Happy Anniversary to the Greatest Parents I Am Blessed to Have and Know

Yesterday, my parents celebrated their anniversary. My dad was on the Church History Tour; he takes high school graduates to different historical sites of the LDS church. My mom was with my sister. Though they were apart, which is not different than most years, they acknowledged their union and their love. They renewed their vows, in a sense, by celebrating all the years together.

As they celebrated their love together, I also got to celebrate the initial start to their journey and the eventual beginning of my own life and path. Without their union, I would not be here as I am and I would not have walked the path I am on. Though, in the past, it may have appeared that I was cursing the life I have lived, and I may have been at the time. However, as I look at who I am and where I am, I have come to realize that I have been blessed to be a part of an exquisite family. A family who loves me and blesses me with that love every moment of every day.

The anniversary of my parents' wedding reminds me of the many, many generations that it took to create two  of the most wonderful people I have been blessed to know. I am graced by the many unions in the past who have brought the formation of my body and the blood that flows in my veins. My soul has found its home in flesh and blood because generations on generations fell in love and created the two people who fell in love, created their family, and I am blessed to call them Mom and Dad.

I cannot find words sufficient enough to thank the two people whom I love and care for deeply. Thank you just doesn't seem like enough. Thank you will have to be sufficient for now until I discover the actual way to best show my indebtedness and my gratitude.

Body, bones, and blood are not the only gifts given to me from my parents union; they are simply the physical gifts and, though sometimes I complain and joke about being the garbage dump for all the bad genes, I truly am the person I am because of them. Their examples of loving devotion show me the kind of relationship I deserve to have and be in. I see how they treat each other, with respect and adoration, and I know that that is what I want and how I want my relationships to be.

The combination of their personalities has created me. They have a joy of life and an ability to see the humor in things that makes me see life differently. Their love of life has allowed me to see life from their perspective when life seemed bleak, unimaginably uncertain, and painful.

I am a blessed man because two people fell head over heals in love. I am blessed to have lived thirty-two years with the most amazing parents someone could be lucky enough to have. I don't know how to thank them for all they've done or for all they are. Together they are complete. And I love them more and more everyday for the love they share.

Happy Anniversary Mom and Dad. You truly are the greatest parents a kid could ask for. I hope for many, many more years of celebrating your lives together. I love you and could not ask for more than you have already given me.

Hope Sucks....Sometimes

In the poetry of Emily Dickinson, she describes hope as something necessary for life. She writes, "Hope is the thing with feathers-/That perches in the soul-/That sings the tune without the words-/And never stops-at all-/And sweetest in the Gale- is heard-/And sore must be the storm-/That could abash the little Bird/That kept so many warm-..." Hope, to Dickinson, is strong and powerful. It can't be held back or kept down. Hope is what keeps people going and keeps them "warm."

While I agree to an extent with Dickinson, there are certain aspects or moments in life when we are let down, and the results we were hoping for are not met; we blame hope and fate for letting us down. For instance, at work, my unit is in charge of the building security and on my shift we split up the shift into four hour blocks when some lucky person gets to escape the unit and go up. On graveyard shift, those four hour blocks are desired by everyone. Normally, we have assigned days and assigned blocks, but when someone calls off, everyone that wants to go up picks a number between one and one hundred. I have never had the best luck in the raffle or guessing games. I don't know if it's karmic or what, but it has never been good.

Tonight, both blocks for Central Control were available and everyone, like usual, wanted to go. So, we guessed numbers. I reminded myself of my usual misfortune and told myself not to get my hopes up, but a sliver of hope crept in and, as the winners were announced, my name was not one of the winners. And my hopes were dashed against the rocks. My night was ruined because that tiny sliver of hope allowed me to think my luck would change. So, I moped around the unit for the first two hours, trying but failing to be contented with the results. Hope in this instance was a destructive force not a "little Bird."

That night's lottery is not the only time when daring to hope sends my spirits crashing. Dating or the dating game is the time when hope is always destructive because I get ahead of myself. I dare to envision something beyond that moment with that person. I envision a two car garage, his and his towels, children, and a successful life. I allow hope to send me reeling in the storm and when I never hear from that person again or the excuses roll off their tongues, the destructive "Gale" of hope destroys me and pummels me with its storm.

