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Do I owe it to them?

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Five years ago, give or take, I wrote about a Different Kind of Coming Out in which shared that Little Man, now Z, had come out to us and his friends/school/community as non-binary and pansexual. They changed their name from E to Z. We rode the wave as supportive, loving parents do. The Z quietly slipped away less than a year later, reverting back to E and he/him pronouns. Definitely still in the queer community, and when they got their drivers license, requested the X for their gender. They’ve had a boyfriend for over two years now, but it’s been crickets on the rest, until this past summer. And now I am back in that confused-but-trying parental space of new language, and wondering who I owe what, as far as explanations, conversations, information.

To put it plainly, last summer, Z was diagnosed with gender dysphoria. What that means is the body we see, and what they see when they look in the mirror at themselves does not match the gender they are in their brain. We were unaware of this struggle, but they have told us they have felt this since they were rather young. They are in therapy and have been since this diagnosis. We have met with their therapist with them, and are doing our best to understand and be supportive. This is still our child regardless of gender, sexuality, appearance, name. They did ask to wear makeup – eyeliner and mascara – which we’ve honored. They asked to use a different name, which we’re working on. They asked to start HRT – we’ve said no for now. More on that in a minute.

This isn’t my journey, and yet it is. Because Z – whom we will now call N – lives at home, and is just part of my everyday life, everyday conversations, it is my journey. They come up in regular conversations with friends and acquaintances, with people we see every day/most days and people we see infrequently. Honestly, I don’t know how to talk about them, with most of these people. But then I asked myself, do I owe it to them? Do I owe them our truth, or our truth for now, however that turns out? Do I just use the old name and old pronouns with some because it’s easier rather than going into a very long explanation, or if I believe they may be “unsafe” for my gender dysphoric child? I want to honor my child and who they are, no matter where this journey takes them, but at the same time, I need to protect them. To whom do we owe any explanation about our kids anyways?

I just struggle – one of my own hangups, besides protecting my children, is the comfort of others. I also avoid confrontation of any kind. And, to be honest, not knowing where this path is going to take N makes it challenging for me to just use their new name without any kind of explanation. Sometimes that makes it just easier to use their old name and pronouns so I can avoid any confusion, any conflict, any strangeness. But again, why do I owe the comfort of others more than I owe honoring my own child? I just never know in any given moment of any conversation about this child what I should say and how I should say it. That doesn’t mean to say I am ashamed or embarrassed of this development at all. It’s just not your run-of-the-mill topic, ya know? You don’t run into it every day.

Here’s the other part of the conversation – N is an adult. They are on their own path, as they have always been. We are walking a fine line of being supportive while they work through this, and holding the line on some things. They have asked to do hormone replacement therapy – yes, to transition. We have said not now……and set some boundaries and expectations. We want them to be in therapy for a good while working through all that is and can be as far as their gender dysphoria and what transitioning will mean, physically, mentally, and emotionally. We want to make sure their current wants “stick” if that makes sense. We have also told them we will not be paying for any medications, thus they need to get a full-time job and keep it for longer than six months. They need to show us they are a responsible adult who can truly be independent and take care of themselves. We aren’t there yet on any of those things. We have come to the agreement to use their new name, they/them pronouns, and keep open minds to what they’re going through. What I will not do is tell my child we don’t believe them, don’t accept them, don’t trust them. We have been down the road of them having suicidal ideation before. Once you go through that, it is never far from your mind. I live in a half-fear status when it comes to N. I will not do anything that pushes those thoughts back to the forefront for N, nor will I allow anyone in our lives to potentially push them into that corner. Gender dysphoric/trans people have a very high rate of suicide and I won’t be one whose lack of understanding and support makes my child a statistic. I will protect them at all costs – do whatever it takes to keep them in this world. They are my priority over anyone else’s capacity to care, attempt to understand, or be comfortable.

So if you know us, and suddenly we aren’t talking about E, but rather N, just know this is what it’s about. You may not accept it, you may not approve of it, you may not understand it. This is our truth, our journey, our path. We’ve had the most supportive network and community their entire lives. I’m sure that will hold even with this new path. If I seem lost or confused when my children come up, just know I am processing what words and how in any given moment I speak of them.

Unchurched

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“I believe in God the Father Almighty”

I was born and raised in the Lutheran Church. Baptized at nine years old, confirmed at thirteen years old. Served as an acolyte for years, was in the Youth Choir, then later sang on the worship team until we had two babies and moved from Northern CA to Southern CA.

