THE TREASURE OF PRIDE (LETTING KIDS BE KIDS)

My Great-Aunt Lillian (Ant LEEyan to me) had a spare room stacked with 

odds and ends that fueled our imaginations.

Ballgowns, buckskin moccasins and a skull (replica...I think) held

space with a miniature butter churn, a partial manequin, and some

tattered stuffed songbirds.

There were hats and scarves and makeup and costume jewelry

beside hair pieces, assorted sports equipment

and at least two 'wizarding' staffs.

She rarely paid more than a few bucks for any of these treasures, 

finding them as she worked the church yard sale or second-hand stores.

Sometimes I would stand beside her as she picked through jumbled tables

set up in the front yards along our Saturday morning walk. 

When she found something she thought was worth bringing home,

she had a benediction she'd say to the air over the bauble as 

she handed the seller a couple of quarters.

 "One man's trash is another man's treasure." 

As one of the flotsam of children who washed up on the shores of her hill

weekend after weekend, I can only agree with her sentiment.

I was treasured by her in a way that turned the trajectory of my life.

Father and Sons in Raleigh has the exact vibe of Aunt Lillian's spare room.

Almost everyone in my mother's family spent some time

with Aunt Lillian-she had

an open invitation and a spare room for any child, anytime.

It was normal to go to her house but in writing down my own story 

I have realized that my connection to her was extreme.

I spent almost all of my childhood weekends as one of 

Aunt Lillian's charges, arriving on Friday afternoon and 

pulling away as late as I could negotiate on Sunday evening.

The only exception was if she was too sick to have me

or if a weather event would keep me from arriving safely.

Twice I went early to get intentionally snowed in with her

and Andy and her young neighbor Heather who made up our motley crue.

 

She gave me absolutely unconditional love and attention-

to a degree that would have been problematic if I lived with her full time-

but worked like an innoculant against the chaos and neglect

I experienced most weekdays.

Aunt Lillian's love is stamped over my life in a million tiny ways.

She taught me to pray, to use my gifts in service to the world, 

and that 'ain't' is not a word (to be used in all company).

She taught me to appreciate a well-laid table, 

to sing clearly and loudly (sorry current church fam) 

and to accept a well-intended compliment.

She taught me to honor my mother and my father

and the healing repetition of ritual done willingly.

She taught me about innocence.

And generosity.

And fragility.

I don't know how to sum up

 all the gifts of her spirit or her impact on my life and 

I'm not trying to do that here.

I just need you to understand that I owe her a lot

 so that you have perspective when I tell you that 

the most extravagant, non-sensical gift

I got from her was something I don't think she intended to give me.

See, Aunt Lillian taught me about magic.

That it is real,

in the here and now, and how to use it in a way that frees

us from shame or suppressive mores.

Before anyone gets too tense...

Aunt Lillian would be baffled and a little angry at me 

for saying that she taught me about magic.

She did not believe in magic, or at least she never

mentioned it or said she did.

If I imagine myself thanking her for the magic she shared with me,

I can hear her clearly stating that she did no such thing,

her voice escalating in pitch and ripe with indignation.

She was as solidly of this world as anyone can be-

a member of ABWA and the FUMC of Graham choir who paid her taxes

and clipped recipes out of Woman's Day.

She wore her natural white hair uncurled

and could be morally offended by movies that were rated PG-13.

She was as normal as normal could be-

even perhaps a little too stiff and sheltered.

Still.

Magic clings to every memory from those early years, 

framing her slim frame in a 

shimmering halo of something decidedly 'other'

that was separate from her love for us.

As soon as we stepped on her hill,

dragons, ghosts, witches, pirates and hobgoblins were real.

Every story, ANY story, that caught our imagination

and stayed within her basic rules of kindness and safety

were not only tolerated but were allowed.

That room of costumes and accessories was put through 

the paces of three overly-parentified kids

dealing with trauma and loss and anxiety

in any way we chose.

For two days a week, she let kids just be kids.

Magic.

My youngest teen decided a fort was necessary recently.

I remember a particularly fun weekend when we were obsessed with cowboys

and Native Americans running wild in the west

(this is exactly as non-politically correct as you imagine with the added

layer of Heather who is a member of the Lumbee Tribe)

None of us wanted to be a helpless prairie woman, wrapped in skirts

and waiting for rescue so we opted to be grown men

 who could scout and spit and yell loudly.

To prove the point, we used blue and black eyeliner to

scribble facial hair on our tender young skin in assorted designs.

That evening Aunt Lillian played along by ringing a bell for dinner

and letting us eat outside at the picnic table but

she refused to let us eat off our butter knives and still made us use please

when we needed someone to pass the 'chow'.

At some point during dinner,  she remarked how surprised she was that we

had all managed to produce such healthy mustaches in our youth.