In William J. Mann's Men Who Love Men, Mann describes the opposing view to Dickinson's "Little Bird." Mann writes, "The worst thing about dating isn't getting rejected. It's allowing yourself to hope. Hope is the absolutely worst thing you can do when you're dating. Oh, I know hope is supposed to be this great sustaining human emotion. Everybody always says, "Don't lose hope." Fuck that. Hope sucks. It's because of hope that the disappointment is always so great" (152). Hope may be sustaining to some people, but there are times when "Hope sucks." Hope is the last thing you want your mind to be allowed to do because when the disappointment sets in, the destructive force known as hope leaves a wreckage in your heart and mind that can be worse damage than an actual catastrophe.

Hope may be "the thing with feathers-/that perches on the soul-," but afterward its talons rip you to shreds when the disappointment comes. Hope will hurt when it fails to make your fate the one you dreamed of in your hope-filled daydreams.

I am not suggesting that you never hope. That would be ridiculous of me. What I am saying, however, is to be aware of the weapon you are wielding. Be aware that sometimes, as in my work situation the other night and the dating games of life, the destruction caused by hope can be great and very disheartening. Wield your weapon of hope well. Know its powers well and know when to us them. Like any weapon, know its destructive beauty and use it well.

Mistakes in the Schoolyard Kingdom

Tonight, I want to acknowledge a mistake in my past. I don't do it because I seek forgiveness for my offense. I don't do it to show growth or to seek any public acceptance or acknowledgement. I do it out of necessity for me. I recently came to the knowledge of my mistake, my sin, my error and I want to acknowledge it and apologize.

When I was at Helper Junior High School, I was bullied verbally and psychologically. I know I have already talked about this in previous writings and my own bullying, obviously, is not the mistake I made. However, as a result of my own bullying, I, in turn, became a bully. To take away from my own pain, I joined in the verbal cruelty and assault of a classmate. This is my sin; I became the bully.

I don't remember her name, but I remember the circumstance. Whenever we walked passed her in class we would talk about how she stunk. We would talk about how, when she walked, she would drop feces down her pant leg. We would grimace and sneer and then plug our noses. My classmates and I would do everything we could to belittle her.

I always felt guilty for joining in with my classmates in making fun of her, but if I joined in, my classmates wouldn't focus their attentions on me. It was a survival of the fittest in the Schoolyard Kingdom. If I wanted the attention diverted from me and if I no longer wanted to be called fag, queer, or fudge packer, the rules dictated that I follow suite in making fun of someone else less fortunate than the rest of the class. She was less fortunate than everyone and therefore won the ridicule of everyone else.

She had poorly washed and poorly manufactured clothes. Due to what reasons, I could only guess. However, her standing as a lower class student on the lowest rungs of the totem pole were established, not because of who she was as a person, but how she appeared on the outside to everyone else. The pages of her book may have been filled with beauty and a kind heart, but superficiality rules in the Schoolyard Kingdom; her book was judged by its cover. And everyone treated her like a secondhand paperback.

My sin was committed daily for two years. I can't say enough "Hail Mary's" to wash away the dirty hands of mine that committed my sins; my mouth cannot be cleansed with soap enough for the cruelties it spoke to the young woman who received judgment for how she looked rather than who she was. I cannot apologize enough for any pain I could have caused her, but if I could, I would try to do penance to her.

So, tonight, I acknowledge my mistakes, errors, and sins committed in the Schoolyard Kingdom. To the girl that received so much cruelty that I played any part in, I am sorry. I seek no forgiveness because I don't think it is merited. But I want to acknowledge my sin and pray that I never repeat it again.

Bullying is such a cyclical malady that has infected the Schoolyard Kingdom. Kids that are bullied at home come to school to be the bully. The kids bullied at school join in the bullying of someone else to alleviate the severity of their own bullying and so on and on and on. The disease is so infectious and can only be cured when the bullied refuse to bully someone else; when the bullied refuse to continue the cycle, the cycle is broken for a moment. Though this is a lot to ask from the members of court in the Schoolyard Kingdom.

