Wednesday, June 26, 2013

In Defense of Marriage






I spent much of the day celebrating with my family the Supreme Court’s decision overturning the Defense of Marriage Act.  The court’s ruling paves the way for a more equal America for us.  Our family is now closer to accessing the same legal rights and privileges that other families already have.  Our son will soon have the benefit of a stable family led by parents whose relationship has legal standing in the eyes of the government. 

To be clear, I don’t want or need any government to “sanctify” my relationship—governments aren’t in the sanctifying business.  Nor do I need government to make my relationship legitimate or real—it’s been real for over 11 years without the government’s help.  I don’t need the government’s (or anyone’s) permission to be who I am, or to love the woman I love. 

What I want, however--and what I think I and all law-abiding, tax paying citizens deserve regardless of their sexual orientation--are the same legal rights that straight people already get in their relationships simply from having them recognized by the government. 

In short, I want equality.  And because of today’s decision, we are closer to getting it.

Some of my friends aren’t happy about this.  I maintain friendships with people who, mostly because of religious beliefs, don’t support gay marriage and think that today’s court decision is another sign of a declining America, the rise of secularism and godlessness, or the end times.  I watched their Twitter and Facebook feeds today.  I don’t think any of them were surprised.  Most of them know that all the country’s trend lines are moving in the opposite direction from them on this issue.  They are resigned to this, for the most part.  Some of them are choosing to focus on their own marriages rather than be so focused on mine, which I must say is really refreshing.  I’ve grown weary of heterosexual Christians preaching and quoting their Bibles about the sanctity of marriage at the same time that half their congregations, and even many of their clergy, are divorced and remarried—in clear violation of Jesus’ teachings on the matter.

But, I’m not gloating.  I’m just relieved and happy about the decision and what it means for my family and our future.  And I want to say to my friends who oppose the decision that, really, I don’t think it’s going to be that bad for them.  I don’t think gay marriage is going to undermine civilization or family as we know it, and I don’t think it will undermine heterosexual marriage any more than straight people have already undermined it themselves. 

If anything, maybe we can help.  I know I speak for many thousands of gay people when I say I believe in family values.  I believe in commitment.  I believe in stability for children.  I believe in creating a home that nurtures everyone in it.  Marriage is a structural tool that, when done well, can help accomplish all those things.  Maybe we gay people can bring some fresh perspectives to the marriage table, and help revive a sagging but promising institution.

Ironically, maybe overturning The Defense of Marriage Act could result in shoring up marriage in ways more enduring than the Act ever would have.

Saturday, April 20, 2013

Breathless

A moment of sunlight in Captiva, Florida


When I was 3 or 4 years old, I attended an evening church service with my parents.  The service went long, as most Pentecostal services do.  I fell asleep on the pew during the sermon despite the loudness of the preaching.  I woke up during the post-sermon music, still drowsing as people made their way forward down the aisles to get prayer for healing or for other things in their lives.  I listened to their cries of praise and travail, all blended into one.  The praise music continued throughout and I took it all in from within my half-asleep, half-awake state.

Something happened, however, when the music leader stepped up to the microphone and invited the crowd to join him and the other vocalists in singing a song called "He Touched Me."  It's a well-known praise song in charismatic and Pentecostal circles.  The lyrics are:  He touched me, oh He touched me.  And oh the joy that floods my soul.  Something happened, and now I know.  He touched me, and made me whole.

I was wide awake.  I sat up in the pew and watched the musicians and singers perform the song's chorus several times.  People in the healing line at the altar lifted their faces to heaven, their eyes closed and streaming tears, their hands raised in surrender and longing.  The music filled the room and I felt myself being lifted from the inside--as if the very center of my body, deep within me, were being lifted up through my stomach and into my chest, up into my throat and mouth, pushing to come out through my eyes and the top of my head.  I could hardly breathe.

On the drive home, I asked my mother if she knew that song.  She said she did, and I asked her to sing it for me.  I sat in the back seat in the darkness,  listening to my mother's thin soprano voice, and felt the gentle tug on my insides again.

This memory has never left me, but it came flooding back not long ago as I sat on the living room floor with our 7-month old son.  He stretched alongside me, laying on his back.  He would smile up at me and then become distracted by the ceiling fan or by the cat passing by.  I thumbed through a magazine, reading various passages aloud to him and showing him pictures.  After a few moments, I lifted the magazine to show him something and saw that his back was arched and he was holding his arms out and aloft.  His gaze was fixed at the ceiling and his mouth was open.  I set the magazine aside and leaned forward to bend over him.  His eyes darted back and forth, his gaze directed at the ceiling.  

