It was St. Patrick's Day when I left the seminary at Andrews University and moved to Chicago in order to sort out my relentless same-sex attraction and figure out whether it could be "cured"—and if so, how. I told my sponsoring conference I would resume my graduate studies "exactly one year later.” I thought that would be plenty of time to sort things out. I still imagined I'd be a minister, but the pressure to marry was closing in on me, and the thought of a lifetime commitment to something essentially unfulfilling was terrifying. It was an unwritten rule: preachers had to be married. I don’t think it had anything to do with trying to weed out gays, but more to do with getting two workers for the price of one—a preacher and a choir director! Anyone who somehow overlooked that requirement would be sent back for as many semesters as necessary. 

I remember that drive to Chicago like it was a week ago Thursday—we never forget the beginning of our coming out—and through the years I've always been able to answer the perennial March question, "When is St. Patrick's Day?" March 17!

Ahead of me would be much distress over religious issues, thoughts of suicide, an introduction to Kinship and much involvement with it, 13 years with a wonderful man, some precious friendships and relationships that would endure years of wear, the surprise of a second "coming out" when I realized I was attracted to other races more than my own, eventual spiritual peace and joy, the thrill of meeting people in other parts of the world, the untimely loss of too many dear friends, and an ever unfolding contemplation of life and death.

After leaving graduate school on that St. Patrick’s Day, peace wasn’t so easy to come by. A year to sort things out was laughably inadequate. But I remember consoling myself with the thought that even in the worst scenario "10 years from now, everything will be settled." You know, kind of like the greeting card that says "Relax! ...100 years from now, all new people!" So if I could just hang on for a time, eventually—10 years at the very most—all problems would be worked out and I would be home free, living in bliss one way or another, spiritually, financially, romantically. I really thought it would take only two or three years, but to be wildly conservative I mentally went with 10 years for good measure. By then, for certain, all major issues of life would be settled!

That St. Patrick's Day was exactly thirty years ago today. Seems like six or seven.

And, after subtracting the first 10 to get there, how wonderful the past 20 years of perfect bliss have been! How nice to have all my ducks in a row: romantic bliss (ha!), financial bliss (ha!), spiritual bliss (well I guess one out of three isn't bad).

How bizarre this thing we call life. How difficult. How wonderful. How mysterious. I've not always felt life’s advantages outweigh its disadvantages, but at the end of the day I think I'll be convinced of this: if the lows were the price of the highs, then life was worth it—and perhaps a bargain. 

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© 1999 by Larry Hallock.