As an adult, I am able to look back because I am free from the reign of the kings and queens in the Kingdom. I am able to see my sins and acknowledge them. I am able to see and accept my accountability and refuse to continue the cycle today.

In William J. Mann's Where the Boys Are, in regards to accountability, he writes, "The first step to enlightenment is recognizing our own accountability" (408). Perhaps, in seeing passed my past and acknowledge the part I played in the Schoolyard Kingdom, I take a step towards enlightenment. But I think there are many other steps to take. One at a time. Namaste.

To My Beautiful Mother on This Mother's Day

On Sunday, we have the privilege of telling our mothers how much we care for and appreciate them for every sacrifice they made in their lives for their children. We will be able to say "Thank you" to the great women who gave us life and who, at the risk of their own lives, gave us form and breath. Three days after we celebrate our mothers on Mother's Day, I get another day to celebrate the birth of my mother. And with whatever material gift I decide to give her, which is usually another flower to add to her yard because she was the one who gave me my love of all things beautiful, I've decided that I will give voice to the memories that occasionally find their way to remind me that among all the people in my life, Mom is the woman who has shown me what it is to love without condition and who taught me that love is, as the Bible says, patient and kind.

Her love for me, my siblings, her sisters, her parents, strangers, and my father has given me hope that when the darkness is at its worst and I feel like I have no one to turn to, I will always have her as my safe haven of love and light. And with these small memories, i hope to show to those who only barely know her that a goddess has blessed me with love and life. She has never given up on me even when I have made decisions in my life that she hasn't agreed with. Mother is love.

I wish I could bring memories of my infancy about, but I was not blessed with this gift; however, as I watch her care for her grandchildren, I get a glimpse of how she was with me and my siblings. She is always making sure she has cookies, Popsicles, ice cream, crackers, and healthy snack options for my nieces and nephews. She is right there to make sure they are okay when they fall. She holds them when they cry, even though it hurts her arms and back. She seeks to find resolution and peace when they fight with their cousins or siblings. And she makes sure they feel like they are always welcome with a hug, a kiss, and a welcoming smile as soon as they walk through the door. I know when I see this, all of these moments of shared affection, that when I was an infant to my teenage years, and even now, she did and does the same for me however and whenever she can.

When we lived in our old, old, old, old house, the house I was raised in and the first home I knew, Mom strove daily to make life an adventure; she strove for all of us to be happy. Though the house only had three bedrooms, and, granted I was only a child, I never felt cramped or felt like there was not room for me among my nine siblings. The boys slept together in one room, the three youngest girls in another, and my oldest sisters had their own room, while my parents had a bed in the living room downstairs. The house, at the time to me, felt massive and when I would get lost or scared in its expanse, I always had Mom to turn to for comfort.

Mom used to wear silk pajamas and a navy blue robe with colorful flowers all over. In times of fear or pain, when I needed her presence to comfort me, I would turn into a chick, hiding under the wings and legs of its mother. I would latch onto her leg and refuse to leave her side. I would hold the silk material between my fingers and rub that softness between my fingers and I would suck on my left ring and pinky fingers; I would relish in her loving, protective presence. I knew as long as I was there everything would be fine. My fears were quelled in knowing that Mom would protect me.

As I grew older, though still in diapers, I began to venture away from under her wings. I would play outside in the always manicured lawn, running through sprinklers, playing in the ditch, or hiding in the hole in the lilac bush. As Spring came every year, the flowers Mom planted would bloom and the garden that she and Dad planted would grow. I loved to see the flowers, smell their perfume, and play in the dirt from which they grew. Nothing was off limits in my play.

I knew Mom loved her flowers. I knew they added to the beauty and welcoming feeling she was trying to provide for her family and friends. I knew Mom loved them so much. So much so that one day, I went out and picked all of the blossoms of the flowers in one of her gardens and brought them to her. "Look Mom, I picked you some flowers," I said grinning. 

