Unconditional Love

"I hope the new Pope will allow priests to marry," I commented to my husband Max after hearing that Pope Benedict had resigned. "The Catholic church really needs to change."   "I don't know about that," Max replied, "But there is nothing in the bible that says that priests have to be celibate - Jesus probably wasn't."  That statement felt like a sucker punch to the gut.  "What?  How can you say that?"  I asked more out of surprise than wanting to jump under the dining room table to avoid a lightening bolt for my husband's blasphemy.   "He was a man, a man who hung around with a wide variety of people.   Why would God send him to earth and not allow him to experience everything human and that one is pretty basic,"  he paused looking at me, "C'mon, don't tell me you had never considered that."   My eyes started to well up with tears because I had never really thought of Jesus as a man, he was someone I used to run to as a child for protection.   He would comfort me in the middle of the night when I had nightmares.   He was someone I could talk to in my room when I had a quiet moment and was lonely (which wasn't often in an Irish Catholic house with five children).    I felt like he had my back as a kid and he would talk to me in my dreams.   He was more than a guy, he was my Jesus.   He was the literal Savior who would take the time to make me feel better when I had the nightmares about the giant crushing all the houses in my neighborhood and my sister Sharon and I running as fast was we could to get away from him. Then there was the nightmare with Frankenstein who would crash down to earth from the sky and would try to get me.   I would open my eyes, my face and pajamas covered with sweat and I would ask Jesus to help me.  He would comfort me and my heart will start to go back to normal.  I would dream about him walking with me at Fort Myers Beach or just sitting next to me.    

I thought about those times as tears rolled down my face as Max and I talked and I was taken aback by the emotion that I was feeling.   Yes, I had considered that Jesus had a wife and I knew of Gnostic texts that talked about that.  In September 2012, there was even  the recent discovery of an Ancient Greek text in which Jesus is quoted as mentioning his wife, Mary.   That honestly was not what was upsetting me.   It was that after about the age of nine, Jesus became for me someone to fear more than someone to love - that realization at age 49 really made me very, very sad.   I had told a someone, I really don't remember who, about my dreams of Jesus and how he would comfort me when I was upset at night.   I was told that if you dreamt of Jesus and there was light behind him, it meant that you were going to die and that Jesus was taking you up to heaven where  you would never see your parents or family again, until they died and went up to heaven too.   I loved my family and didn't want to leave them.   Why would my friend Jesus take me away from them?  This was also around the time when as a nine year old,  you learned more about the gory details of Jesus' death, the suffering, the crown of thorns, the spear to the side and the stations of the cross.   My friend who I envisioned with light brown hair and blue eyes with flowing robes, was being tortured for standing up for what he believed in.  This poor man on the cross was the guy that I ran to for help and he helped me without thinking of himself.   He'd smile at me and I felt better.  Instead of his angelic face, I finally noticed him with the crown of thorns, bloodied with nails in his hands and feet.  My friend was a victim of evil people who didn't understand him, who didn't believe in him.  He didn't have the power to stop it when he was alive and my nine year old brain couldn't comprehend why God, his father allowed such a thing.   He felt abandoned at the hour of his death after all he had done for mankind which is one of the most basic human fears.  My heart broke for him, but worse, I just couldn't feel close to him anymore, it hurt too much.  I guess I could have asked him about it and not felt so guilty but I could not shake the new images of him suffering enough to ask.   The dynamic changed and I was afraid of him. 

