The United State of Women

Swimming Toward Love

This is the sermon I gave at our church on May 15th....
                        "Swimming Toward Love"

            How many of you like to swim?

            How many of you LOVE to swim?

            I LOVE to swim! I love it so much, I swim 3 times a week, a mile (about 1600 meters) every time. I swim for exercise, I swim because I think it keeps me healthy, and I swim because I feel so good when I do it. And, as with everywhere in town, I run into fellow UUs—Marty and Nancy Patchen. [Isn’t it extraordinary that, as small as our congregation is, we are EVERYWHERE??!]

            I do have a favorite place to swim—the Helen Schleman Natatorium at the YWCA on 6^th Street in Lafayette.  Helen Schleman was the Dean of Women at Purdue, and as I swim, I often think about the impact Dr. Schleman had, and continues to have, on women in this community. During every swim, I thank her.

            It takes about an hour, for me, to swim a mile. Recently, Verna Ritz asked me what I did while I swam those 33 laps in the pool? I know Diana Nyad, who swam from Cuba to Florida, sings songs in her head, to keep her rhythm, but she swims for hours and hours at a time.

            Me? I count, I think about my strokes, I watch the bubbles, and as my goggles fog up, and my head goes underwater, blocking out all sight and sound, I ponder and I mediate.

            Some people I know (Eric Thiel), think and muse while mowing—then, he sometimes shares his thoughts on his blog. Some of you may contemplate and meditate while exercising, while showering, while trying to go to sleep. Hopefully, you share your thoughts with others as well.

            As I swim, I think about family, friends, and yes, I think about this congregation. During the year I was Board President, this congregation was often in my thoughts. I honestly think I was a better Board president because I swam.

            I also think about sermon topics, sketching out ideas in my head. When we were dealing with the Religious Freedom Restoration Act last year, I thought about how I would and how I could reach out to others, how to explain what that horrible law would do to me and to the ones I love.

            Today, I want to share three ideas I’ve had while swimming in the deep…OK, while swimming in the shallows.

            One morning, I was scrolling through Facebook, and someone was bemoaning the fact that while they were able to work, take classes, and better themselves, there were others out there who seemed “content” to “live off the government” and take this persons’ hard-earned tax dollars. As I hit my swim stride that morning, I contemplated what I would say when I responded to this person on Facebook—because respond I would. This morning, I know I am “preaching to the choir”, just as I “preached” to those very clever children during Time for All Ages. EVERYTHING we perceive is colored, just as surely as those magnifying glasses were colored—by every bit of our lives right up until this moment. I know for a fact that person on Facebook grew up in a safe neighborhood, went to good schools, and had an extended family to support them as they raised their child and went to college. No, it was not easy, but they never stopped to consider that their obstacles in life were not the same as the “deadbeats” they were describing in their Facebook rant. Instead of being judgmental, I thought they should be thankful that they had all the things they so obviously took for granted, so obviously ignored when perceiving the shortcomings of others. If we could all stop and try to see things as others do, as others experience, we would be so much better off, be living in a much better place. Our congregation has taken a big step in this direction by our focus this year on #blacklivesmatter. I love that, instead of talking, we are committed to listening, to hearing the perspective of others in our community. We are going to learn so much, and will then be able to effectively support others in our community. My Facebook friend gave me much to ponder and meditate on while in the pool, and I’ve come to realize that the perspective of others is invaluable; it colors everything.

            Earlier this year, in January, my mom died. During the months prior to her death, and now after her passing, I’ve spent entire swims thinking about her. It was in the pool that I composed her obituary and her eulogy. I have great memories of this silently strong woman, and it’s a comfort to think about her. I always climb out of the water feeling at peace.

             Before her funeral mass, my niece, my sister, and I had shared some memories of my mom.

            One of the things I said was this: 

            “Eleven years ago, I had to make a very difficult phone call to my Mom—I had to tell her I am gay. I was one of the fortunate ones—my mom told me, unconditionally, that she loved me and would always love me no matter what. Her love and support has sustained me, and given me the courage to face some difficult situations with some very judgmental people. Because if my mamma loved me, nothing else mattered. And my mom also taught me, by example, that if someone hurts you, you turn the other cheek.”

            I shared that memory in that Catholic Church, because I wanted my mother to be an example to those who were not so kind to their gay loved ones.

            I shared that memory because, during the time my mom was in hospice, and just after her death, I heard—twice—one of the most divisive phrases in the English language: 

            “Like you.”

            I’ve had many laps to think about the meaning of that phrase, said to me, not in spite but also not in any sense of shared humanity:  “I have a sister. Like you.” And, “My brother is like you.”

            Like WHAT??? Does your sister live in Indiana? Does your brother have two amazing children?

            No. If they had said “Like you.” in that way, we would have had a connection; they would have gone on to tell me where their sister lived in Indiana, or what the names of their brother’s children were.

            No, they meant it as, “NOT like me. GAY. Like YOU.”

            They perceived the difference. They acknowledged it. And, they made sure I saw it too.

            Fortunately, my mom’s lesson stuck. I turned the other cheek, and I thanked them for being there for MY family.

            One last swim thought.

            I knew, for a few months, that my mom was slipping away. She stayed as strong as she could for one last Cookie Weekend, one last Christmas, and then, just before New Year’s Eve, she was admitted to Taylor House—a hospice care facility. I went to see her, and that week was such a gift. Before I went, I spent some swims thinking about everything I would say to her, and imagined what she might have to say to me.

            In the end, not much of those conversations took place.

            When I left, knowing it was the last time I would see her, all I could say was, “I love you”. The last thing she ever said to me, she whispered into the phone: “I love you. Very much.”

            I’ve replayed those moments, over and over and over, as I swim. I take comfort, knowing that, at the end, my mom was surrounded by love. I have also been enlightened by the experience; reminded that, for all our differences, for all our uniqueness, we perceive, experience, and embrace… love. We need it, we need to give it—it’s so important to the people here in this room that we’ve made it the first word we utter—together—every Sunday.

            Love.

            In the end, let there be love. For all of us.