Though her once full flower garden had been innocently robbed of its blossomed beauty, and though it marred the outward beauty of our home, Mom didn't raise her voice and yell at me; she didn't punish me. She simply smiled and, smiling, took the gift from me. She sent me off to play once more. I'm sure she mourned the loss of the flowers in her garden, but she loved the innocent child who robbed the garden of its beauty. She showed his importance to her over the flower garden. Her children were always more important.

When I was two years old, I suffered through some agonizing pain because of a birth defect dealing with a muscle growth near my left kidney and my ureter. I don't remember much of this pain; I assume that I blacked out so many times that I forgot. What I do remember is the care my loving parents gave me. Mom says that I used to be in so much pain that I rolled around on the floor and wouldn't let her hold me until I passed out from the pain. I can only imagine what it had been like for her to watch her child suffer and not be able to do anything.

They eventually found out what was wrong and surgery fixed it. All of this is lost in memory; however, I do have one distinct memory in this time. I remember going in to get an X-ray. Mom held my hand as the doctor poked me with a needle to inject me with the iodine for the contrast X-ray. The doctor had me lay on my back on a cold metallic table; the only thing keeping me warm was the thin cotton gown and my underwear and socks. 

The doctor took Mom behind a door with a window while he took the X-ray. I remember Mom protectively watching as I shivered on the table, trying to remain still. As soon as the doctor was finished, Mom was at my side, caressing and holding my hand. She did what she could to calm my fears. She was always calming my fears and always at my side when I needed her; she never failed.

As I grew older and we moved to a new house, Mom always maintained a beautiful pristine home. She filled the house with the aroma of homemade bread, freshly baked cookies, and good home cooking. The menu was always changing, but the aromas of Mom's cooking were always inviting. I imagine the cartoon hand coming from the food and, reaching my nose, beckoning me to the dinner table. I always looked forward to Mom's cooking; I still do.

One of my strongest memories of my Mom, besides her welcome embrace that calmed my fears and dried my tears, is her guitar and her angelic voice. Mom always had a song on her tongue, be it a jingle, a hymn, a country song, etc. She was filling the world up with her joyous melodies. My love of music and the necessity in my life for music stems from the ever present musical notes that filled our home. When the aromas of her baking and cooking weren't filling the home, her melodious voice filled the void. Sometimes the mixture of the two was the most pleasant and joyous part of life as a Campbell. Mom made and makes life joyous.

In her late thirties, I'm sure due to the stress of a large family, Mom went grey. She was still very young and beautiful, but for some reason, the grey is a marker of being a grandmother and not a mother. We would be walking into the grocery store and a stranger would bend down to ask me, "Oh, is this your Grandma?" To which I proudly responded, "No! This is my Mom." I always knew that this comment from strangers would hurt her, though she never showed her hurt.

Mom started to dye her hair so that the grey didn't show and so no one would ask if she was my grandma. But, no matter her hair color, I was always proud she was and is still my mom. I always thought she was beautiful and as I grew older, I would start to ask her why she dyed her hair because I thought she was beautiful no matter the color of her hair. Eventually, she stopped coloring her hair and now she has the most beautiful white hair to match the perfection everywhere else.

There are so many memories of my wonderful mother that I could write a biography and I would still never be able to encapsulate the woman I know; the woman I am blessed to call Mom. I will never be able to do justice to her beautiful being and soul. However, as we celebrate Mother's Day, I hope to have shown parts of the woman I know and show my gratitude to her. I wish you all could know the woman I know.

To my blessed Mother, I love you with all my heart. There is only one person that can fill your spot in my heart and that will forever be you. I am blessed everyday to have a goddess like you to call Mom. No one can or will ever replace you. When my turn comes to care for you and give you comfort, I can only hope to come close to giving you what you gave to me.

In the children's book Love You Forever by Robert Munsch, the life of a child is shown culminating in the birth of his own child. At One point in the book, the young man comes into his mother's house and rocking her, the man says, "I'll love you forever. I'll like you for always. As long as I'm living, my Mommy you'll be." Thanks for being you, Mom. No one could have done it better. All my love. Forever and always, "As Long as I'm living, my Mommy you'll be."

