He was just as concerned with my mind and how it held hell in it at all times. Though God was very concerned with how I lived out my sexuality, he was just as concerned with what I did with my hands and if my fingerprints would be found on anything righteous. To me, what I knew to be God calling me to himself sounded an awful lot like God calling me to be straight, as if his only intention were to transform me partially. So much so that he wouldn’t have me going about the rest of my life convinced that a creature’s love was better than a King’s. I loved her, and she loved me-but God loved me more. To us, it was a normal, “why would I do anything else” kind of thing. To those who had heterosexual eyes, our love was a strange thing. To do what I assumed God would have me do meant leaving the woman whose voice and body and mind had been mine to hold and keep. I loved my girlfriend too much not to be appalled at the prospect of laying aside not only the way I loved but also who I loved. Because if that were true, then surely I would be asked to lay it aside for the sake of life. What offended me most was that idea that it (my sin, my kind of love) was to be the death of me. So when my thoughts spoke of my sin, which I knew to be a prompting from God and not my subconscious behaving unnaturally, I wasn’t offended by the idea of my identity being a product of sin. In fact, having seen God’s words for myself, I never once had felt the need to question whether what he said was true. I’d heard the preacher speak for God when he, with fire and frenzy on his tongue, read to us from Romans 1 about God giving his creatures over to the sinful desires of their hearts, which included men and women “exchang natural sexual relations” for “shameful lusts” toward members of the same sex (v. I had grown up in the traditional black church, where sermons were presented in a Mount Sinai kind of way, both loud and heavy. I’d heard more times than I cared to count that what seemed to me a natural enough expression of love was, in fact, unnatural and flat-out abominable. Laying Aside My Lovesīecause I knew I liked girls, the conviction I experienced in my room was not only unexpected but also unwelcome. “But I don’t want to be straight,” I said to God, meaning every single word. Where it came from made no difference to me. I hadn’t seen any Disney movies that gave me the idea to desire sameness nor had I been challenged by some outside source to see Beauty and the Beast and wonder why Belle couldn’t have been with someone as beautiful and biologically similar as herself. I didn’t quite understand why girls made me feel different.
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When it happened on the playground, I didn’t know what it was.
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This label described an affection I noticed before I knew how to spell my name. Prior to that moment, the sin I wore on my sleeve was that of a lesbian: a label I had the courage to give myself at age 17. As suddenly and randomly as Paul was struck blind on the Damascus Road, I had the unsettling thought that my sin would be “the death of me.” My thoughts were boring and typical until they turned on me. I was having a very “unspiritual” kind of night. A gay girl who knew better than to let my feet take me where I didn’t feel welcomed.
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Churches didn’t care too well for people like me. God knew he wouldn’t get my attention in a church.