I guess growing up Catholic, you get a lot of mixed messages.   The Virgin Mother is the epitome of the perfect woman and yet she would not be able to be a priest in today's Catholic Church because a bunch of guys in the Vatican have decided that women can't serve that way.    You have this really high bar to live up to with the Virgin Mother and if you want to be a mother, you'll have to have sex which seems very unholy.   After all, we were told that Jesus and Mary led their entire lives celibate - so even thinking about sex automatically makes you unfit to be a religious leader in the Catholic Church.   So as you move through the sacraments of the Catholic Church, starting with Baptism which you get as a baby and have no say in.  Then you have your First Communion in which you take the body of Christ in the form of a host wafer (again another image that is hard for a nine year old to fathom).  There is the First Confession in which you go into a small dark confessional and tell this unseen priest what you've done which for me was usually the same - fighting with my brothers and sisters, not always listening to my parents and the occasional lie about who had finished the last of the Farm Stores chocolate marshmallow ice cream.   Sometimes I would confess to sins I hadn't committed yet (like not doing my homework and fibbing about the last of the Halloween Candy) to get absolution before I did it - sort of like banking some sinful credit.   I know that God could see what I was doing but I avoided looking at Jesus on the cross as I left the confessional because he had died for the sins that I kept on doing and that did not make me a very good person - it just made me feel more guilty. 

It was at this time I turned to God and his angels who were more amorphous and open to interpretation.  You had the stories in the bible of God's voice and the picture of him on the Sistine Chapel, but he didn't have the human qualities that could make you feel bad for him, after all, he's God.  He is omnipotent.   His angels are his emissaries and they can appear in human or angelic form.  I was not aware of their suffering so they seemed to be entities that I could ask for help without the guilt.   Jesus had been hurt so much by humans and who was I to ask him for anything especially something as seemingly small as helping me feel less alone, but my God - that's what he does - that's what he excels at and I just turned my back on that because I was afraid.   Why did I believe that seeing Jesus in my dreams was a bad thing?    I guess when you're nine, you don't reason those things out too well.   You run from trouble and things that make you feel uncomfortable and sad, and sadly for me at that time, it was Jesus. 

When I met Max, he had long hair and tattoos.   I felt an instant chemistry with him that I had not felt with any of my previous boyfriends.   He was sweet and kind and I knew after a few months of dating that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him.   While we were still dating, he grew a beard for a part in a children's production of A Midsummer's Night Dream.  I don't think it really occurred to me that he had a savior quality about him until we were out and a little boy saw him, ran up and said, "Hi there, Jesus!!  Hey Mom, look it's Jesus at the mall.  He is everywhere!"  Max smiled sweetly and said hello while a mortified mother wisked her well meaning child away.   It was nice to see that childlike belief, one that I used to have when Jesus was someone I ran too instead of away from.   But I never saw that connection - Max with beard was still Max.   I had met him clean shaven, so I was not trying to work out any weird hang-ups.   He looked more like Kenneth Branagh with a beard then the Son of God. 

When I got pregnant with Amber, I felt a real connection to the Virgin Mother although our ways of getting pregnant were vastly different.   When I held Amber for the first time, I thought that this is how Mary felt when she held her son, that sense of love that is universal and timeless.   I felt really close to Mary because I could finally identify with her although I knew that I was probably not raising the direct son or daughter of God, I was still raising God's children which is still a huge responsibility.  When I was pregnant with Daniel I was very happy.  The pregnancy was going along well until I had to get the alpha fetoprotein (AFP) test which I felt at the time was taken too early and it came back a little low.  My mid-wife saw the score and suggested that there might be something wrong with the baby and that I needed an amniocentesis for further screening.  If that came back with a problem, then I might have to consider terminating the pregnancy.   Now, granted, I'm a liberal and I support a woman's right to choose, but that choice was not for me.  I also knew that the risks in getting an Amnio done which could harm the baby.   I prayed and asked the Virgin Mother for help.   I meditated and she came to me, much like you see her in the paintings, with long dark hair and blue and white robes.  She took my hand and we went inside my body where I saw my baby who looked healthy and perfectly fine.  I would risk the baby with an Amnio, she told me, but if I wanted another blood test, then to go ahead and get one.  She told me not to worry, that all was well and that the baby would continue to grow normally.  She smiled and looked luminous.  She then turned into a wall of roses and disappeared.  I opened my eyes and felt calm for the first time in weeks.  I called the doctor's office and asked for another AFP test which came back normal.    Daniel was born as a perfectly beautiful child and I knew that angels attended his birth.   I held him and thanked Mary for her help.    I didn't even think to ask Jesus for assistance which looking back I regret but I know he sent his mother because at that point in time I needed a woman's touch.   