“And in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord.”

My best friend through Middle and High Schools was a Baptist preacher’s daughter. We went to youth group on Wednesday nights, church Sunday morning and evening, church camp in the Summer and Winter, and I attended a private Christian college my first two years of undergrad.

“I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy Christian church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting.”

When we moved to San Diego, we joined a Lutheran Church. I needed the familiar. It never felt like a church home, however. Little Man was baptized there. I sang in the choir for a bit. But when the church became political (advising how we should vote and whom we should vote for if we were “good Lutherans”) we left. We began attending a non-denominational church that grew out of a CoC, and for a good number of years, it felt like a solid spiritual home, for me anyways. Well, mostly. It’s difficult when you slowly become the only person in your family practicing an active faith.

I began to hear uncomfortable and discomforting things during the 2016 election – not necessarily in the church I was attending, but in the Christian community in general. The conservative Christian community I’d known since high school was becoming….way more conservative, to the point of extreme. For some, it was a one-issue decision, which I couldn’t understand given EVERYTHING else on a certain candidate’s platform that was decidedly un-Christian. The person we’d never thought could even make it through the primaries was now the candidate, and then elected. Things got ugly. The excuses and adamance I heard from the Christian community in support of him stymied me. I couldn’t grasp, couldn’t understand. This man seemed the furthest thing from Christian, and almost immediately following the inauguration in 2017, the policies put in place by the administration didn’t feel very Christ-like. I wanted reassurance in my church community this was not Christian behavior. I heard nothing, or at least not enough to make me feel like I wasn’t losing my mind or over-reacting.

2020 arrived, and with it, Covid with the fear, the shutdowns, the rules. Church moved online, understandably. I appreciated the efforts of my church to stay engaged with its members, to keep worship going, keep sharing the message each Sunday as we churched from home via Facebook streaming. As time went on, there was quite a bit of noise within the community with regard to the lockdowns – how churches should be excluded from the rules of congregating, or that the rules were unfair, unnecessary. There was also anti-masking pushback, etc. I didn’t attend in person until spring of 2021, and was astonished. As soon as people entered the doors, masks were removed, as if Covid still wasn’t an issue. This was a community with at-risk members….very young children and babies, older members with fragile health. That didn’t seem to matter. Masks off, singing, hugging, sitting right next to people from other families/households. It felt so discordant…..this was a community that was supposed to be taking care of those who needed it most, those most at risk, a community that was supposed to care more than anyone else. I’m talking the church community in general, not just the church I was attending. Rather, they seemed to proudly flaunt their actions as “free” from government, and beyond rules because they were a church of Christian followers.

Now I have children who identify as part of the LGBTQ+ community. I haven’t always believed the church was wrong on its stance that homosexuality is a sin. I grew up in a strict purity culture that was very legalistic. As I grew into adulthood, knew more and more human beings who were gay, lesbian, bi-sexual, etc, I grew to understand their love, who they love, how they love isn’t sinful. It’s just who they are. They were created and born that way. I firmly believed they should have the same rights to marriage and life as heterosexual couples. The very first service I returned to church, the sermon was on marriage, and clearly stated that the only marriage sanctioned by God is that between one man and one woman. I sat back, stunned. I mean, I knew this was the stance, but to hear it blatantly, especially knowing I had two children at home for whom love and marriage would likely look different, my heart just hurt. It felt so wrong, almost intentionally painful, and again, not the God I believed in. I left church that day not knowing it would be one of the last times I would sit in a service, in church community. I went back maybe twice more in the spring and summer of 2021. Then I quietly left. For the first time in my life, church didn’t feel safe. It didn’t feel very Christian. It didn’t reflect what my faith was telling me was true. It didn’t seem to imitate the values of Jesus I had been raised on. I was grieving the loss of that community of faith, but I couldn’t keep going to a place that moved further and further from the God I knew. By the end of 2021, I had fully left the church. I haven’t been back.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about my faith. I still pray daily. I have been lax on my Bible reading in recent years but that is personal. I engage in faith conversations with others who have struggled in recent years to connect with the church community. Evangelicalism just doesn’t feel very Christian anymore. I’ve watched the American “church” move more and more towards Christian Nationalism, and I want no part of that. It feels in the last ten years that too many Christians are giving Christians a bad name. Saying you’re a Christian who isn’t political is a) very privileged and b) actually a political choice. Christians cannot bury their heads because it’s more convenient that way, or because they don’t want to engage in debate or conversation that can be uncomfortable. Sorry for the aside.

