My raw and fragile heart pulsed persistently, yet there was no life to its monotonous melody. Where once rhythm and rapture dwelled together, an endless void now stood.

The feeling described above, of downright defeat, falling to that dreaded place called rock bottom, this is the space where your life changes. I’ve encountered it many times, in a variety of forms, and yet each time I find myself there, I find a new refrain with the same answer, a new consolation from a source of boundless comfort, and a new, fuller way of being. It has been my great fortune in these darkest of depths to simultaneously come face to face with an overwhelmingly abundant reminder of the necessity and presence of love- the purest, deepest love imaginable. That which an infant feels, held in the warm embrace of a caring mother’s arms.

Weightless.

Safe.

Valued beyond price.

Cared for beyond measure.

The strength of the sentiment comes and goes as life progresses from those rock-bottom places, dwindling here and dominating there. I’ve had many moments that led me to encounter this old friend, many moments that crushed my spirit, broke my heart, swept the floor out from under my feet, and otherwise left me broken- with a brokenness too heavy for words. And yet, every time I’ve broken myself or been broken by the thousand shocks and stings of life, I’ve subsequently found a pathway to healing through, ironically enough, words.

My memory of hearing the most unexpected news that my brother was gay is less a movie of the moment and more akin to a snapshot. We sit there, frozen in this most unanticipated and yet fortuitous moment, and I’m unable to speak… at least with my voice. Rather, my eyes become the messengers of the full and broken heart within me. The tears that pour out say, “How could I have been so ignorant?”

“How could I unknowingly call my brother a sinner?”

“What does this mean for the vision of the world as I’d come to know it?”

“I’m not sure of all the answers, but I am sure that I love you, then, now, and always brother.”

How I wish I’d said that last line out loud, and perhaps I did. The unfortunate truth is that I can’t recall what I said, and I struggle to see beyond that still frame shot of us, sitting in the bed, knees inclined towards each other, my brothers head bowed in sorrow, shame, and a smidgen of relief, while my face stands awash with tears and a recognition of something- the faintest whisper of my fate. That I am a small drop in an infinite sea of love, and my only purpose is to be sharing that love with everyone I meet, engaging it, walking with it, glorifying it with every breath I have to spare while I’m on this circuital and short trip around the sun.

I became a disciple of love after that paradoxical moment- the one in which a simultaneous destruction/death of the “me that was” and the creation/birth the “me I was always meant to be” transpired. Ironically enough, in becoming a believer in love, I vowed to leave behind religion, and God as I knew him.

As I knew him then, God was cruel, illogical, petty, inconsistent, and could hold his own with those ancient Olympians and all their missteps, petty squabbles, and brutality. I’d waste no more time putting stock into developing a faith in and relationship with this figure. Rather, I’d invest my mind and heart in the service of love. The love that my brother deserved and deserves. The love that lets you know you’re welcome, no matter who you are. The love that cares not for the worst thing you’ve done. The love that in filling you up completely calls on you to share it with one and all. And so, I followed this quest of love, and I still seek to serve it- for no greater love is there than this, to give up one’s life for one’s friends.

I found the best pathway to do so was to spend my life returning the gift of a good teacher. See, after this life-changing moment, I was fortunate enough to have an English teacher who cared for me and gave me the tools of the written word to work through my new identity, my new life. Thus, I became a teacher, trying each and every day to give away that beautiful and life-changing boon to my students. To share the power of hope, love, and to make clear to them that words are an outstanding access point to these most beautifully human powers. I try to live as a testament and a reminder that when our words are made flesh, we change those broken parts and pieces into something even more authentically us.

In the way that I’ve written this note, I hope that it’s no surprise to you, that I have somehow found my way back to a relationship with the creator, the one who is, the one who is love, or as I call him now, God, Jesus, my friend and redeemer. The one who takes the broken pieces, holds them in love, and allows for new connections to form.

I also hope this strange twist makes you wonder: just how did you spend ten years in agnosticism and a more than robust skepticism of formalized religion to ultimately find yourself asking in earnest for the waters of baptism and rebirth in Christ? Well, I suppose that’s a life-changing moment for another story.

Fallen

How my heart hurt beloved,
How betrayed I felt,
By this hand, so cruelly dealt.
Do you know what that’s like?
When anger, disgust,
Bitter distrust
Seep in and threaten consumption?

My angelic brother
Banished to hell.
Like Lucifer
He was dropped, and he fell.
Yet, it was no pride in my brother that created this spell,
This damnation, his being cursed to live as a shell.
It was no fault of his own.
He desired no throne,
And still, it all just makes me groan
Because the word “fault” should not be a part of the conversation at all.

This denial of love,
Does not come from above.
Hatred only lurks within the human heart.
While they all beat the same,
We still insist on differing names,
Giving us reasons to blame.
Has this been there from the start?

This fear of what’s different,
What’s outside the box,
It’s a tale as old as time.
And now I ink my version down in rhyme.
These words on the page
Bring a sense of control.
A sense that this broken age
Could be something turned into a whole.