My life is marked by discontinuity. There is a very clear break between once before a time and once upon a time. Once upon a time began just ten years ago. Everything from  once before a time is difficult if not impossible to revisit.

I spoke for the End Well Conference a couple of years ago. I had been asked to speak because of a piece I had written entitled, “Dying Before Dying.” I talked about how little access I have to any part of my former life. Thousands of people I knew no longer have anything to do with me. Many had been friends for decades. Outside of my family, there are few with whom I can reminisce about old times.

This past weekend I had a very short period of time in which to visit my hometown. I had hoped to stay the better part of a day and visit with a friend or two, but as it turned out, all I had was an hour. That hour packed an emotional punch.

I spent the hour at the cemetery in which my parents and seven other relatives are buried. I walked from grave to grave, reading headstones and remembering everyone’s birthday, duly etched in stone. Occasionally I stopped and stared into the distance at the foothills of the Bluegrass State.

I took a picture of the oak tree that remains on the property where my grandparents lived, just south of the cemetery. It is the only thing remaining of their house, barn, chicken coop, and outbuildings. Where my grandmother’s lush garden once soaked up the sun there is now a manicured lawn, turning brown in the August heat.

Not fifty yards away I took a picture of another tree that is in the background of the cover of the first album my vocal band ever recorded. Our tenor climbed into its branches for the photo. It was 1970. That branch would require a long ladder to reach today.

A few feet west of the tree was the small gravestone of a child who was born about six months before me and died one day after she was born. There is a lamb carved into the headstone. When I was a young child, I was very intrigued by that lamb. Today, you can barely read the name. Even etched in stone, all things eventually fade from view.

When I was a small child my grandmother would bring us into the cemetery for a picnic and to play in the cool grass. I wrote about those picnics in my first book, Laughter, Tears and In-Between – Soulful Stories for the Journey.

After my brief visit I drove back through the verdant hills of northeast Kentucky to the Cincinnati area where I indulged myself in one of my favorite acquired tastes, a “large three-way dry” order of Skyline Chili, with extra oyster crackers. Then I was back to the hotel for a zoom conversation with a young woman I recently met and greatly respect. That conversation brought to mind my favorite quote from the novels of Wendell Berry. The quote is from Jayber Crow.

Jayber is a student at a Bible college that sounds suspiciously like the one across the street from the cemetery where my parents are buried. Jayber seeks out an older professor he trusts and asks questions about God. The professor says, “You have been given questions for which you cannot be given the answers. You will have to live into them a little at a time. I will tell you a secret. It may take your entire life. I will tell you another secret. It may take longer.”

Eternity is not in the future. It is outside of time and space. It is the place where the unanswerable questions are answered, if there are answers. Sometimes when I return to the warm, humid evenings of Eastern Kentucky, it seems as though no time has passed at all. I can hear my mother and aunts laughing in Grandma’s living room as I lie by the bedroom window, listening to cicadas, trying to fall asleep.

Late Sunday evening, after dinner, I ran three miles by the light of the moon, something you cannot do in the foothills of Colorado, lest you end up a late night snack for a mountain lion. Just yesterday a mother lion and her offspring strolled through my next door neighbor’s yard. They posted a picture online. As I ran in lazy circles through the Kentucky neighborhood, I felt so calm, back in the nest of my youth.

Monday I saw a former co-worker, a very good friend. We have the kind of friendship in which years can pass, yet we pick up where we left off. Of late, for vastly different reasons, life has not been easy for either of us. He still exudes gentleness with his wide smile and kind eyes. He also wears his heart on his sleeve, as he always has. Me too. We hadn’t seen each other in years and I realized just how much I’ve missed him. For well over a decade we served a venerable institution. I believe we served it well, balancing each other thoughtfully and graciously.

After our long lunch I had a couple of hours to wander downtown Cincinnati before I met for dinner with a remarkable man I’ve known for over thirty years. He is a Renaissance person, gifted in so many ways. He is one of the best public speakers I know. He knows what the young woman I spoke with the night before and my former co-worker know, that we all have been given questions for which we cannot be given the answers. We will have to live into them a little at a time.

Now I am on a plane on my way home. I am thinking of one of my friends in my hometown who has never lived anywhere else. She knows the wisdom of one place. As for me and my peripatetic life, I know the wisdom of one airline. The captain said before we departed, “It’s 90 degrees in Denver now, but who knows, it’ll probably be snowing by the time we arrive.” The pilot knows Colorado. They will prepare for landing early because of expected turbulence as they fly into DEN. I know the drill. It happens every flight.

I type as my seatmate watches a movie on his phone. One of David Whyte’s poems is coming to mind. It begins with the words, “The soul lives contented while listening…” My soul listened carefully this weekend. It is contented.

And so it goes.