What I’m seeing and hearing other Christians defend these days is diametrically opposed to the teachings of Jesus to do for the least of these, to love your neighbor, to care for the poor, the ill, the orphaned, the widowed, the aged. Instead, I hear and see ugliness…abusive and racist and fear-mongering behavior, in the name of Jesus. Or there is just silence where there should be yelling in the streets against these abuses. Christians should be on the front line of fighting for those who need defending, rather than standing alongside those in masks with guns who are terrorizing families, those trying to take the rights away from human beings, those stealing from those who are already without. It doesn’t make me inclined to return to the church community. I’ve thought frequently over the last two years how much I miss being in community with others of the faith. I just don’t feel the energy, the drive to search for a community that aligns with me, particularly given all that is happening in our world. I know I’m not alone.

I am unchurched. I have been unchurched. Someday, I will return, I am sure. I trust God will lead me to a community that feels like home, that feels attached to the teachings and life of Jesus. In the meantime, I remind myself that:

I believe in God the Father almighty, maker of heaven and earth. And in Jesus Christ, his only Son, Our Lord, who was conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died and was buried. He descended into Hell. On the third day He rose again from the dead. He ascended into Heaven and sits at the right hand of God the Father Almighty. From thence He shall come to judge the living and dead. I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy Christian Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and life everlasting. Amen.

Time Slip

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I know time seems to speed up the older you get, however, since the pandemic, my brain has the hardest time keeping track. If you told me 2020 was last year, talked about it that way, as if that were a real thing, I’d be nodding my head, totally buying it. My brain seems to have smashed the last three years all into one very long year. Anyone else? I’m sure I can’t be alone in this. Logically, I know it’s 2023, but every time I hear the date or see the date, I’m in denial. Where did 2020, 2021, and most of 2022 go? They’re all condensed in my mind. At the same time, it feels like an eternity ago we were all on lockdown, wearing masks, watching replays of years-old sports championship games because there weren’t any new games, wondering if Carol Baskins actually did un-alive her husband, learning TikTok dances because there was nothing else to do, and having birthday parties/graduation parties/family holiday dinners/book clubs/reunions on Zoom. Heck, when I was thinking back to my trip with Spouse to Kauai last February and remembered we were still required to mask in the airport and on the plane, my brain told me that trip was entirely further back in time than a year ago.

Honestly, the whole pandemic and lockdown seem surreal already, and it was only a few years ago. Okay, even typing that out loud seems wrong – like it was yesterday instead of three years ago, but also forever ago. How can it be both of those things at once? It seems unbelievable our whole lives shut down. Spouse still went to his office after the first couple of weeks, being declared a vital industry. But Big Man came home from school for Spring Break and stayed, his dorm and school closing a few days after break began. My work went from insanely busy to basically nothing. How did we survive no new TV, no new sports, no work, no restaurants, no social life, no holidays? I still remember feeling like we were living in a dystopian society every time I went to the grocery store, with the “rules” constantly changing, the empty shelves, the arrows on the floor telling you which way to go in each aisle, the dots keeping us six feet away from each other in line, the sanitizer everywhere, the plastic shields between customers and checkers. I remember working with a group of neighbors to help each other when one of us would find something we needed – toilet paper, paper towels, sanitizer, flour, yeast. We came together, six feet apart, as a community, to get through those early months of scarcity. Trips canceled, shows canceled, recitals re-worked to be distanced, constantly watching the news for the latest numbers. Life slowed down, but time also seems to have sped up. One year just bled into the next, even after things started to open up.

I don’t know about you, but it feels weird to even get Covid statistics over the news or in any media these days. We’ve moved on, but we really haven’t. I got the virus for the first time last summer. Vaccines and boosters made it quick and easy, relatively. But for the most part, we seemed to have put it out of our lives. But I digress…as per usual.

I think I’ve lost my sense of time. My body can’t feel the place in the year we are like it used to. I can’t sense seasons as before. It just feels all one. If you told me summer was next week, I’d probably think, “sure!” I keep calendars everywhere just so I can remind myself. I feel disconnected from the normal way time and seasons and years work. The only thing I can think of is those couple years of pandemic living took away our tethers to time and its normal passage. Maybe part of that is my kids being all grown and us no longer being tied to a traditional school calendar that kept seasons and months marked very specifically. Anyone have any other ideas? Or have I maybe just lost my mind entirely?

