Psalm 23

“Surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

— Psalm 23:6-7 (NIV)

I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve come out to my mom.

I knew something was wrong the first time I told her, years ago now. I’d imagined a hundred different variations on what her reaction might be; the reality was none of them. She wasn’t angry, but she wasn’t happy either. 

She said everything I’d expected—God designed things a certain way, God loves me and will take care of me, the Bible is very clear—but all her words lacked any emotional bite. It was as if she was programmed to respond accordingly, to say those words, and I’m sure she meant them, in a way. But they felt empty, nonetheless.

The second time was funny. I was at their house, cooking dinner for her and my dad.

“Wow,” she said, sauntering into the kitchen. “Whoever marries you is going to be a lucky girl.”

I paused, momentarily debating my response, and if to provide one at all. Why was she asking me this? Was she purposefully testing me? Did she think I was playing a joke on her?

And then it dawned on me. Did she forget?

“What if it’s a boy?” I asked, to test the waters.

“Well, he better be Chinese,” she smiled, and walked away.

I remember laughing, but feeling more relieved, than anything else.

I figured it was just a joke. She was just trying to be funny. Why else would she ask me if I would marry a girl at all?

But then it happened a third time. And a fourth. And a fifth.

Sometimes it was weird, like the first time. Sometimes, it was funny, like the second. But other times it was painful, awkward, or downright confusing. And now that I know that my mom suffers from memory issues as she moves into old age, it’s only going to get worse, and I’m going to have to go through this again, and again, for many more years to come.

I once told a friend about this, how I have to come out to my mom over and over again. He asked me: “Wow, you really want your mom to know, huh?”

And the answer is: I do. I really do. Because even though my mom and I have had a rough relationship throughout my life, she’s still my mom, and I still want to love her. And I’ve learned, if you love someone, you reveal yourself in hopes that they will love you back. That’s the only thing you can do when you love someone.

I tell this story because it has now been one year since I packed my car and left my Seattle life to move in with my parents. And more than anything, more than learning to play defense and not offense, more than learning how to deal with my dad’s dementia, more than learning how to grapple with the slow descent into death of those I love, more than all of that, I’ve learned let go. To let go of people’s expectations of me, my expectations of myself, to let go of the beliefs I don’t think I have.

I’ve struggled with my faith for most of my life. And the thing that finally, and ironically, let me put it to rest, is this practice of coming out to my mom, again, and again, and again. Not in a “I’m gay and so I can’t be a Christian” kind of way. But that this constant cycle of realizing that I love my mom so much, I won’t stop coming out to her, it's a reflection of me: I am relentless in my love for her, and I won’t stop trying to show her who I am. No matter what her reaction is. No matter whether she accepts me or not. No matter whether she thinks it’s a joke. No matter whether or not she even remembers or even has the physical capability to remember anymore.

And maybe, maybe, maybe, God is like that to me too. That no matter what questions I have, or whatever physical or mental blockers I have that prevent me from seeing God for who he is, that he’ll never stop revealing himself to me. Never. Because he loves me. 

And maybe that’s how he loves all of us. Those of us who accept him. Those of us who pursue the truth and maybe miss the mark. Those of us who—for whatever reason—are incapable of seeing him for who he really is. That he will still be relentless about showing us who he is.

Psalm 23 is funny to me. It’s widely remembered in American evangelical circles for its poetic feel. I remember it most for being one of the psalms that my mom forced me to commit to memory. She even once refused to let me go to the bathroom as a kid until I could recite it.

Most people remember the beginning. I remember the end. Because I’ve learned the word ‘follow’ in the original Hebrew is more like the word ‘chase,’ or ‘to hunt down,’ like the way a hunter chases its prey.

And so that’s my hope. That maybe there’s a creator out there, and that it will be relentless with me. And that perhaps, surely goodness and love truly will hunt me down to the ends of the earth, all the days of my life.