In a World of Pairs, Being Happy with Being Single is a Herculean Feat

Being happy with being single is not as easy a feat as I first anticipated. Being single, at times, often leaves you as the third or fifth wheel. In a world where everywhere you look people seem to be pairing off, being part of the unpaired can make you feel like the abnormal or odd one out. Also, being happy for your friends who have found their mate becomes another feat in and of itself. At some point, you start to feel like Hercules when he was going through his trials. Okay, not quite Herculean, but close.

Friday night, I stopped in at Target to get some Cliff bars and some body wash. That was all I intended to purchase, but I had an urge to buy some boat shoes. I walked toward the shoe department and ran into an old crush of mine. Yes, crush. It sounds like I'm a schoolgirl, but that's what Blake was; he was a crush.

Years ago, back before Blake was even out of the closet and back when my gaydar was actually functional, I worked at a small convenience store. (I refuse to say what store because some things are best forgotten--for now.) Blake used to work for one of the local dealerships and would drive these beautiful Audi's from the dealership to get fueled up. If I didn't know better, and had better timing, I would say that it was love at first sight. He was a 5'10" bleach blonde beauty that belonged on magazine covers, not working for minimum wage. I would flirt with him every time he came in and would try to work up the nerve to ask him out. But my timing and nerves never worked well with one another. I did manage, once, to give him my number and tell him that we should "hang out." I know. How pathetic!

Soon, he had a different job and so did I. My, once thought of, love was gone and we moved on. Every once in a while, we would text or message on Facebook or IM on Yahoo! messenger. Our paths very rarely passed until Friday night at Target. And once again, time and fate were against me.

"This is my boyfriend, Nick," Blake told me as he introduced the blonde standing next to him. Somehow I knew when I saw them together, but there was again that hope that something would happen and the star-crossed lovers would finally be together. (Hey, I'm a romantic at heart. What can I say?) My unrequited love would finally be requited and this single man could change his Facebook status, eventually, to "In a Relationship." Silly, I know.

I saw myself playing the jealous creature, in my head, and ripping at Nick's hair and screaming, "He's mine." These are the joys of living in my head. Sometimes my mind plays events like a soap opera, while the real me holds out his hand and says, "It's nice to meet you Nick." After Blake and I briefly talked about our lives and "What's new" with them, we said, "It was good to see you." When in reality, it was great to see him even though he had a boyfriend in tow with him.

All the time I was talking to Blake and in spite of my awareness of Nick's presence next to Blake, I had a smile plastered on my face. I was, in fact genuinely happy to see Blake. I wasn't as happy to know that his Facebook status was "In a Relationship with Nick So-and-so." For that, I was able to fake it and be happy that he is happy; I'm just not so happy that his happiness is with Nick instead of with me.

Once again, being content with being happy for one of my friends being "In a Relationship" was and is not an easy feat to accomplish. Forcing myself to stop saying "What's wrong with me?" and "Why am I not 'In a Relationship?'" is not an easy thing to do. It does indeed become a Herculean feat to stop questioning my singleness and simply be happy with where I am right now and the solitude of being single.

Being single in a world of pairs is not easy, but I've come to realize that unless I've found the one I'm meant to pair with, simply settling for a crooked or unfit piece is not the solution to solitude. Being content with me is important and if and when my pair comes, I will be ready for that too. So, I will continue with my Herculean feat, be happy with being with me and be happy for the ones that have found their One. Namaste.

Attachment is Suffering: Letting Go of Material Possessions for the Cessation of Suffering

How do you release pent up anger and hate for a person you barely know and who, through circumstantial evidence and gossip, has earned your dislike and ire? How do you let it go and learn to be compassionate? I wish I knew the answer and hope, through writing and pondering, I can come up with the answer. The ire and the negativity don't do me any good.

In the house I rent a room in, my room has no door and a drape covering the entry from prying eyes and accidental onlookers. The makeshift door somehow adds to a feeling of privacy but not by much. My roommates have had a guest crashing on the couch for almost a week. I don't know her circumstances at all. All I know is that I hate the feeling in the house when she is there and I feel like I have no safe place to keep my stuff. She is a monthly visitor and, to one of my roommates, I have described her as my monthly period because she's not wanted and makes me moody and irritable. But why so much distaste for her?