He's having a seizure or an allergic reaction, I thought.  Just as I was about to touch his chest and grab my phone to call for help, his face burst into a smile and his back relaxed a bit.  He laughed once and took a big breath.  He held his breath, arched his back again, and held perfectly still, staring intently at the ceiling, his eyes darting again, his mouth open, his arms lifted and aloft.  He sucked in air again, held it and kept his body arched for what seemed like half a minute, then relaxed for a few seconds before it all began again.  

I placed my head near to him and looked back up toward the ceiling, trying to find his line of vision to see exactly what he was seeing.  I saw nothing but white ceiling.  Not even the ceiling fan was in his line of vision.  Just plain, white ceiling.

I sat back and watched him:  his little chest going up and down, his back arching and relaxing, his fingers curling slightly as he held his arms suspended and still.  His eyes were bright and I saw the vein in his neck bulge slightly with the beat of his heart.

He touched me, oh he touched me.  And oh the joy that floods my soul . . . . 

I don't know what touched my little boy that afternoon, but something did.  Whatever it was caught him up and held him transfixed for several minutes.  I watched the wonder and joy speed across his face and breast.  I watched the whole experience leave him breathless.

He's so young, I don't know if he'll remember it.  But I'll remember it for him, and hope that he has many more such experiences.  I think my job as a parent, in addition to loving him and making sure his basic needs are met, is to create a life for us, and for him,  that is alive with the possibility of transcendant experiences.  And then to step back and honor the inward, private nature of those experiences when they come. 

My parents did that for me.  I'll do it for him.


Thursday, February 21, 2013

Life, Death & Change



Our son, Shiv Carroll Mehra.


Things have drastically changed in my life since the last time I posted on this blog.

The biggest change is that I am now a parent:  Nishta and I adopted a little son this past summer.  He was born on July 17, and as we watched him emerge from his birth mother's body, I felt my life and heart dramatically alter.  He was so tiny and helpless, yet strong and loud!  And he is ours.  And mine.  Mine--not to own or control--but mine to love, nurture, teach, and to create a stable home for so that he can become the man he wants or is destined to be.  It's a huge responsibility, but not one that feels scary or worrisome to me.  It all feels like grace.  Shiv is simply a gift, all day every day.  There are times when I struggle to remember what I did with myself before he came, and why any of it seemed so important.

The last two months have been laced with sadness, though, because we lost two of our companion animals one right after the other.  First, our sweet old rat terrier, Dolly, died just before Christmas.  Then, last week, we lost Reece, an orange tabby I rescued as a kitten on Washington Avenue over 14 years ago.

It's brutal to lose four-legged family members--there's just no other way to say it.  It's part of the bargain we make when we take them in.  Chances are, we will outlive them and will have to make the hard decision to end their lives when their suffering is too great.  It's the right thing to do, but it's searing every time.  I've done it several times in my life, and it never gets any easier.

Losing these two is especially hard, though.  These two were my furry caretakers during 2011 when I spent most of the year fighting cancer.  I had a battalion of human friends and family who brought meals, did laundry, straightened up the house, ferried me back and forth to appointments, sat with me while I puked--the whole thing.  But these two, Reece and Dolly, were like furry leeches who maintained nearly constant physical contact with me.  They slept beside me or on me every night, and during every nap.  They shared my lap if I sat up.  They followed me from the bed to the bathroom to the kitchen and back to the bed.  Theirs was the breathing I heard and felt as I went to sleep, and the first I heard when I woke up, other than my own.  The days I spent in the hospital for open chest surgery were the worst days of the whole ordeal, mainly because they weren't with me.


Reece and Dolly nursing me when I was sick.



So, losing them feels like an especially strong thread has been cut.  I miss them terribly, almost every moment.

After we hugged and kissed Reece into his death at the vet last Friday evening, I sat at our open backyard window with a glass of wine, listening to the blustery wind and the chortling of the purple martins as they did their final swoops over the lake before settling into their box for the night.  I allowed myself to settle into the dusky stillness of the evening, to match the rhythms of my heart and mind with those of the natural world around me, a world shot through with the interplay of life and death, struggle and ease.  It's a good world, and I am glad to be in it.

After a few moments, our son cried out from his room.  It was his feeding time.

The dead are dead, and we cherish their memory.  And the living are alive, and deserve our attention.  So, I wiped my tears, got up, and went to feed our son.