouldn’t be in danger of exclusion from God’s presence.

I watched him carefully while he said all this, trying to gauge his intent and decide what the best reaction would be. I know he’s not comfortable that I’m gay. “Bob’s” son has told me that he thinks I should be able to overcome being gay, if I even really am, so I was pretty sure this speech was for me. I think he was also gauging my reaction as well. When I didn’t get angry or combative, he went on to tell me that he personally believed that progression continued after this life and that we would be sent where we were most comfortable. He illustrated this by saying that he wasn’t a part of the bar crowd so he isn’t comfortable in their company and they aren’t comfortable in his. It would be the same way in the afterlife: people would keep company with those whom they felt most comfortable with. (This example also felt pointed. I don’t think he knows that I’ve been in a monogamous relationship for the last five months, and that I haven’t been part of the “bar crowd” for years now.) This was his way of telling me he still had some hope for me. It was very backhanded, but I appreciated the compassion he was endeavoring to show.

I don’t think this exchange would have registered with me at all if I wasn’t feeling so powerless at that moment. It was also painfully apparent to me that I couldn’t provide comfort in the way most meaningful to my dad. Because of my status with the LDS church, I can’t give him a blessing or utilize the Priesthood in any way. Feeling like a failure in that way is a constant, wearing thought in my heart. As many steps as I’ve made toward accepting myself for who I am now, the image of who I was supposed to be is still there, goading me and telling me I’ve fallen short.

Life keeps handing me experiences that don’t let me rest much until I truly am all one peace.