One of my friends serves as a counselor at a private rehab center in Colorado. Just last week one of her clients said a friend had sent him a sermon from a church in Denver that talked about the importance of parents giving their children a blessing, something the client had never received. He said to the counselor, “I thought what the woman said was pretty good stuff, though she was transgender.” He gave the sermon link to another client who said he was looking for a church. He told the therapist that the sermon was okay, but that wasn’t the church for him. It was too progressive. They had a transgender pastor speaking.

I rarely get to receive that kind of feedback. Painful though it is, it reminds me of how much my privilege and white male entitlement affect my outlook on life. It rarely occurs to me that people might not listen to one of my talks, or be a part of something of which I am a part, simply because I am transgender.

Another friend sent correspondence from a mutual friend of ours indicating the grief that person had received for posting a picture with Michael Smith and me, two former leaders of non-profit ministries in the Restoration Movement of churches. We were all together at the Wild Goose Festival. Michael is one of the most character-filled and Christlike people I know. Those giving the person grief wanted the post removed, and apparently replaced with information related to what they perceive to be the shortcomings of Michael and me, though that part was not all that clear.

Thankfully, the friend’s boss backed up my friend and refused to ask his employee to remove the post. I know the courage it took for his boss to do that, someone I’ve always respected, and now respect even more.

I forget just how frightened that world can be. I also forget just how powerful it is. I forget that a wonderful Christian man could be in trouble just for spending time with two of us who are no longer a part of his denomination, and are viewed negatively by many, if not most, within that denomination.

I was completely ostracized by that world ten years ago, and fewer than a score have reached out to encourage me or renew connections since that time. I am grateful for the reconnection at Wild Goose, and for the mutual friend who brought the four of us together.

Of the 592 anti-transgender laws introduced in state legislatures, and the 90 passed into law in 22 states, most were not driven by Republicans per se. Sixty percent of Republicans feel transgender people should have the same civil rights as everyone else. Those laws were driven by evangelicals, 87 percent of whom believe gender is immutably determined at birth, 67 percent of whom believe we already give too many civil rights to transgender people, yet only 31 percent of whom know someone who is out as transgender.

I wonder how many of those people would say I am the person they know who is out as transgender? To be clear, they do know me. I am the same follower of Christ I was before, with the same character, integrity, and heart. It is sad that most of them do not see it that way.

Last month at the Wild Goose Festival, Mitchell Gold, the furniture magnate, recorded several of us who were from an evangelical background. We all spoke about the importance of not electing Donald Trump to another four years in the White House. He, and we, are all disappointed that the evangelical world has so fully backed Trump, and how negative that has been for the entire LGBTQ+ population. Those recordings will be released nationwide this month. I will post a link on my Facebook account.

As sad as the loss of so many friends from my former denomination, I am greatly encouraged at the support I see building among Christians for Kamala Harris and Tim Walz. Last week, on the day she announced her VP choice, I spoke for a Harris campaign event for LGBTQ+ folks. This week I spoke for the inaugural event of Christians for Kamala. Over 4,000 people watched the online rally live, and as of this writing, ten times more have viewed it since the event. Here is the link, if you’re interested.

Immediately after I finished speaking, I heard from several people who had watched it live. Over the last two days I’ve heard from several more. I went back and looked at audience comments during the rally, and it was encouraging to see how many people were grateful that there are Christians in America, thousands of them, and likely millions, who feel like they feel. Many had felt alone in their opposition to the anti-Christian rhetoric of Donald Trump and J.D. Vance.

I will be very active during this campaign. Not only is the safety of transgender people at stake. Our democracy is at stake. It is beyond me how evangelicalism can have fallen so far into the trap of MAGA extremism. Fear is a powerful emotion, and sadly, many of these people have a faith and world outlook that is profoundly fear based.

Fear is not the foundation of Christianity. Loving God, neighbor, and self is. Until we return to that foundational truth, evangelicalism will be lost. These friends from my past seem to be terrified of entering the swamplands of the soul. The truth is that the swamplands of the soul is where love is, grounding and firm. But you cannot discover that love if you refuse to face your fears and go into the swamplands. An entire movement of Christians is chained to fear, which is a more terrifying place to abide than any swamplands.

In the swamplands you are forced to examine your prejudices, your own shortcomings, and the truth that much of the time, evil is not out there, it is in here. Only when you can see the shadows in your own heart can you be open to finding the firm footing that is always available in the swamplands of the soul. My life is no longer fear-based, and that is what gives me the strength to withstand all the vitriol I receive.

I had to delete messages on social media today related to my words at the rally. I’m sure it will continue. It goes with the territory. Seems like the Apostle John might have said something about love casting out fear. I always did like John. I doubt I’ll live into my 90s in exile on Patmos like he did, but living in exile from my old world has proven to be more life-affirming than I would have expected.

And so it goes.