So now here I was in the year 2013, contemplating my failed relationship with Jesus.  I sat at the kitchen table with all these suppressed feelings coming to the surface - how much I missed my friend, who became a savior who then became a victim of human nature.   To this day, I have a heard time going to church and looking at the altar and seeing him outstretched in the cross, looking down, sad, broken and bloodied.   I know that we have to remember that he died for our sins, but I also want to remember the guy who made the loaves and fishes feed thousands of people, the man who John the Baptist baptized.   The man who could walk on water.   The man who was bad ass enough to throw the money lenders out of the temple.  The man who wanted to make the world a better place.    It took a few days for me to realize that maybe while I didn't turn to him for help, he was guiding my life in ways I didn't realize.  I've worked in non-profits for most of my adult life, with children who have been abused, abandoned and neglected.  I've worked in global health to help women have healthy babies or to educate people on how to stop AIDS in developing countries.  Now I work with adults with developmental disabilities.   I thought of one of my favorite quotes in the bible, Matthew 25, when Matthew describes the importance of being of service to others:  "Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink?  When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you?  When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?" Jesus replied, "Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me."   

All this time, I was helping Jesus and didn't even realize it.   I knew I was trying to live a  good life, but it was not until now that I made the connection.   He's been around me the whole time, guiding me - allowing me to follow in his path without saying a word.   God, my guardian angels and Mary helped lead me to that wonderful conclusion.  So on those days when the bank account is low and we're just barely getting by on $10 a day before payday, I have to realize that it's all for a higher purpose.   I've always seen the world in a vastly different way than others and tried to see the good in everyone even when it's not always worked out in my favor.   But you can't stop trying to do your best, to help people, to be compassionate.   That's what my friend Jesus has taught me.  I know he's standing behind me as I write this and I'm not afraid.   He has loved me unconditionally all this time.   It's taken me forty years, Jesus, to realize this, but I'm so glad we're back together again.    

Where Angels Fear to Tread

The other night at dinner I looked at my husband with tears in my eyes and confessed something that I had never really felt before.  I was having a crisis of faith.   I've always believed that no matter what, God and your guardian angels would have your back.  Even if things didn't turn out as you had hoped, there was a grander plan, a reason you didn't get what you wanted or needed - a lesson that needed to be learned.  But after the massacre at Sandy Hook, I was having doubts about this whole divine intervention thing.  I was angry, sad and felt like everything I believed in had been blown to bits.  Max told me that I needed to stop reading about it on the internet, but even if you didn't read the articles - when you checked your e-mail and you would see the smiling faces of children who were barely out of toddlerhood being buried by their families and a grieving community.   You don't have to read the stories - you could draw your own sad conclusions.   I sat there at the dinner table, just crying for what was the fifth time that day.   At work I would feel the wave of sadness come over me and then would excuse myself to go into a private bathroom and sob.  It turns out there were other women where I work that were doing the same thing.  Max tried to comfort me - told me that the children were in the arms of the angels now and they were safe and feeling no pain.  A part of me knew that, but those last moments of their innocent lives were the ones that grieved me the most.  How the hell could God have allowed this to happen?   Where were their guardian angels when they needed them the most?   Why did this have to happen in the season of love and good cheer when those sweet little ones were excited to see Santa Claus?  Why? WHY?  Please God, why?

