Homophobia

Most of my exercise these days comes from swimming. Compared with a lot of other modern recreational alternatives swimming is relatively safe, but it does have its hazards. On Monday I was midway through my workout when a handsome young man, muscled and tattooed, entered the lane I had been swimming in alone. Where I swim there is a wide variance among swimmers when it comes to their understanding of lap-swimming etiquette, so under circumstances like these there follows a period during which swimmers get acquainted, as it were, with one another's style, each hoping some accomodation can be reached to avoid fatal collisions. During this introductory period the swimmers are on heightened alert to the particular idiosyncracies of their new lane-mates. As it happened, when the hunk hopped in I was swimming backstroke. Readers acquainted with the backstroke will readily bring to mind that somewhat counterintuitive point in the underwater portion of the stroke where the motion is not entirely unlike the motion one performs when patting a kneaded lump of dough on a kitchen counter (see figure 2). As it happened, it was this particular point in my own underwater stroke that coincided with the very first time my new lane-mate and I passed going in oposite directions, with the unhappy result that I laid my hand squarely on his bum and pushed him gently past. It bears mentioning, I think, that, while awkward, this situation is slightly to be preferred to those occasions when the same thing happens with the ladies from the hydro-gymnastics classes. Nevertheless, I was mortified. I fully expected our strapping youth to bolt from my lane and seek refuge in another far away, despite their all being more occupied. After several laps it became apparent he would not. I began to relax, until I realized, to my consternation, that his decision to stay might have more serious implications. I finished my workout. Ordinarily, I would warmly bid my lane-mates good day on my way out, if they happened to be resting at the end of the pool, as the hunk was. Not this time. I set my face toward the locker room and strode manfully by.

Saturday was our Serve the City Quarterly Volunteer Day. A person really has to be nuts to want to organize one of these things. We slept very little in the days leading up to Saturday, staying up late answering emails from volunteers including two that signed up about eight hours before the event was scheduled to begin. At the end of the day I felt a familiar welling sensation as I assessed the work in my sleep-deprived stupor: like most volunteers, ours had arrived full of tremendous good will and very little experience, so that they succeeded in starting an array of projects and finishing very few. It looked to me like I was going to spend the next two weeks putting back together what they had taken apart. “This is insanity!” I said to God. “We really need to talk about this. You can't possibly Intend for us to continue to do this, can You?” I really love these heart to hearts with God. The way it works for me is that I bring things before Him and wait. Ordinarily I don't have to wait long. I ask and its as if He takes out a big flash light and illuminates what I might have seen all along if only I had had the eyes to see: Of course you'll keep doing this. This is what you do. It may change form a little, but Serve the City Quarterly Volunteer Day is just the evolution of those neighborhood work days you started organizing fifteen years ago in Seattle. Part of what made me see this was the recollection of the intense, intense pleasure I took in loving the children at Casa Sol, a home for children with AIDS, while we fixed up their house. It can be tricky, of course, finding the appropriate balance in showing affection to children who are not yours. On Saturday I felt like the Tiger Woods of Quarterly Volunteer Days. I picked those kids up and swung them up on my shoulders and hugged them and cupped their chins in my hand and ran my index finger along the contours of their faces and said to them in a hundred nonverbal ways, “YOU ARE GREAT! YOU ARE LOVED! BE WELL!” I enjoyed the volunteers almost as much. You put tools in the hands of people accustomed to pens and keyboards and watch the light of empowerment go on in their eyes. They'd forgotten their muscles are good for more than aerobics class; they're good for helping people. We've begun preparations for the next Serve the City events. If we spread it out maybe we can get a little more sleep in the days before work begins. Anyway, we've gotta do it.

A theme this week has been, “Thank God we function at all.” This is not an easy idea for Debbie to buy into, having as she does a high standard for her own productivity and a lot of funky infirmities preventing her from reaching it, but it helps that through her ministry to people suffering with Behçet's Disease she is acquainted with lots of people who were well along in years when they suddenly found their bodies betraying them. Being thankful for what she is able to do—which is a lot—may help distract her from what she can't do. Please pray she'll be well and praise God that Drex's health has been so good lately. Pray they're both strong and healthy for our upcoming trip to visit my parents in Michigan.

Thank you for your faithfulness. Godspeed.