It’s Not a Faith Crisis

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I grew up in the church. There isn’t a time in my life I don’t remember going to church, Sunday school, vacation Bible school, youth group. I spent my first two years of college at a private, Christian college. I’ve sung in choirs and was a worship leader for years before we moved to San Diego. I’ve taught Sunday school, served as an acolyte in my younger days, went to Catechism, was baptized at 9 and confirmed at 13. When I was younger, I was very legalistic, using my faith and the words of the Bible as weapons. I saw the world as very black and white. the Bible was the judge, and I sat in the jury. As I’ve grown older, experienced more life, had the edges smoothed, I’ve realized so many things about faith and the church. My God is a God of love.

My faith, to this day, remains true and strong. I believe in God the Father Almighty, I believe in Jesus Christ His only Son who was conceived by the Virgin Mary, was crucified, buried and dead and on the third day, He rose again; I believe in the Holy Spirit, I believe I will be in Heaven after my life on this earth is done. I believe Christ died for my sins and is my Savior. I have never doubted any of these things, however, I have not been to church in nearly two years, in person. And that isn’t just due to Covid restrictions. I do not have a faith crisis. I have a church crisis.

I know I am not alone in this crisis. I was struggling a little bit before Covid hit, but Covid, and much of the church’s reaction – and when I say “church” I am speaking of the church in general, not my specific church – drove a nail in for sure. The proverbial straw. Here’s part of my situation, pre-Covid. I am the sole active believer in our home. It feels weird to go to church – people assume you’re single, divorced, and/or a bad mom for not making my kids come with me to service. Small groups are just plain awkward – I don’t fit in with the couples, because my spouse is not there with me, but I don’t fit into the “singles” either, because I am definitely NOT single. I found I was pulling back from socializing and immersing myself in church – I felt weird. I already have social anxiety – this didn’t help me in the least. Now, I’m sure the people at my church weren’t judging or questioning as much as my mind was telling me to fear. But the awkwardness was real.

Then Covid happened. I saw the church at its absolute worst. People proclaiming to be Christians were not in the least portraying or reflecting the life of Christ. The church itself definitely was not representative of community. The one time I went to a service in person, an overwhelming majority of the people weren’t wearing masks, and this was long before the mask requirements lifted. When our state entered a second shelter-in-place, most of the churches in our town stayed open. I know from multiple friends and family members who attend other churches of other denominations in different cities and states experienced and saw the same things happening. These same people, and their church leaders, who are supposed to be exemplifying Christ were the most selfish, the most judgmental, only worried about their own comfort, their own beliefs and political ideas. I did not see a community concerned about community and the very people they were supposed to care about the most. The community I was supposed to be able to rely on in awful times was no community at all, and certainly didn’t show the world the love of the God they said they believed.

I examined further and realized this situation actually wasn’t new, and didn’t pertain only to Covid times. I went back to my early days as a believer, a member of the church community and I realized very few churches I’d been in, experienced closely, actually were striving to exemplify Christ. Rather, they were judgmental, using the words of the Bible to exclude and persecute, to elevate themselves and look down. Christ didn’t hang out with the Sadducees and Pharisees. He hung out with the sinners, the tax collectors, the prostitutes. Do you think He sat there the entire time He was with them telling them how awful they were? No, He loved them into wanting to live better, to be in community, to live and love like He did.

Don’t get me started on the patriarchy in the church, much less the shaming and guilt. As I said, my God is a god of love. Does that mean I sit out here doing whatever I might feel like doing, that I have free rein to be a horrible person because God loves me and forgives? Nope. I won’t get into a theological conversation here, let’s just put it this way – in my experience over the last 30-ish years, Christians make Christians look bad. The Church isn’t being persecuted – it is destroying itself from within. Do I want church to resemble a stripper joint/bar? No, not that either. I want a church that is love, that is community, that is open.