I remember the shock of 9/11.  I remember seeing people crying in the street and strangers comforting each other.  I asked why then but at that time there was a common enemy - people from another land who wanted to hurt us in the misguided name of God.   In the days, weeks and months after it happened we found a common resolve, we were united if only for that short period of time before the talk of war surfaced.   But this act is different - for some reason - it's personal.  The actions of the 9/11 terrorists were part of a larger global political unrest that just happened to hurt thousands of innocent people who were just trying to get through their day.    It hurt for a long time and we all felt vulnerable but as we've seen since, there are ways to stop terrorists from getting on a plane with a gun or a bomb and over powering the crew.    A terrorist attack of that scope has not happened since 2001 because the government knew what to do to stop it.  But how do you stop a very disturbed person who is trying to take his rage out on little children and the people who are responsible for them with a gun?  It's too random - too unorganized to try to stop anymore than you could keep a madman from shooting out a movie theatre or a Meet-the-Congressmen event.   This one hit too close to home - it was a school shooting with children who were just infants six years ago.  My God, they never really had a chance to come into their own and that's the real tragedy.   My children are in school - they are the most precious and amazing people I've ever known.  I can't imagine the grief the parents of the 20 children who were shot are going through.  I pray for them which is interesting because that's my default no matter how royally pissed I get at God.   

You hear in times like this, faith sustains you.   But what can you say about a mad man that senselessly mows down the innocent and the virtuous women who tried to protect them?  I would hope the grieving families did not hear - "It's God's will," because as reverent as I try to be, my response would be "Then God's will sucks!"  It hurts to feel this way.   But my soul is wounded and the salve is looking for some higher purpose - a reason in the grand scheme of things of why this would happen.  I imagine that even men and women of God are struggling with this.   Minister Mark Wilson in Hayward, Wisconsin wrote about the shootings in his blog.  He quoted the poet John Blasé who observed, "Of the things that befall us, this one pierces deeper, for the lost are the least of these. The killing of children is the killing of everything."  He also said his most articulate answer for this event was to simply and honestly say "I don't know."   I can respect that.   There is no pat answer and there shouldn't be.  He goes onto say that it's easy to have faith when things are going well, but in the darkest times, you have to ask the uneasy questions.  It's in those dark times that God whispers to you to urge you on - to give you the strength you need even if you are cursing his name in anger like a teenager because I think God understands that and like any compassionate parent, he loves us anyway. 

Some cultures believe in a group soul in that when many people leave the earth in the same place at the same time it's because the agreed to be part a movement to help mankind.  Before they are born, the angels literally give them their marching orders, who they will be in this life and when they will end their days.   No one really remembers that in utero conversation but it gives us certain affinities in life and lessons to be learned.  For instance, no matter how tired I get of working for non-profits and think I want to do something else, I keep coming back.  The reason is probably because my mission is to motivate people to help important causes.   I've tried doing comedy improv full-time, but never with the same success as when it's combined with a day job that makes the world a better place.   When I'm doing both the improv and working for a worthy cause, I feel balanced.   I guess other people have felt that affinity as well.  Good or bad, that's why they are attracted to the things they might help or hurt them - for instance, getting out of an abusive relationship might be the lesson you didn't learn in the previous life.     

My spiritual path is for the most part the road not usually taken.   Yes, I believe in God, Jesus, the legions of angels, and the saints.  I'm definitely a product of my Catholic upbringing.   But I also believe in reincarnation because I tend to believe that God gives us more than one shot to get it right before we finally ascend into heaven.    For me, the soul is an evolving spiritual entity and one lifetime does not give you enough time for your soul to be complete.   I guess I feel like I've been here before beyond this life as a 49-year old mother who works in non-profits and loves to do improv.   I have been able to slip easily into the world of international healthcare and grasped that topic easier than I would have expected.  I've had a few people in the New Age community tell me that I've been here a few times - okay more than a few - anywhere from dozens to hundreds of times.   I've got to wonder when I'm finally going to figure it out and my soul's mission will be accomplished but I guess that's not for me to decide.   It's in times like this that believing in reincarnation helps me cope because I know that the victims of this crime will be back again to make the world a better place. 

