Unraveling Lessons: All The Flowers We Cut

20 days until my first published collection of poems “Unraveling” arrives in the world. Thanks for joining me here where I’m sharing moments, memories, and reflections of “Coming Out and Back Together” on the road to April 23rd. It is an intentional decision for this book to be launched on the same day as the start of the 2024 General Conference of the United Methodist Church. While my story is not only a United Methodist story, one of my hopes is that United Methodists will read my words and be reminded of the lasting personal impacts of church polity, politics, and power.

I know the name of every Sunday school teacher I had from kindergarten through high school. Each one in their own unique ways taught me important lessons. Hanging above a knee-high sink, where kindergarteners washed our hands before snacks, there was a colorful poster painted with the liturgical seasons.

In Elementary school I learned,
sun = Summer
leaves = Fall
snow = Winter
blooming flowers = Spring.

In Sunday school I learned,
waiting = Advent
birth = Christmas
stars = Epiphany
wilderness = Lent
life after death = Easter
party = Pentecost
most days = Ordinary.

There’s comfort in understanding and strength in navigating life as seasons with patterns and rhythms. Recognizing that change is part of living, that birth and death are for us all. That good times aren’t forever so savor them. That challenging times will end so don’t give up during them. That, like snow on the first day of spring, unexpected things still happen. That waiting isn’t just for Advent. That birth isn’t only for Christmas. That Lent isn’t always wilderness. Good Friday isn’t the only day we die. Easter isn’t the only day for resurrection. That Pentecost is more than a birthday. And that most of our days are pretty ordinary with some extraordinary sprinkled in if we’re lucky.

The 21 poems that comprise “Unraveling: Coming Out and Back Together” are curated by liturgical season, allowing me tell a story that doesn’t easily fit into a typical calendar or timeline. Years of stops and starts. Of hills and mountains and valleys. Of celebration and loss. Of living and dying and finding my way back. Of robes and deconstructing them.

My clergy robe isn’t the only that didn’t quite fit. I was in third grade the first time I entered the acolyte room. It was really just a big closet. There were three young worship participants every Sunday. One to carry the bible, one to carry to the light, and another the cross. As a third grader I was finally old enough to carry the bible. The requirements of this role included wearing a robe. The robe was more than a robe. It was a zipped robe with a high neck covered by a surplice. It was a skirt with a draw string belt, held up by choo-choo train suspenders that all went under the robe. It was accessorized with a big gold cross necklace. It was itchy and awkward. It smelled like moth balls and was way too long. I was so nervous that first Sunday carrying the extremely heavy bible down the long aisle that I almost tripped over the skirt that had fallen when my suspenders slipped.

I remember how proud my great-grandparents were seeing me in that robe. Not wanting to disappoint them or anyone else, is probably why I never told how horrible that robe was. How it got in the way. How it made me feel really uncomfortable. How it didn’t fit. I loved participating in worship services. Feeling like I was doing something that mattered and was a part of something special. But why did I have to wear that robe to do it?

My clergy robe brings up similar feelings and emotions. I bought it in good faith. I wore it with pure motives. I cared for it like I cared for my calling. I nurtured it. I loved it. I honored it. And as it became clearer and clearer that the robe was covering a greater calling, that’s when it started to unravel.

The loudest calling I have ever heard is the one inviting me to be authentic, to stop hiding who I am, to no longer fear being visible, to embrace the fullness of my being and my experiences. Answering this calling meant letting go of a robe rather than putting one on.

It was the first Sunday of Advent when I anxiously hit send on a letter to the bishop and others coming out as lesbian and sharing the decisions I had made about my future. When the waiting became increasingly painful, and the silence grew louder, and the rejection intensified, I was reminded of the seasons. Waiting is so hard. And even when it feels so lonely and isolating, God is with us. As the clock ticks slow and the days fight to turn, the gifts we seek are taking root in grounds we may not even be aware exist.

It was February when I surrendered my credentials, just a week before the start of Lent. Those 40 days were some the most difficult and isolated of my life. When I was ready to quit, I was reminded of the seasons. That they change. That hope isn’t ever lost forever. That Easter will come. Maybe not on the day the church celebrates Jesus’ resurrection. But new life for me will come.

Maybe you’re waiting for something to happen or something to change. Or something to begin or to end. Maybe you went to church three days ago on Easter looking for something you didn’t find. Don’t give up. Miracles are not beholden to seasons of nature or calendars of the church. Any day can be Easter. Every day has resurrection possibility.

One Sunday, in 5^th grade now, still wearing the uncomfortable acolyte robe, and carrying the light instead of the bible, I snuck outside to one of the garden areas after the service. There were beautiful blooming white and yellow flowers that had caught my attention on the way inside that morning. It was Mother’s Day and I wanted to give one to my great-grandmother. It was also close to her birthday. I felt bad that I didn’t have anything to give her. The flowers seemed like a perfect idea.

Just as I pulled one from the soil, a woman called my name, ordering me to put the flower back. “Those are not yours.” The flower was already pulled from the ground, I couldn’t put it back. Not wanting to get in trouble, I just left it there. And it left a sadness in my heart. I didn’t mean any harm. I only wanted to give my great-grandmother something pretty. Show her how much I loved her. Prove that I really wasn’t such a bad kid after all.

Pablo Neruda, the Chilean poet wrote, "You can cut all the flowers, but you cannot keep spring from coming."

Seasonal lessons are the most important my Sunday school teachers ever taught me.

Spring still came even though I pulled that flower. Life didn’t end when the church cut me off. My calling came together when I deliberately unraveled the robe. It took several seasons, but I came to realize the church could not stop me from becoming.

Water-fully Yours,
Rebecca & 10 Camels.

Click here to pre-order Unraveling.