So here I sit on the first warm night of the year.

The lights are almost all off, and all I hear outside are the quiet sounds of a soon to come storm, one that I can feel in my bones. There is a certain humid and heavy calm to this evening; one that suggests something big coming. Tonight the darkness does not scare me, rather I feel enveloped and somehow safe from the world. Despite the calm before the storm's way of feeling endless, it is only temporary. I know that soon the sun shall come again, and the world's troubles shall again knock on my door. The respite is deceptively long.

Since I've had children it is rare for me to be up late, the time when I am at my most creative. Now staying up late becomes a calculated exchange between the pain of fibromyalgia and the joy of creating something new as an artist, or as a protagonist for social justice. Something about tonight has encouraged me to break out of the sleepy eyed couch nap I take before finally going to bed. Maybe it's the smell of the air, perhaps it's the proverbial change of season that is now upon us.

I've been a parent, or at least a guardian of at least one child for nearly 8 years. Every day of these last 8 years it has shown itself to me to be a role model and a setter of a pace that must teach an uncomfortable idea for our society; the idea of being someone who loves and forgives, even in the face of horrible problems that somehow society seems to not fully address.
When children can ask "why?" with an intense and true desire to know, this is an awesome responsibility. We set the backdrop for how these children will think about life.

My youngest child is a free spirit of such reckless abandon that I as an adult worry about her safety. Yet, at the same time she is capable of such a beautiful honesty and emotional realness.
Her laughter has wings that can make even a hardened old soul smile again. Her tears invoke a primal empathy in me as a parent when I know they are a genuine expression of human hurt.
When I feel like my problems are too great to bear; my children's joy and passion, unspoiled by social expectation and imprinting, inspire me to rise again. Their gift to me is the experience of truth. I can never prepare for it, I simply experience it as it happens. It is always genuine.

By now you are probably asking what this little monologue has to do with God, Church, or Religion. If you only took this piece at face value that'd be easy to see. Bear with me. It's for a good reason, I promise.

There is a concept of God that is very arbitrary and limiting; I think that too many people have this abstract concept. I personally prefer the Native American philosophy of "Where the wind blows, Great Spirit Speaks." This works on several levels, the idea that the wind is not something we can see or touch, but only feel. This is spiritual life, this constant amazement at something that defies human logic but yet is everywhere. A life bringer, the carrier of life-giving rain.

It's on nights like this where there is a warm wind that brings the seasonal changes that I sit up and take notice. It reminds me that there is always new life and new possibilities. For us, the wind is our children. We know the moment of feeling them as part of our life, and yet, as they grow we suddenly find ourselves longing for a time when they were smaller, more innocent, more beautiful creatures unspoiled by human society. The wind of their dreams is our future. The seeds of our dreams ride on them, and yet we must also let them be their own persons. Perhaps this is why a newborn's cry is so primal to new parents; it is the wind of our souls being reminded of our roots. Perhaps this is why we weep just a little when our children are born, the joy of being refreshed a little while being simultaneously reminded of all the rules we must teach them. What a contradiction.

There is no Jew or Greek, servant or free, male or female: because you are all one in Jesus Christ. (Galatians 3:28).

Why do we make such spiritually meaningless distinctions that divide us, when there is no reason to?

We must think of the gifts of tolerance and acceptance in our own lives and how to live this path for our children as best we can. There is far to much hate and extremism in our world; we cannot in good faith let ourselves be unaware conduits of these things. We cannot teach our beautiful children how to hate without first knowing how to love. In fact, with true love, I offer that hate may become an impossible excercise.

Being gay, lesbian, bisexual or transgendered is ultimately an expression of a deeper and diverse design. No one would choose it in a world that still wants to condemn differences, but there is no doubt that persons such as these are among us. They like anyone else seek love and understanding. A true parent gives love to a child without reservation. Even when this love can break our heart. Even in the example of Jesus facing death for those whom he loved. Any parent would jump in front of a moving bus to save their child without a moment's hesitation. "This is my body, broken for you. Do this in remembrance of me." Sound familar?

What changes between childhood and adulthood? Why? Has anyone ever really spiritually asked themselves this question? Perhaps we could look to our children for a new way forward when we consider how to be open and affirming. Our actions teach them. Our love in action. The love of God in action through His people. The children of God. As Isaiah 11:6 prophesied, "... and a little child shall lead them."

If we truly are children of a loving God, what are we doing to prove it?