What strikes me about this incident is that it's reignited a passion to help that many people were not sure that they had.  Sure we've seen it during the Aurora shooting when all those innocent people were attacked at a movie theater - but they apprehended the shooter and at least there were some answers - some closure.  The shooting at Sandy Hook was just too terrible to put into words.  It especially hit home for anyone who is a parent.  But it has also inspired people to do better, to be better and to love their children more.  It touched New York Giants receiver Victor Cruz.   After learning that he was the favorite player of one 6-year-old victims, he wrote "R.I.P. Jack Pinto," "Jack Pinto, my hero" and "This one is for you" on his shoes for the Giants game against the Falcons in Atlanta this past Sunday.  Before this, he probably knew that kids were fans and that many probably idolized him but now I doubt that he will take that celebrity for granted ever again.  When he was told that Jack would be buried in one of his jerseys - his response was  "I don't even know how to put it into words, there are no words that can describe the type of feeling that you get when a kid idolizes you so much that unfortunately they want to put him in the casket with your jersey on. I can't even explain it."   He even went to the Pinto family with his fiancee and daughter to spend time with them and offer his condolences.   No one told him to do that for PR reasons.  There were no TV cameras documenting what he did - it was just the right thing to do.  He later commented that he knew now "how short life can be, how much you have to cherish every moment, how much you have to cherish every opportunity.  Every chance you get with your family, never take anything for granted because just a day at school can change all that."  If we can all come away with that perspective, then those sweet innocents would not have died in vain. 

So as much my faith is shaken and as much as I am still tearing up at the thought of that horrible day, I know that there had to be a higher purpose.  I don't have a pat answer as to WHY but then I guess I'm not supposed to.  It's not supposed to be that easy.  I know that it's okay to question because other people have those same questions too.  I just know that love will help heal and love is the most powerful emotion there is.   Love trumps hate.   Love trumps anger.  Love gives you the perspective to give more than you ever thought you could physically, emotionally and spiritually.  It's just not all that easy to summon when your heart is broken.    I know that our nation loves and prays for the people of Newtown, CT.  We all share their sorrow.   I know that right now, I'm not as mad at God as I was a few days ago.  I'm grateful for the gifts I have including my wise husband and my two wonderful children.   On Christmas Eve I will pray with all my might that the world will be a better place because of what happened.   I will come back to God like a rebellous teenager who ran away and learned that leaving that home is a cold and lonely existance.  I will step back into the warmth of the light and know that even with all my questions, it's the one place I should never fear to tread. 

A Mother's Pride

My church is very liberal - it's the Unitarian Universalist Congregation of Gwinnett County (UUCG).   I call it one of the little blue spots in the big red state of Georgia.   Our church believes in social justice, gay rights, and the right of everyone to explore their own belief system.  This is a huge contrast to my upbringing in the Catholic church were you didn't have a choice about what you believed you just had to believe in the teachings of the church.  There was not a lot of questioning about faith growing up although I will say that when Max and I got married, we did find St. Louis, a Catholic Church that was pretty open to a variety of ideas (ironically, the adjective catholic means universal).   So when it came time to get back into the habit of going to church for the sake of the religious upbringing of my kids, I tried going to Catholic churches here in Georgia.  I found them lacking compared to my beloved St. Louis.   I didn't see many alter girls at the churches we went to and while there were women helping to do readings during the service, I knew my little Amber would never see a woman priest leading the service and that made me sad.   I wanted to find a place where my kids could be who they were and the Catholic churches around where I lived at the time were just not giving us that.   I needed something more accessible. 

When Daniel was two years old, I found UUCG.  I remember taking Amber the first time I went.  Not knowing the dress code, I wore a skirt and six year old Amber wore a dress with a matching hat.   We were immediately welcomed to this small church that had maybe 100 families total.   With it being so small, you get to know folks and there are many people there that I'm very fond of and enjoy seeing.  It's a nice place to hang as long as you don't seek any deep spiritual conversations about God, Jesus, miracles, guardian angels or other Christian beliefs that might brand you a simpleton among the more enlightened unbelievers.  I've reconciled myself to knowing that I'm more there for the social and political aspects than finding my spiritual path there.  It's nice to not have to hide the fact that you're a liberal since Gwinnett County is very conservative.  My kids are very comfortable going there.   I will always have a place in my heart for the Catholic Church and its rituals even if it's not openly pro-gay rights.   I do enjoy going to mass from time to time just to keep me centered about my relationship with God, the power of prayer, the saints and the continuity of rituals that happen at the same time every year.   As far as prayer and my connection with God go, I can do that anywhere without going to a cathedral.  

