The lights of home
By: Otis Corrêa
Tags: Christianity, Storytelling, Family, Love, LGBTQ

The lights of home

Oh Jesus if I’m still your friend, what the hell, what the hell you got for me?

This is Saturday night at covid era. The numbers are peaking up again. Brazil. We never actually ended the first wave before watching the rising of the second wave. People don’t seem to fear it. Buses are always packed full, as much as street bars, malls and restaurants, and peoples houses. My best friend wedding is coming up, and although they should have, it’s not postponed for a better moment yet, hoping to happen in january, too early for vaccine to spread in here. But they don’t seem to mind that. The bridal shower is a whole event to actually show that. There are fifty plus people packed in a balcony, no masks, shared food, close table seats. I’m here, back in the kitchen, my mask on, leaving every ten minutes to breathe outside and change/clean my mask with alcohol. What the hell is going on now? I feel an urge to stay, though. I mean, I know this guy since I can’t even remember. But I do remember when he came home with his future wife. He told me that first night he would marry her, and I believed him, they were too good to each other, I know he would never miss the chance to spend the rest of his life with her, even if it would take him nearly ten years before being able to actually marry her. Tonight, we celebrate how close this is to be reality now.

This is Saturday night. The house where the party is being held is nearby my old church building. I used to come here. As a child, I basically was born in this church. As a teenager, it was a place where I could go to express myself through music and social interaction. Not my whole self, of course. I found out I was gay eight years ago. Recently this year, I came out to my parents. Four years ago, I told a few friends from church. They told me two opposing messages ‘bout that: that they loved me, and they hated my sin. I’m beyond over the “being gay is a sin” conversation. I don’t believe God hates me for being who he (hello?) created me to be. I don’t hate myself anymore for being different than what my friends, family, church though I should be. I embraced myself, accepted myself, leaving behind years of self-hatred poisoning attitude towards being who I am and loving who I love. Many friends have helped me throughout this journey of self-learning and self-love. I’ve been through the journey so I could be much more human, and therefore, my most divine. My Jesus has said “love your neighbor as you love yourself”. As a gay teenager that grew up in church I hated myself (and as such, others) for too long. Not anymore. And this is not the story of how I did that. I’m just homesick.

This is Saturday night. And every ten minutes when I go outside to breathe (and for a couple smoking pauses) I can see it in front of me: the lights of home. My home church looks beautiful tonight. Against a clouded dark sky, the yellow building sparkles as the inside lights shines through the classical vitral windows. A couple times I walked all the way there. I talked to the supper, a seventy-something year old little man, devoted, married to his wonderful wife for the past five decades, faithful servant of this community. Upstairs, the small youth group meets for a worship night. Downstairs, Lucas seats down and talks to me, like a grandpa, an uncle, an old friend. He doesn’t know I’m gay. He doesn’t know I no longer go to church. He has no idea how much I’ve been mistreated by old childhood friends just because I came out of my claustrophobic closet. And he doesn’t care for it. Tonight, he’s just happy I’m home. He’s gonna tell his wife and his younger son I showed up and sent a big hug. She’s gonna tell him how much she wanted to meet with everyone. She’s been home for the whole quarantine season, he said. He’s been working, still and always. I’m glad to be home as of tonight. I can see it in his eyes. Love is unconditional. It reminded me why home is so special, why I’ve been here for so long, but also why I left. Home is supposed to feel like this, right? You love it, though you can never really come back to it. The good son comes home for Christmas and big parties. And that’s all he can offer. And somehow, coming home to meet your grannies can be way better than meeting your brothers and sisters. Anyways, I feel like U2 has best put it in their song “lights of home” (witch I borrow the title for this little bad story):