On one of her monthly visits, my roommate and I had returned from working a graveyard shift and I retired to my room. Yes, the room that doesn't have a door. I was putting my backpack down and noticed an object shining on the carpet near my bed; I use the word bed lightly because in this case it is a futon mattress on the floor. When I went to look at what was glinting at me from the carpet, I found a tiny ring laying next to my bed. I picked up the ring and asked my roommate to find out who's ring it was and why they were in my room. He asked his wife and she said it wasn't hers. She also said that her friend hadn't been downstairs. Well, how did it get in my room? The ring could have fallen from her finger when she came down to do her laundry and rolled, but it couldn't have rolled that far on carpet. When I went upstairs later, I saw the ring on her, the friend's finger, and I was immediately frustrated.

Why so frustrated over a ring? It could be nothing, right? Well, this was not the first time I felt like my privacy was intruded upon. Last September, I found out that I had kidney stones. These are very painful, so, the doctor prescribed some very strong pain killers, Percocets, for me to take when the pain was unbearable. I took one pill on the first night and then when I was able to take more, I took two more. After taking those last two pills, I fell asleep and suffered from awful nightmares, so I stopped taking the Percocets. But I still had twelve of the fifteen pills left.

When I came home after work one morning, I noticed the pill bottle on the ground and a pill next to it on the carpet. I picked both up and replaced the pill in the bottle, when I noticed that that one pill was the only pill left and the other eleven were missing. I asked my roommates if they had taken them, but they both said no and the conversation ended there.

When this ring was found on the floor by my bed, I felt intruded upon. I felt violated. I didn't notice anything missing, but I didn't have anything to take. I didn't have any pain medications for anyone to take. I still felt invaded and pieces of my trust were torn at again.

The next time our guest came downstairs, and I happened to be down there, I blew up at her. All my anger emerged and raged at her because, although I had no real proof that she had been in my room, I couldn't hold back my ire; I just knew deep down that she had been in my room. I told her to get out of the basement. In fact, I yelled at her and told her she was not supposed to come downstairs. I told her if she needed something from downstairs, my roommates could get it for her.

Later, I found out that I made her cry; a fact that didn't make me feel very good at all. Making her cry was not my intention at all. I just couldn't help how I felt. All my anger and frustration came raging out of me. When she was gone, I couldn't calm down. I was left pacing in my room. I just felt so violated. And all that pent up anger and frustration, now, gets brought back to the forefront when I see her again.

So, I am left with the dilemma. How do I let go? How do I overcome my deep-seated anger and frustration toward this person? I think I have found the true cause, which might help with the solution. The cause is that I felt violated and my concern was for my material possessions being taken from me. I am so attached to objects and materials to the point that when I thought someone could have taken things from me, I became like a possessive child, screaming, "Mine! Mine! Mine!"

My deep attachment to possessions has allowed a seed of fear to be placed within my heart. I watered that seed with every purchase I made that allowed me to call something mine and to attach possession to it. The fear of losing those material possessions has placed me in this position to dislike or be displeased with someone at the simple prospect of that person taking one of my possessions from me without my permission.

This possessive attitude is truly the root cause that is the base of my ire and contempt for our house guest. In the Four Noble Truths of Buddhism, the first noble truth is "Life means suffering." The second noble truth is "The origin of suffering is attachment." These two noble truths came to me as I was trying to figure out how to let my anger go because my possessive attitude toward material possessions has created suffering in my life because it brings forth negative feelings for another human being. If something was taken, or was being searched for in my room, the searcher had some reason for needing it. Though permission would have been better asked for than unfreely taken, I should hold no ire toward her because all I am protecting is possessions which can be replaced.

I guess the only solution to my conundrum is to let go of my attachments; they are the things that lead to suffering. I need to forgive people of their flaws because I have many of my own that I would want forgiven. Release all the negative feelings and open my heart. All of these things are a great beginning to forgiving and forgetting. And all things need to start somewhere, even if it may take some time. Namaste.

