All You Need is Love (and, Perhaps, a Laugh or Two)

I drove home last week to have lunch with my cute mom and dad.  After discussing our common ground and diverging thoughts on Boyd K. Packer's talk, I smiled at my parents and teased, "Well just look at our little Mormon modern family: you've got a son who's gay, a son who's married to a non-member, a son who's currently being pursued by (gasp) a fabulous black girl, and a son who'd travel back in time to 1890 just so he could farm and earn a living at it.  Who would've thought?"

We shared a laugh, and then my mom said, "Yeah.  Not quite what we pictured, but it's what we've got.  And we love each of you, no matter what."

No, life doesn't always comply with the picture you paint in your head.  I'm quite certain my parents envisioned a completely different outcome when they first embarked on the process of rearing a family.  But, being the beautiful people they are, they've adjusted their vision, walked forward in faith and shown us that love is really all you need. 

"If There's Love in a House..."

To steal a line from a great Tome Waits song “...It's a palace for sure.”

Every single member of my family was under the same roof for the past week. It's been lovely to have Mom and Dad, me, Matt and Claren and Jayden and Andi, Austin, and Gavin together. We haven't spent this long a time with each other for six years.

A lot has happened in that span of time:  I left to serve in PA. Matt went to Phoenix to study diesel mechanics. I came home and moved to Ogden. Austin left to serve in the Dominican Republic. Mom moved an entire cosmetology school twice. I was one half of a horribly dysfunctional, thankfully dissolved engagement. Matt and Claren got married.  Jayden arrived. Austin left. Gavin boycotted the public school system and started his stint with home-schooling and then boycotted home-schooling and went back to public school.   I moved home.  Andi was born.  I moved back to Ogden. Gavin overturned his Jeep. Austin came home (a week ago!). Dad has been constant and sure the entire time and Mom has enjoyed most of the ride.

I was reminded of how much I love my family. This photo is probably the best representation of all the happy feelings I've felt in their company this week.  It has been as pure a joy for me as riding my shoulders was for my niece.

I thank God for my family and that there is love in our house, this palace: our home.

We were getting ready to cut the dog's hair and Sammy, my parents' Yorkshire terrier, went into hiding amidst piles of sorted laundry as I looked in the mudroom cupboard for the clippers my mother uses to trim his coat.

Mom was standing near the kitchen table, her five-month-old iPhone in her hand. "Your brother taught me how to use the iTunes last night," she said. "I have to show you the first song I bought." She was excited to show me the song she had purchased, Bucky Covington's song, "A Father's Love." I'd never heard of the singer, let alone the song, as I'm not much interested in listening to a wide array of country music. I was trying, unsuccessfully, to coax the dog into out of the laundry pile when the son started playing; I was in tears, dog in hand, by the second stanza.

He checked the air in my tires,
The belts and all the spark plug wires;
Said "When the hell's the last time you had this oil changed?"
And as I pulled out the drive he said, "Be sure and call your mom sometime."
And I didn't hear it then, but I hear it now:
He was saying "I love you" the only way he knew how.

I was hit by these lyrics because they describe exactly what my dad does for me every time I come home. He checks the air in my tires, opens the hood and putters around, and--word for word--asks, "When the hell's the last time you had this oil changed?" The song finished playing, I held Sammy in my lap, and Mom proceeded to share with me how she'd played the song for Dad the night before( which inspired about the same reaction in him as it did me); he asked afterward if he'd said "I love you" to his sons frequently enough when we were growing up.

I looked at a hangnail on my finger and smiled, as this brought to mind a rigorous and flaying conversation I'd had with an acquaintance concerned about my life choices about a month earlier. I said, "Well, I made sure to tell Sister So-and-So that Dad has always been very conscious about letting us know he loves us, that we've heard those words from him many times."

"What are you talking about?"

I wrestled with the anxious dog in my lap. "Oh, about a month ago she waited for me after an afternoon performance the trio gave. Said I was 'just the young man she wanted to visit with.' Corralled me into an unoccupied, 'more private' room for a discussion she wanted to have. Where she told me why being gay is the same as being 'sexually broken.' And said she could offer me help with selecting a Church-affiliated counselor and a reformative program. So I could be healed."

