“Let us not grow weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.” — Galatians 6:9
It has been five years since my mom passed away. Technically, my siblings and I are orphans. It’s an interesting club to be part of.
My dad passed away in 2009 from lung cancer. He was diagnosed in 2007, and the first thing I did was search for a prognosis. WebMD estimated he had two to five years. He was turning 70 and had planned to come to the States with my mom and nephew for a family reunion and a birthday celebration. Instead, he canceled their tickets and checked into a hospital in Cebu. A doctor promised to save his life by removing 80% of his left lung. My sister, an oncology nurse, urged him to return to the States so she could care for him. But my dad, ever the narcissist, believed he knew better and clung to hope. There’s nothing wrong with that. Had he chosen chemo and radiation instead of surgery alone, he might have had more than two years. But that’s neither here nor there.
I miss my mom every day. Even though we were separated by 5,000 miles, I always knew I could visit her—if I was willing to endure 16 to 30 hours on a plane. Turning 50 and deciding to go to law school was an interesting choice, one I had put off for far too long. I wasn’t afraid of the LSATs; I just didn’t think I was smart enough. I still don’t know if I am. But on the first day, our professors and advisors reassured us: we deserved to be there. We had worked hard to get into law school, and what we did from that point on was up to us. They were there to help us succeed.
I know my life has been a dumpster fire for a few years. I needed a break from my regularly programmed existence. But I also know my mom and dad were proud of me—and still are. They had plenty of commentary about how I lived my life when they were alive. Not about being gay; they worried more about me being alone. Instead of giving me relationship advice, they taught me to be fiercely independent: how to balance a checkbook, change a tire, darn a sock, cook, and clean. I appreciated their thoughtfulness, but I also wondered—why didn’t they think I could maintain a long-term relationship?
I’m fine. Really. My life is full. I have lived different lives, embarked on many adventures, and now, I am on another great one—diving into the unknown of higher education and a terminal degree. No matter how many career advancements or professional achievements I attain, it will never feel like enough. Not because I lack intelligence, but because a system exists to make people like me feel that way. Erasing that broken record of doubt is its own adventure. But I persist. As we all should.
Like many, I have felt stuck. I’ve made poor choices—sometimes the same ones repeatedly—wondering what I need to change. A friend once gave me great advice in my early twenties. I told her I always felt like I was just trying to keep my head above water. She asked simply, "Have you ever thought about swimming to shore?" I hadn’t. I was using all my energy to stay afloat; maybe I could find the strength to swim to safety. It sounds simple, but it isn’t. Still, it is a different way to look at being stuck. Maybe we all need to start swimming to shore.
Lenten Reflection:
As we journey through Lent, a time of reflection and renewal, I find solace in knowing that even in struggle, there is purpose. In the wilderness of grief, self-doubt, and reinvention, we are not alone. Just as Jesus fasted and faced temptation in the desert, we, too, endure trials that test our resilience. But through faith and perseverance, we emerge stronger.
Galatians 6:9 reminds us: "Let us not grow weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up."
In a world that feels increasingly heavy—with injustice, hate, and systemic oppression pressing in—it’s easy to feel exhausted, to wonder if our efforts even matter. But this verse calls us to persevere, to keep showing up, to keep fighting for what is right even when the progress seems slow and the resistance relentless.
May we press forward, not just struggling to keep our heads above water, but finding the strength to push forward, to create change, and to build the future we deserve. The shore is distant, but it is there. And together, we will reach it.
Take care of yourself and take care of each other.
"Do not repay evil with evil or insult with insult. On the contrary, repay evil with blessing, because to this you were called so that you may inherit a blessing." – 1 Peter 3:9
Human connection is essential. We are social creatures, drawn toward belonging even if we consider ourselves introverts. No one thrives in complete isolation. My friends and family mean everything to me, and I assume others feel the same. Living in Rochester without any relatives, I have built a vast network of acquaintances but only a small, trusted circle—chosen family, the kind of people who make a place feel like home. They are the reason I have thrived as long as I did and returned when given the opportunity.
The world is shifting, as it always does. We are headed into another recession. The last one brought me to Rochester. It will be interesting to see where this one leads.
I have siblings—two sisters, a brother, a half-sister, a half-brother (siblings from another mother), and a nephew I treat more like a little brother. Family is always complicated, and chosen family can be just as complex. In the queer community, chosen family is often essential because so many are cast out by their blood relatives simply for existing authentically.