I was particularly proud of the ends of mine,

the tips drawn to curl up nearly to my eyes.

She didn't bat an eye that we were wearing the trappings

of the wrong gender (or race).

She didn't disrupt our fantasy to discuss any of the layers

of reality that were low hanging fruit for discussion.

Genocide, poverty, violence, racism were all subjects

that needed addressing and she didn't steer clear

of them in other settings even though her language was imperfect.

But when we were playing...she let our 

imaginations wander and color our reality.

It felt like she trusted us to find our way back to kindness

and maybe even find something more TRUE than the 

prescription the world was screaming at us.

She didn't care if I was the princess or the frog,

the alien or the captain of the guard,

the witch or the wizard.

I was more important than the rules the world.

Or at least that is the magic that my little heart understood and took away.

Bulletin board outside my college kid's door, created by him for his residents during last school year.  Serious and silly side by side.

This Pride month is almost over but it feels appropriate 

to remind those of us who might have outgrown the magic

of playing or maybe even attempted to ban it from this world 

that it's still here and it's not that hard to cultivate it.

Playing is a way to be creative, to be in communion

with our Creator who tells us that all things are permitted

and trusts us to actively, every generation and through every heart

understand which of these things builds our community

to be closer to each other and through each other to GOD.

We desperately need kids to be kids

because they haven't learned to prioritize

the suffocating power of patriarchy and human rules

over the creativity of their living GOD.

They are in the world but not of the world,

they haven't learned to sort the haves from the have nots

or to value power over presence.

We don't need to hurry any of that along.

But there are scores of us that can't stop

screaming like angry geese anytime someone looks our way.

There is infinitely more possibility than some straight and narrow

interpretation of a gender norm

and there ALWAYS HAS BEEN.

Heaven is where there is neither male nor female

not where these weird lines are reinforced 

so harshly that those who can't find their reflection in them

are left to perform fake witness for the humans or face repeated abuse.

Saying anything that implies that you are concerned with 

judgement, sins, or are qualified to weight one sin over another

is abuse well-intentioned Christians.

If you must catalog someone's sins, keep your eyes ON YOUR OWN PAPER.

There will be enough there for you to work on 

in this lifetime.

If you have to look up, keep your eyes filled with love 

and your mouth shut unless you are sure love will fall out.

No wonder the suicide rate is so high for LGBTQ+ siblings.

The voice of GOD told us that we will be known by our love

and yet we continue to INSIST that they conform to the human rules

and defy the creative instincts given to them divinely.

If we can't trust kids to be kids

and play their way to Truth

then we're manipulating them towards lies on good days

and setting them up for abuse on worse ones.

Graphics and stats from The Trevor Project

Aunt Lillian met our Maker a quarter of a century ago, 

just a few short months after I married

so I will never know how she would navigate these trying times.

Maybe she would have been pulled into the incessant

fear-mongering of the culture war that continues to 

annihilate common sense in favor of ratings.

It's herculean effort on the daily to resist the call

of picking a firm side on any of these made-up divisions.

Republican vs democrat, city vs. country, patriot vs criminal,

christian vs....everyone.

I can't see it though.

I think she would have been absolutely disgusted by the 

hate spewed in GOD's name.

I have a sneaking suspicioun Aunt Lillian would have been

delighted by drag queens and at least agnostic to the LGBTQ+ community.

After all, she liked Dolly Parton even though she thought her boobs

could use a little more coverage

and she talked often about how people are too hard 

on those sweet boys with the AIDS.

Magic floats around PRIDE events

in stunning amounts, the same magic

that floated around her.

 Let the kids be kids (and honestly, we're all children).

Let them dream us all closer to something that GOD calls us to be.

Leave the clothes and the hairstyles and the trappings of style

out of any kind of measurement of worthiness.

Those are of this world, human created and nitpicked over.

If you find yourself judging a drag queen or a pair of jeans slung low

or a hair style (or a makeup or a pushup bra or a visible navel)

take a note from Aunt Lillian's playbook and just

decide it doesn't concern you.

The kids are playing.

And if you need to worry about them

worry about whether they can become loving, kind,

generous and capable.  

Worry about whether you have shown them the magic

of unconditional acceptance even if you don't understand

a thing they're saying (cap?  bussin?) or their music

or their memes.  

Worry about whether they are fed or hugged or safe.

Worry about those that would abuse them or dox them 

or prevent them from making informed choices.

Worry about the hate that rains down on their heads

for just existing.

And then DO something that makes them safer, warmer, healthier.

And if you're ready for magic, let the children lead you.

It's a weird trip but the magic is still here

and will outlive every human life.

GOD loves us.  

Each and every one are made in GOD's image.

One man's trash is GOD's treasure.

double rainbow over the flood of Merlefest '23