With UUCG, it's sort of like Cheers - "you want to go where people know people are all the same, you want to go where everyone knows you’re name."  So you wouldn't pray at Cheers but you'd sure sit down at the bar and let Norm and Cliff know how you're week was.  They would be interested and you would feel like you belonged - that's UUCG but without Sam or Woody serving beers. 

At ages 11 and 16, my kids are huge advocates for gay rights because we raised them to believe that everyone deserves to be loved and respected.   Working in the theater, I have gay friends and have heard their stories growing up and how they were picked on and bullied.   When I worked at Actor's Express Theater Company, they produced The Laramie Project about the death of Matthew Shepherd, young gay man who was killed by a pair of vicious homophobes.  The story is about how his death affected the town of Laramie, Wyoming.  It echoed the struggles of the civic rights movement in the 1960's and how people who could have done something - could have stopped the prejudice sat by and did nothing.  Seeing that play and how people reacted to it - both the members of the gay and straight audiences was really touching - there was a feeling of loss and resolve to never let it happen again.   As many times as I saw that play as the Marketing Director there, it always got to me.  You could not help but feel sad when you thought about how tragically this young man had died at the hands of fear and ignorance.  

Amber and Daniel see the discrimination that comes with being gay in their schools and they want to work to end that prejudice.   Our hearts always break when we hear about a young person who has committed suicide because there were being bullied at school because they were gay. Daniel is also very aware of the Westboro Baptist Church and their demonstrations at the funerals of our servicemen to protest this country's perceived tolerance of homosexuals.   It outrages him every time he sees them in the news.  Picking on the grieving families of soldiers who died protecting our freedom is just wrong, and it's sure as hell not what Jesus would want.   I'm not really sure what they stand for but it's not on the side of God.  I tell Daniel and Amber that they are not really a church but just a bunch of stupid people who are out for attention.  They are not doing God's work because he loves all his children.  Daniel understands this but still gets very angry when Westboro appears in the news.   He's afraid of them as a group - because picking on people you don't agree with in the name of religion can eventually turn violent.

So this fall when we heard that the UUCG would be part of a contingent of Unitarian Churches that would march in the annual Gay Pride parade, the kids really wanted to be part of it.  The parade was on a Sunday in mid-October and would start at 1:00 p.m.  I had marched in the Pride Parade when Daniel was about a year old when I worked for Actor's Express which was named the "Gay Theater" back then and they were doing The Mystery of Irma Vep.  I even dressed up Daniel's stroller with show posters and streamers and he was a big hit back in 2002.  Now ten years later, I would have both my kids in the parade marching and it would be a family outing (no pun intended).   Max had to work that day but was there in spirit.  

We started our trek on Marta which is the public transit monorail that takes you into Atlanta.   It had been a while since Daniel and Amber had been on it.  It was an interesting combination of riders:  there were the church goers, those going to the Atlanta Falcon game and those either watching or marching in the Pride parade.   Each group seemed somewhat oblivious to the other but the Falcons fans were the loudest.  The kids were fascinated at iconic images of downtown Atlanta would flash by and I kept an eagle eye out for our stop.   Not being sure, I asked a group that seemed to be going to the parade where the right stop was - the bright wigs, sequins, make-up and spandex gave them away.   A young woman in the group said that she knew where to get off and to follow her.   So we got off at the Civic Center and were greeted by a slew of bright costumes, men in dresses, women in over the top costumes and just a sense of excitement and pure joy.   Literally, it was like a very gay Disney Parade but with lots of different types of queens instead of princesses.   It also felt like the happiest place on earth.   For the rest of the year, many of these people probably had to feel like they needed to not be who they were in order to navigate their real life in Georgia even if they lived in more tolerant cities like Atlanta or Decatur.  But today, they could be who there were and no one was going to judge them.   No one was going to tell them they were bad or evil.   Today, we were all there to celebrate the fact that they should have "pride" in who they are and no one was going to take that away from them. 

