The Allen Family in Mozambique

When my oldest son went to preschool, I would pick him up after school was out and would stay afterwards out back to chat with Dan Allen, one of the few other dads who wasn't working a job that time of day. We would adjourn to the schoolyard, with his kids and mine running ahead and climbing all over the playground equipment.

In those days, Dan and I spoke of many things. Dan is a deeply convicted and devout Protestant, and I the same thing, only Catholic. We discussed abortion, evil cultural influences on children, Islam, and morality. We spoke of sin, redemption, forgiveness, faith, heaven, and hell. We saw something unfold over time, a truism I first heard from Mark Crutcher at one of his seminars I'd attended 15 years before - namely, that because religious conservatives seek, affirm and embrace that which is true, they find more in common with each other beyond sectarian lines than they do with liberals bearing their own denominational label, who reduce and deny that which is true.

All the while our children played near us, sometimes cutting in competing for our attention. His two beautiful little girls had a way of hugging each other "sorry" when they'd accidentally hurt one another, and would hug my kids when they accidentally hurt them.

Those people are very far away from me now. After having given the matter much prayer and thought, the Allen family - Dad, Mom, and girls - sold their home, packed everything up and went off to Mozambique to do missionary work for their church. I've added their new blog to my blogroll.

Personally, I wouldn't do that with my kids. Mozambique is poverty stricken, AIDS ridden, and not as safe as America. By Dan's first blog entry alone, it looks like the country suffers from poor infrastructure, scarcity, and overpricing as well. Personalizing the situation by imagining my own family in it clarifies in my mind why the Catholic Church defines unmarried vocations for missionary priests, brothers, and nuns. But this family feels led there by the Spirit to do God's work, to bring the Gospel and loving hands to the people of Mozambique.

And so they have. And so they do. I pray for their success and eventual safe return.

I was a Preteen Fag

"Fag" was Late-70s/Early-80s youthspeak for nerd, dork, uncool, unpopular, and other such unpleasantries of young life. When I moved to a new school in sixth grade, I left behind the set of friends I'd grown up with and tried to fit into a new locale from scratch.

You were a fag if you had zero talent in sports. You were a fag if you were a boy who carried the style of book bag generally regarded as the girls' bookbag. I did both those things, plus after puberty I was one of the last holdouts in class to practice pre-pubescent hygiene habits, with a little bit of all around dorkiness rolled in for good measure. I was the quintessential fag, and was reminded of that at various times, like when I'd try to poke my nose into a gathering, or look at somebody. Or ignore everyone and keep to my own thoughts. You know, that sort of thing.

"Get away from me, Gleeson, you fag!"

"Shut up, fag! You can't laugh at our jokes."

"You know why nobody likes you? Because you are the biggest fag, that's why!"

A couple times a year, the alma mater sends out a solicitation for a contribution along with a return slip to share personal news with your graduating class in the alumni newsletter. On a whim, I hand lettered a brief statement, mailed it back and forgot about it until I pulled the most recent newsletter from the stack and read it tonight.

It starts out, "Kevin Gleeson is married to Erik."

Oh, what they must think now!

It was a misprint. My wife's name is Erika, but they've never met her. And while there was no Erika in our graduating class, we did have an Erik.