There are some who tell stories to teach lessons, and there are some who tell stories for the sake of telling stories. And then there are those who tell stories to tell themselves, to reveal all the emotional clutter stored in unmarked bins within their souls like my mom did when she opened the garage door to neighbors, strangers, and the eyes of God on yard sale day. I have always tried to convince myself that I was not cut out to be a storyteller, primarily due to my utter inability to relay a story without including all of its minutiae in the finest of detail. Yet, there is something quite lovely about missing the forest as we ensconce ourselves in the mystery of a tree.
My story is not a rags-to-riches heartstring puller, nor is it a New York Times Bestseller (whatever the hell that means) about how awesome my life has been. Rather, my experience is similar to that of many Queer folk. I struggle with the emotional drain of strained family relationships; at the same time, I find myself stumbling and fumbling through the ruins of a once flowered love-affair with God. (Now, our relationship status can often be described as “it’s complicated.”) It seems I am perpetually struggling to discern my vocation while also managing the stressors of expat life.
Through the writings I share here on Pilgrimage to Somewhere, I hope to create a place of dialogue about the uniqueness of our stories, looking particularly at the multitude of ways God speaks into the messiness of our human existence. Friends, each of us is on a pilgrimage to somewhere, something, or someone, and all along the way God is dropping mile markers of grace. I invite you to walk with me a mile or two on this journey whose beginning and ending we are well acquainted with, yet whose in-between is filled with mystery, beauty, and meaning.