Welcome! I'm Angela. This is my little corner of the web where I write about my adventures as a boy mom. I love my husband and my kids and coffee and all things chocolate. I'm a horrible cook but I love reading recipes. I am currently teaching my five year old how to read and the importance of hygiene. My other boy is currently teething, so I may sound a little sleep deprived at times. We're a homeschooling, slightly crunchy bunch. We're a little cooky but we sure do love being a family. We can be found down by the river every weekend.

Tuesday, June 21, 2016

What it means

It's been a little over a week since the Pulse massacre.
It feels as though Orlando has lost it's innocence.
It feels as though I have lost my right to stay naive, to stay silent about something just because it's controversial and may offend people.

We were in Orlando much of the week. We currently live about thirty miles away, which is nice, because we miss a lot of the traffic. But because that is our hometown, because we lived maybe two minutes from Pulse, for years and years, Orlando still feels like my home. And I love that home.


I explained to Ben that I want to do everything in my power to help those hurting. Not just for a week. From now on.  He was (is) incredibly supportive, and encouraged me to do what is needed.

Some days it looked like packing snacks for folks.
Some days it meant offering a stranger a hug, a smile, an "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry" and crying together.
It meant going down to the memorial sight at the Dr. Phillips center, and truly feeling the magnitude of what has happened. It meant changing my views on police officers. I've always been terrified of them. But this week, I got to thank them. I got to know them by name. I have nothing to fear. They are beautiful people, and they want to help.

It meant speaking up for my gay friends. It meant checking on them, asking them if they are afraid. If I can help them. It meant loving them like they are my equal. Because they are my equal. They always have been. It meant apologizing for never checking on them before.
It meant telling my six year old that we love everyone, even if they believe differently than we do. Maybe especially if they believe differently than we do. It meant bringing my kids with me on my trips down there.
It meant Logan sharing high fives and Legoland stories with two men we met under a stairwell, hiding from the rain. It meant crying with these men and having to answer their questions "Why are you here? Why are you teaching your children to love everyone, even us? This is highly controversial, you know you're going to get crap for this. Why? We're strangers!" and not fully having an answer, just hugs and more tears and "We are just wanting to love everyone right now" answers.


It meant attending a candle light vigil with 50,000 people. With the kids. It was terrifying. It was beautiful. I am so grateful I listened to that voice that said "Go" instead of hiding at home, afraid of the flack I'd get for being under so many rainbow flags.
It meant having to answer questions that are incredibly uncomfortable. About politics. About Christianity. It meant having peace in my heart that we were right where we were supposed to be, that God never left my side, that he gave me the peace I needed to do bold things, things that would have terrified me a year ago.

It meant friends not understanding, and parting ways with me.
It meant feeling sad about it, but knowing not to apologize for my heart.

It still means so many things.
I still want to be there, with hurting people, to help them feel a little better about painful situations.
I don't 100% know what it all means.
I simply ask for your patience and understanding while I attempt to figure it all out.

You are loved, friends.