In an upsetting turn of events, I have recently had to admit that I’m only a human. I know, I’ve really backslidden. Over the past few months my aspirations to be an indomitable, blogging war-machine have been systematically dismantled by a resolute and immovable weariness. Like, a do-I-really-have-to-bother-putting-on-pants-today kind of weariness. If I didn’t own such awesome jeans I probably wouldn’t have made the effort
A large part of it is biological; my hormones (my actual hormones, not my metaphorical ones) are, shall we say, a crazy-making combination of hyperactive and functionally dead. In other words, my body is constantly using massive amounts of inefficient adrenaline to get me through each day because the more sustainable sources of hormonal energy are about as non-existent as unironic Nicolas Cage fans. Supplements are helping, but I still spend most of my time hovering between just wanting a nap and begging God for someone to accidentally shoot me with a rhino tranquilizer.
But it’s more than that. Honestly, the whole idea of blogging exhausts me, especially in regard to so contentious a topic as the intersection of homosexuality and faith. There is little grace in the conversation, with a seemingly new explosive controversy erupting every week – one more ugly comment to become outraged over, one more person to burn at the stake, one more setback to worry about. The idealistic activist in me wants to indulge every combative reflex, the peacemaker/reformer in me cautions that real change will only come through a controlled-yet-passionate nuance, and the tired whiner in me would rather just watch funny cat videos because Mr. Mercury was right and “nothing really matters,” anyway.
So I’ve watched a lot of funny cat videos, all the while growing more and more frustrated by the tone of the online discourse and my own apathy toward it. Over and over I’ve sat down to write something to no avail, the sheer enormity and ambiguity of the situation slowly bringing my spindly fingers to a full stop.
I realized recently that I’ve felt this way before.
I was halfway through my brief tenure at a Guatemalan orphanage, living and working with eleven teenage boys just outside of the capitol. One afternoon, and I’ll never forget this, I saw footage from a nearby government-run institution that held 800 children. Underfunded and understaffed, the way the orphanage handled the large volume of kids was to try and suppress individuality and personality; at age thirteen they all began to wear a nondescript uniform, and they marched. Everywhere. A slow, rhythmic, soul-killing march.
And then I heard about the “pink room.” When a boy who had been sexually abused came to the orphanage he was put in the pink room, a special ward separated from everything else and blocked by many locked gates. Without the personnel to constructively deal with the traumatized boys, and convinced that they were all going to turn into sex-offenders anyway, the orphanage left them to waste away and suffer behind bolt-latched doors.
It’s hard to describe how utterly powerless I felt at that moment. I couldn’t sleep, so aware of such injustice being perpetuated only a few miles away and yet so incapable of doing anything about it (and I asked if I could, trust me). I was already expending all my energy to invest in just one group of kids in one orphanage in one district in one city in one country; I couldn’t handle how finite I was, entirely trapped within the borderlines of my skin cells. The myriad systemic evils that create street-kids and orphans seemed so great, and my own life so pathetic, that I lost all sense of purpose and direction.
And then, at 2AM, one of the younger boys opened my door; he’d had a nightmare and didn’t want to be alone. I walked back to his room and sat with him, not letting go of his hand as I prayed and prayed and prayed. After a couple minutes his shaking was replaced with the deep breathing of a peaceful sleep.
I started to cry.
None of my questions, fears, or inadequacies had been addressed, but I saw that they didn’t need to be in order to serve the kids right in front of me. I couldn’t do anything about the abuse occurring down the winding mountain road, but at least that night I had left my door unlocked so that this one child could know that he wasn’t alone, that he didn’t have to face the night by himself. At least this one child could know, at that moment, that he was loved.
Two hours later I dragged myself out of bed without ever having slept and began packing their lunchboxes for school. It literally felt like the least I could do, but I was going to do it, and with a greater sense of meaning than ever before. I couldn’t salve all the pain of the world, but I could still do small things with love.
In a way, I find myself in a similar place now.
I’m tired. I’m tired of the general climate of the blogosphere that is so inhospitable to gracious dialog. I’m tired of how many people are ensconced in a self-righteous blindness to the suffering of others, I’m tired of how many people respond to such blindness with an equally self-righteous vitriol, and I’m tired of how often I find myself contributing to it all.
I’ve been tempted just to call it quits. The situation seems too complex and too enormous, and we really don’t need another blog.
But a recent conversation with the incomparable Brian Gee (read all the things!) served as a helpful reminder of what I already knew: that perhaps my frustration with How Things Are should motivate me to do what little I can in my own imperfect way to improve the conversation and speak love to those who need it. Rather than simply giving up, perhaps this is worth a little bit of exhaustion.
For me, I guess it’s not so much about influence as it is about integrity – this is just one small blog in one crowded niche of one sprawling conversation, after all. But at the same time I can’t ignore how blessed I’ve been over the past year by the numerous, bewildering opportunities I’ve had to remind someone that they are loved and their story is worth telling. In the midst of questions and silences that is what is getting me through, and I’m starting to think that this may just be how life goes – beautiful in its own maddening way.
Honestly, writing isn’t easy for me at the moment. But slipping into an effortless silence doesn’t seem right, either. Not yet, at least. As always, I appreciate your grace as I try to figure out what on earth I am doing.
I will soon put up a post detailing how I hope to engage the conversation, a vision to which I want to be held accountable. I have so much to learn,* but I look forward to what these next few months will teach me as I explore the shape my speech and actions should take.
* This phrase receives the award for “Painfully-Obvious, Anthropologically-Universal Platitude Matt Has Employed the Most In His Short Life.” It would like everyone to know that it “couldn’t have done it alone.”