I wasn't sure if my mom would try to change the subject of if she'd agree with the other woman's opinion; I wasn't really certain of anything, as any mention of the word "gay" draws up tension for my mom and for me. The clippers buzzed on and Sammy whimpered. "You're kidding! I can say stuff like that to you, but no one else can! Who in the world does she--?" I was comforted by my mother's defending, angry response. "What else did she say?"

I maneuvered the dog so Mom could shear those hard-to-reach places and explained how Sister So-and-So informed me that same-gender attraction is not caused by genetics or biological functions, but that it is the result for boys who grow up without an involved father; who lack positive masculine role-models in their early lives; who seek out positive male-to-male touch in adult relationships because they don't feel completely male because their daddies didn't hug them enough when they were little boys.

I explained how I let Sister So-and-So know that my dad had never been shy about giving my brothers and me hugs; that he'd never been slack in saying, "I love you;" that both he and my mom have always been supportive of the activities in which their children participate. "Mom, I was very clear in telling her how great a father Dad was--how great a father he is. That I don't think it's Dad's fault--or your fault--that I'm gay." I laughed, "It really blew the wind out of her sails."

"That just makes me so mad," Mom spat. "What nerve!"

"I know, Mom. I was really upset about it, too," I agreed. Sammy kicked, "Be careful -- don't nick your dog!"

"Sorry, Sammy."

We kept talking as she finished up Sammy's haircut. It felt good for both of us. It had been a long time since that had happened.

I learned some things:

My parents are processing this. They may not like it, but they love me and they will defend me as they always have.

Sister So-and-So was acting out of love, even if she was sneaky and horribly misguided in the way she offered her opinions; however, Sister So-and-So was also ashamed that we were having the conversation. She waited around for everyone to leave before she said she wanted to speak with me. She looked for a quiet room, out of the way, where no one could find or interrupt us. She cowered and looked over her shoulder at every sound. "Did someone just walk by? Did anybody see us in here?"

My response to that kind of sneaky, secretive, shadow-filled "assistance" is this: I'm Mormon. I'm gay. I'm unashamed. If you want to talk about those dualities, let's have the discussion out in the open. No secrets. No shame. No judgment from you. No judgment from me.

And lastly, my parents' parenting of me did not direct or lead me to be attracted to other men. There is nothing we can blame "the gay" on. It just is. It's something I've felt since I can remember feeling, and it's something I'll feel for the rest of my life. No one should ever have to justify their feelings, or try to blame what they feel on anyone else.

I've become a man, confident and content as any, but I forget to change the oil in my car. I don't often press a gauge against the valve to see how much air is in the tire. Dad reminds me to do those things. It's just another way he keeps saying, "I love you." I'm happy he still does.

Skinny Jeans

Ok. I did it.  I purchased my first pair of skinny jeans, a feat which I never imagined I'd undertake.  You see, I don't have the best relationship with my body.  At 5'10" and 130 lbs, I'm just a little slip of a thing, and I've never liked being skinny.  I've avoided any sort of clothing that accentuates my slim and slender frame; in fact, I usually have worn quite a few layers, just to feel like I look a little bulkier than I am.  Or, I'd buy everything a size too big and end up getting lost in fabric.Those tricks never worked, though: I usually looked like I just didn't know how to wear clothes.

I've worn my new jeans a few times since buying them, and I've received quite a few compliments, which has helped me feel more comfortable about wearing such ass-hugging pants.  Enter my dear, delightful mother.

"I thought you didn't like skinny jeans," she commented yesterday.

"Well, Mom," I answered, "I'm trying them out.  A lot of people have said I look great in them."

She frowned as she walked toward the laundry room with a bag of clothes, "But they make you look so...skinny."

I was upset by her disapproval, but didn't want to argue with her.  I have, however, thought quite a lot about why I was angered by her comment.  I think it boils down to the fact that I'm coming to terms with the fact that, hey, I am skinny.  I've become more comfortable with my body.  I'm buying clothes that fit well, rather than buying things a size bigger and baggier so I can feel less little.  I feel like I look good, and other people are noticing.  I guess I wanted my mom to see the way I wore the skinny jeans -- with confidence and style -- rather than seeing that they were only skinny.

I know my mom wasn't attacking me, but I'm kind of glad I got defensive about how I'm dressing myself.  That flare of whatever it was shows me that I really believe there's nothing wrong with my small frame.  That I'm taking pride in myself.  That I can -- and sometimes honestly do -- see myself as an articulate, successful and (yes, even this appealing adjective) an attractive young man.