As we made our way to the Unitarian float, you could feel the excitement in the air.   Our float was lined up with some other more family friendly organizations which included the Humane Society and a very progressive Baptist Church that was there to show their support for the cause.  I was so glad to see that because I didn't want Daniel to think that all Baptist churches were like Westboro and that there were churches of all denominations that would accept gays.    We got in line right behind a group of men's volleyball players who ended up spiking and hitting volleyballs to each other through the entire parade route.   Before the parade started, Daniel asked me if he thought we would see any demonstrators like Westboro and frankly I doubted it because there seemed to be a ton of security and thousands of people down the parade route.   Daniel stayed on the float which was a flat bed trailer with bails of straw in it and a few signs being pulled by a van that looked like something out of a Scooby Doo movie.   We were walking down the parade route holding signs like "Unitarian Universalists Support You", "My Church Supports Gay Marriage," and "UU Churches Welcome You."   It was cool that when folks saw us and the float they started to cheer.   Amber, who usually gets really tired really fast kept on going, waving to the crowd with a big smile on her face.

Then about a third of the way into the parade, we saw them - the demonstrators - a few of which were from Westboro.   So here they were, these hate-mongers in our midst telling us that we were going to go to hell for what we believed.   Rather than getting rattled or upset by these misguided zealots, I saw Daniel on the float mouth the words, "Hell No!" as he grabbed a sign that said "My Church supports Gay marriage" and ran bravely towards them.   Amber saw the demonstrators and ran over as well.   I kept an eye on them - and their sense of righteousness to make sure nothing would get out of hand.  They were not scared and they were not going to back down.   Of course, there was safety in numbers.  There were people from our church around them along with about 10,000 parade goers on the side of gay rights, but in that moment it didn't matter - it was them against a group of bigoted hateful people and my kids were not going to be silenced.   When they saw Daniel's sign, they shouted that we needed to go to another church - Daniel walked proudly by unfazed.  I learned later that Amber flipped them off - perhaps not the most eloquent way of dealing with idiots but certainly in a language they understood.   One of the ladies in our group when over to the Westboros and said repeatedly "But we love you - please come and worship with us."   I liked her approach and vow to use it next year. 

My kids were now fully in front of the float, carrying their signs with me and being cheered by the crowd.   As we got to the home stretch, a man came towards me from the crowd and shook my hand.  He told me that his friend had been a member of a Unitarian Church in the area.  His friend was openly gay and felt very accepted and at home in the UU church.   But times got tough for his friend, he went through a really bad time and committed suicide.  The UU congregation opened the church to his grieving friends and they all felt very comforted and welcome in a way that most churches would not have under the same circumstances.   They were not judged, they were simply allowed to be.   The service was beautiful and he felt the need to tell me how much the church had meant to his friends and him.   I told him how sorry I was for his loss and hugged him.  

I had felt good all day about what we were doing, but that man's testimony helped me see what a resource my church was for those that felt so marginalized.   His friends were able to grieve openly and not be told by a minister that their friend was going to hell for taking his life or being gay or both.  There was a real spiritual connection that we shared in that moment.   I was glad that he told me his story because it affirmed for me that sometimes miracles can happen even in an Uniterian Church where many of the congregants will swear on a stack of bibles that they just don't believe.  For me, I knew that God does work in mysterious ways even for those that might not think they need the help.

We finished marching in the parade and I was glad that my kids had gotten a chance to face the Westboro folks who scared them and stood up to them (although as a mom I had mixed feelings about my daughter flipping someone off - even if they were fear-mongering miscreants).   I was proud of them and best of all, they were proud of what they accomplished.  They are part of a movement that will stand for justice for gays to be treated fairly and to have the freedom to marry who they want.  They beamed with excitement that night as they told their father what they had experienced.  It was a wonderful day full of love, lessons, the middle finger and at the end of it all, my children made their parents very proud - what more could a mother ask for?