Two of my children are part of the LGBTQ community. In my younger, legalistic days, I would have believed they were going to hell. I know better now – they are not a sin, and they are not sinners simply because of their biology. Yes, I said it – their BIOLOGY, their chemical make-up. I can’t attend a church that tells me my children are sinners because of the way they are. I can’t attend a church that tells me they will go to hell for who they love. Love is love. They are who they are. My only concern is whether they are good people who do good things in the world, who love well and find someone to love them well. But I see the Church telling me that isn’t real, that they are consciously making a choice, a sinful choice, about who they love. Again, Christians are making Christians look bad, and the Church is making the Church look bad, uninviting, exclusive, judgmental, unloving, uncaring.

And so, I am in a church crisis. Am I the one in the wrong for wanting to find a church that loves God, that worships God, that seeks to exemplify Christ within those walls, but more importantly, out in the world? I want a church that is accepting, that cares more about the people within and the people outside of their walls, rather than the shininess of those walls themselves. I want a church that says they care about the community and then goes and SHOWS they care about the community, that lives it.

We are all human, yes. And Church is made up of humans, so there is going to be failure and falls. What I’ve seen from the Church in the last few years in particular though has put me in this church crisis. I know I am not alone, but it’s still a lonely place for a Christian to be.

Reach Back

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When Big Man had been in the NICU just over a week, and it felt like we would never bring him home, his neonatologist introduced us to a family whose 26 week baby boy was just getting ready to go home.  Dr. S wanted to give us hope, let us know it was possible, there was a light at the end of the tunnel. That was the first clue we had an amazing doctor taking care of our boy. I am forever grateful to him for that introduction. It did give me hope – hope that carried me through so many bad NICU days. Later, close to the end of our own NICU stay, Dr. S brought a new family to meet us, to let them know there was hope, there would be an end to their own NICU stay, that they could make it, and our journey was the impetus for their hope.

Then when Big Man was four, I found an online community for NICU families. I knew I had to make sense of his early birth, and one way to do that was to reach back, and help families just beginning the journey. I shared our story repeatedly. I was honest about our journey to that point, and the challenges we were still facing. It became a mentor-and-be-mentored opportunity…..moms with preemies older than mine reached back and helped me; I reached back to pull up moms with preemies younger than mine. We built a community, and some of my closest friends today were formed then. And among family and local friends, I am the bedrest/premature birth/NICU “expert”.

My days were dark when Little Man was first diagnosed on the spectrum. It seemed there was an entirely new language to learn, new processes to develop, a new routine to become acquainted with. I was overwhelmed. I was heartbroken. I was terrified. It all seemed too much. But once again, there were people in my life further into the autism journey who reached back, shared stories, gave advice, suggested resources and different therapies, and offered a shoulder to lean on.  I still lean on them to this day, as they are still ahead of me on this  particular path.

We are six years into this life on autism street. We have some experience under our belts. We know what usually works. We have our toolbox. We know what to avoid, when to push, when to hold back. We know we can’t parent him out of being autistic, but we can parent him through it. Do we have absolutely shitty days, as we’ve had recently? Oh heck  yeah. Being an expert on MY autistic kid doesn’t mean we don’t still face many difficult battles and challenges.

Again, though, I feel a responsibility to reach back to those just starting this journey, to once again share our story, mentor, suggest, provide resources, let them know what we’ve learned and used to get to this point. In that reaching back, I find hope, and I find a purpose I can handle. It doesn’t make me happy he’s autistic, but it just helps me make a little bit of sense out of it. I wouldn’t wish autism street on anyone, but if we have to be here, we may as well help each other through it, right?

Under the Friday Night Lights

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Tonight is the last football game of the season for our high school. That really just hit me today. We’ve been floating along in this new routine for a couple of months. I think I just now grasped this is our last week of this particular routine.

It’s been awesome – watching the teams, watching my girlie cheer. Everything I’d hoped for her in this experience has been realized. There’s been  ups and downs – our team isn’t the best – and there has, of course, been drama. You can’t put thirty girls on a team and expect there to not be drama. But she’s part of the school culture, part of the Friday night legacy. She’s a cheerleader.

Watching her, and the teams, every week, has brought back so many memories. My family spent every fall Friday night at a high school football field from the time my brother was a Sophomore in high school until my youngest sister graduated. There’s a community – the students, the parents, the rowdy crowd, the band, the football players, coaches, the cheerleaders, the younger and the older siblings. I love being part of that again, even if I’m frequently reminded I’m now just the mom.

Watching her cheer, watching her teammates, watching the football players, you can forget they’re just kids after all. They seem larger than life out there. But then the DJ will play some music, and you see them start to dance a bit, or a helmet comes off and you recall just how young they are, that they have so much life ahead of them.

