Monday, November 3, 2014

If I have gay children .... (Voices of Faith)

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Voices of Faith
From a pastor, a promise to his children:

As a pastor and a parent, I wanted to make some promises to you, and to my two kids right now… 
1) If I have gay children, you’ll all know it. 
My children won’t be our family’s best kept secret. 
..... Childhood is difficult enough, and most gay kids spend their entire existence being horribly, excruciatingly uncomfortable. I’m not going to put mine through any more unnecessary discomfort, just to make Thanksgiving dinner a little easier for a third cousin with misplaced anger issues.....
2) If I have gay children, I’ll pray for them. 
I won’t pray for them to be made “normal”. I’ve lived long enough to know that if my children are gay, that is their normal. 
I won’t pray that God will heal or change or fix them. I will pray for God to protect them; from the ignorance and hatred and violence that the world will throw at them, simply because of who they are. .... 
3) If I have gay children, I’ll love them. 
I don’t mean some token, distant, tolerant love that stays at a safe arm’s length. It will be an extravagant, open-hearted, unapologetic, lavish, embarrassing-them-in-the-school cafeteria, kind of love. ....
If my kids are gay, they may doubt a million things about themselves and about this world, but they’ll never doubt for a second whether or not their Daddy is over-the-moon crazy about them. 
4) If I have gay children, most likely; I have gay children. 
If my kids are going to be gay, well they pretty much already are. 
God has already created them and wired them, and placed the seed of who they are within them. .....
And then he goes on to take on his fellow "Christians" who are angry or offended.

This isn’t about you. This is a whole lot bigger than you. 
You’re not the one I waited on breathlessly for nine months.
You’re not the one I wept with joy for when you were born.
You’re not the one I bathed, and fed, and rocked to sleep through a hundred intimate, midnight snuggle sessions. 
You’re not the one I taught to ride a bike, and whose scraped knee I kissed, and whose tiny, trembling hand I held, while getting stitches.
You’re not the one whose head I love to smell, and whose face lights-up when I come home at night, and whose laughter is like music to my weary soul.
You’re not the one who gives my days meaning and purpose, and who I adore more than I ever thought I could adore anything. 
And you’re not the one who I’ll hopefully be with, when I take my last precious breaths on this planet; gratefully looking back on a lifetime of shared treasures, and resting in the knowledge that I loved you well.

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