Joy

There was a moment at my third Pride parade when I was so overcome with joy that my knees buckled. This was a stark contrast to my first two parades, which were uncomfortably awkward.

My first time, in Seattle, I slunk around, closeted and alone. I’m still not sure what I was doing there, trying to earn a bravery badge maybe? I was terrified of being seen—worried a news helicopter would fly overhead, highlight me in a searchlight, and beam my image into my family’s living room with a flashing strobe that spelled “L-E-S-B-I-A-N.”

My second parade was attended with my church. While it was lovely to feel the support of my straight pastors and congregation, marching in a Pride parade is a completely different experience for an ally. They could be entirely nonchalant. Even though I’d been out for years, I had never marched in a parade and felt doubly self-conscious, carrying the labels of both “lesbian” and “Christian.”

The third time was, as they say, the charm. I was ready. I’d moved downtown and the parade gathering grounds were just blocks away. I walked over, turned a corner, and came face to face with a glorious riot of balloons in every color of the rainbow. They were everywhere—people held them, wore them, decorated vehicles with them, and formed great arches out of them. The Park Blocks were alive with color. My grin spread from ear to ear.

In that moment, I suddenly felt that I had come home, home to myself and home to who I was created to be. I finally believed that I was in alignment with God’s truth for me. What a ridiculously joyous thing. It seemed so simple. What was once rough was smooth, what was so hard was easy, and what was broken was whole.

Joy to the world! Let heaven and nature sing and dance; have a parade, bake cakes, and joyfully embrace being children of God.