Siren's Song

Slow slight slice
   a prick of pain
      a paper cut
The finely polished silver
    mirroring the scarlet
       bubbling at the deepest
Cut    cut    cut    cut    cut   cut
Six slivers of scarlet
  the levels of my fall
A deep decent into darkness
    it calls. The darkness calls,
knowing my name
   A siren sings serenely,
"Come child to me and know
  the ecstasy of my touch."
Another gouge with winking silver
The siren's song gains chorus.
   A choir of voices:
"Deeper...cut deeper.
    Blood must course and
       pulse out.
Let the black take you in and
    Watch the scarlet cascade."
         A bloodfall.
              Relief.
                  A welcome.
                      Ecstasy.

Nothing to Fear in Death

Is it weird that I do not fear Death? I have considered this oddity many times and find it different or abnormal from the beliefs of family, friends, and strangers. I haven't known what to think, but as I consider what is to come, I think, "What need is there to fear or dread?"

My sweet Grammy passed on last June. However, before she passed on, my mom, my mom's sister--Aunt Phyllis--, and I had a night of watching my Grammy suffer in pain. We held her hand as she laid in her medical bed Mom and Dad had set up upstairs. We told her we loved her. I was blessed to try to comfort her by singing. She always loved to hear my voice and this was my pleasure to sing to her; the tears, however, made it hard to get the words out.

As we gathered around her, I struggled to see her suffering, so I leaned in to her and, holding her hand, said, "Grammy-love, you don't need to suffer. We have had you long enough. It's time for Pappy to have you back. Stop fighting on this side. Let go." One of the sweetest ladies I know, looked at me and, through the pain, managed to say, "I love you."

For most of that night, the week previous, and the day she died, she continually said, "I love you." She couldn't go without it being understood that she loved us. The very next day, after we sat with her and I told her to stop fighting, the beautiful woman who I was blessed to call my Grammy passed on.

The night that I said what I did, after we were able to get Grammy to sleep, my mom asked me how I was able to say the things I said to Grammy. I told her that there was nothing to fear in Death. I said that if we truly believe in a just and merciful God, we have nothing to fear in Death. She still didn't understand how I said what I did and, sometimes, I wonder how I said the things I said.

The Truth is that I truly believe in a just and merciful God. I know that God will judge me on my heart not just my deeds. And I know that death is not final; Death is the beginning of the next journey. Death will inevitably come, so why fear death when I can celebrate life.

I used to often contemplate death. In fact, at one point in my life, I tried to take that life because I felt so alone. I often considered death to be the only solution that I had available to me because like was handing me so many cards; I didn't know how to play with the ones I was dealt. A common thought that ran through my mind was, "If I'm going to go to Hell for killing myself and I'm going to go to Hell for being gay, I might as well get it over with." It is sad to repeat those thoughts, but I think it is necessary to say because I want people to understand that what is being taught and being said to others, can make life a very difficult thing to continue living.

Because of what I was taught in church, I saw myself as an abomination and a mistake. Thanks to Leviticus and Romans, in the Bible, I thought that God hated me, that he made a mistake in me, and that I was going to burn in Hell. Because I was in so much emotional turmoil, I knew that I needed to kill myself and start suffering early because I felt that God was going to me punish me anyway.

The thought that I considered death daily is very sad and disheartening. I know that there is so much to live for, but at the time, I was stuck in an up and down cycle of despair with  brief reprieves of happiness. Now that I've found the solution for me and the strength within, part of which I think comes from the energy and love my Grammy gives me everyday, I am not haunted by the constant preoccupation with death and I know that I am not a mistake; the god I believe in loves me.

This preoccupation with death, in my past, has given me a lack of fear of the end of life. My acquaintance and fraternization with death has allowed me to see the joys inherent in life and has allowed me to see that, though death is but a journey, I don't need to fear its advent. I know that whatever is next, whether paradise or reincarnation, I know that my energy, my soul, will seek out and find my loved ones again and peace will find me. God, or whatever derivation of His title you decide to use, will judge with mercy and with love. And that is an encouraging thought. Namaste.