But tonight is the last game of the season for her freshman year. I’m planning on trying to just take it in.

The family two rows up

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I posted a Facebook status last night on my personal page. It read, “I cried in church this morning when a family came in with a boy whom I instantly recognized as so like my own. And when that boy escaped his father’s clutches to go run and dance to the beautiful music, not one in the church flinched, and the music minister smiled as he continued to sing, I cried again. For we have found a safe and accepting place.”  The feelings from yesterday are hanging with me.

We don’t typically go to the later service at church. But the Princess and I had volunteered in the nursery during the early service, and so went to the late service. I knew as soon as this family walked in, sat down, and the dad handed the son the iPad, I was seeing a family similar to ours, dealing with some the same issues we deal with. When the headphones went on, I was convinced their sweet boy is just like mine. For some reason, it made me tear up. I watched as the dad kept a close eye on his boy through the service, looking back at his seated child as he stood singing, gently putting his hand on his son’s shoulder occasionally. It felt so familiar. I  know I do those things when Little Man is in church with me. We look the same as this family did yesterday. I wasn’t staring, but I was aware.

I  know we are not alone in having an autistic child. Even at our church, we are not unique. But to see this family, so similar to ours….I wanted to walk up to them and say, “We are just like you.  Thank you for being here.” I didn’t, though. I thought it would be a little on the weird side, especially since Little Man was not with me.

Towards the end of the service, during communion, the son got up out of the pew and ran across the front of the church, moving with the music. His dad calmly (he looked calm, but I can guess his heart was probably racing the way mine would have been in that moment) walked to him and coerced him back to his seat. The singers never missed a beat. No one in church bat an eye. I cried again. One of the reasons I love our church family so much is that they’ve all been so accepting of our little guy. But to see that same acceptance given to a new family just gave me such comfort. A safe place has been created for special families.

I hope to meet this family soon. I hope they come back to our church, and they see what we’ve become accustomed to over the past few years, that they will know we think their son is beautiful, a blessing, and that they are welcome. I know them, because they are we, but I hope to get to know them, so they might know they’re not alone.

Home

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I grew up in a very small town. There were 15,000 people there when we moved from San Jose to that small, agricultural, Central Valley town. I’d never even heard of it before we moved. I was ten. It was terrifying. We’d left everything we knew and moved to this town where we knew no one. It was a small town with four elementary schools (in town), two middle schools (I’d never heard of middle schools either, only Junior High), and one (yes ONE) high school.  I was shy to begin with. Moving to a new place at the beginning of 5th grade was pure hell for me, much less for my brother who was 14 and starting high school.  It grew to be home, but after high school, I bolted. My parents split up after I graduated, and sold our house a year later.  There wasn’t much to go back to. It wasn’t really home anymore.

We’ve lived in San Diego for over ten years now. Seems hard to believe. This is the longest I’ve lived in one home my entire life. I go “home” at least a couple of times a year to see my family. My brother moved back to that small town years ago. It’s always strange to me to be back home. I  expect to run into people I  know when we’re out and about town. But there are over 80,000 people in that city  now. It’s not the small town it used to be. I continually look for familiar faces but don’t often see them. I see remnants and ghosts of that town, and I love when that happens. But grocery stores have moved, a mall has been added. The old movie theater we went to all through high school is some kind of church.  My brother lives in what used to be “way-out-country” and is surrounded by houses, schools, and shopping centers. The high school has changed immensely, and there are now two other high schools in town. I drive through town and memories try to surface, but so many things are so different. Our old house has changed hands more times than I can count. I would love to show my kids my town….where I grew up, the library we used to ride our bikes to, the schools I attended, 11th Street where we watched all the parades, where we used to go for pizza, where we used to watch the football team practice, and so on. Half of it isn’t there anymore.

I went home after Christmas and, as has become tradition, my brother and I went to one of the local bars. It’s owned by a classmate of mine and it’s  like walking into the past when you go through those doors. THS alumni seem to use it as an informal reunion location, and you almost always run into someone from your class, your siblings’ classes, the class before or after yours.  I love seeing the jerseys, the pictures, the people. I can’t always find the home I remember when I’m driving around that town, but when I go into this bar, the ghosts of home have more substance.  The memories are brought out, talked about, laughed about. Maybe you can’t go home again, but you can find someplace close.