I find that un-Jesus-like. Very un-Christian-like. Maybe I was just good at tuning out the fire-and-brimstone sermons about condemning those who are different. I preferred to focus on the “love thy neighbor” and “let he who is without sin cast the first stone” passages—the ones about compassion, community, and lifting each other up.
It’s unsettling how easily people can twist scripture into something cruel. How they have used it to justify enslaving entire peoples, silencing women, and waging wars in the name of God.
It boggles the mind.
I recently came across an article discussing the psychology of evil—how a lack of empathy breeds cruelty. Some researchers believe certain people may lack neurological pathways that connect them to empathy. That would explain how some individuals can commit the most horrific, sadistic crimes without remorse.
As a child, Simon Baron-Cohen learned about the Holocaust and asked himself, “How could people be so cruel?” That question led him to become the world's leading expert on the psychology of empathy, and eventually, he wrote "The Science of Evil." I haven’t read it yet, but I imagine it offers a fascinating—and deeply unsettling—perspective.
Reading about his work made me think of Sam Nordquist, a trans man who was tortured and murdered by seven people. His body was discovered in a field after enduring a month of captivity in a hotel room, where he suffered unimaginable abuse.
The most tragic part?
Sam had left his home in Minnesota in search of love. He thought he had found a connection online. He wanted to build a life with someone, to experience the kind of love that makes existence feel worthwhile. Instead, he was met with hate, cruelty, and sadistic intent. It’s hard to comprehend the kind of darkness that exists in people. Some days, it feels unbearable.
From what everyone who knew Sam has said, he was the kindest, most generous person they had ever met. He had a heart that gave freely, a spirit that lifted others up, and a presence that made people feel seen and valued. He deserved love, safety, and the chance to build the life he dreamed of.
Instead, he was stolen from this world in an act of senseless violence.
It starts to make you wonder—where is the justice in that? How do we reconcile the loss of someone so full of light in a world that allowed such darkness to take him away? And more importantly, how do we honor him in the fight for a world where this never happens again?
I have been angry with people before—angry at their actions, their betrayals, their failures. But I have never wanted to take another person’s life.
I have never been so deeply harmed that the thought of torturing someone in return crossed my mind.
Sure, I have said things I regret, acted out of frustration or hurt, and at times, even been cruel. But true violence, destruction, the desire to erase someone entirely? That has never been in me.
Even the idea of ostracizing someone completely feels extreme to me. I would rather remove myself from a bad situation than eliminate a person.
Maybe that’s why the stories of calculated cruelty shake me so deeply. It is so far from my reality that it perplexes me. In law school, I’ve read case after case detailing the worst of human nature. It never gets easier.
Lenten Reflection: Choosing Love Over Cruelty
Lent is a time to examine the state of our hearts. How do we respond to injustice, hate, and cruelty? Do we allow bitterness to fester, or do we choose love and justice?
1 Peter 3:9 reminds us: “Do not repay evil with evil or insult with insult. On the contrary, repay evil with blessing, because to this you were called so that you may inherit a blessing.”
There is no shortage of cruelty in the world. But cruelty cannot be fought with more cruelty.
To live with love, empathy, and justice is not passive. It is an active choice to stand against evil while refusing to become it. It means:
Standing up for the marginalized without becoming the oppressor.
Holding people accountable without losing our own humanity.
Choosing to love fiercely even when the world tries to teach us hate.
The world will always have darkness. But as long as we choose love over cruelty, we ensure that the light keeps shining. And the darkness will never overcome.
#LENT2025 #spiritualwilderness #lgbtq #transrights #transrightsarehumanrights #sayhisname #samnordquist
"Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins." – 1 Peter 4:8
I'm really terrible at love. I should probably explain myself a bit. I was raised by Asian parents, so suppressing feelings was the norm. I also grew up in the 80s, so putting your feelings in a box and shoving them deep down inside was just how things were done.
I had a therapist who once told me that wasn't healthy. She gave me an example: being in a pool and trying to shove a beach ball underwater. The harder you push it down, the more forcefully it pops back up, going wherever it wants. At the time, the metaphor made sense—but human emotions are far more complex than a beach ball.
And the fact of the matter is? I got really good at shoving feelings down.
Fast forward to 30 years on this planet, and what I realized is that my feelings container is not infinite. There is a bottom to my feelings vault.
I dated this lovely woman in my late twenties after a very emotionally difficult relationship and a traumatizing breakup. My ex was still in my life because of mutual friends, and she was still traumatizing me. But I was moving on and dating again.
I want to apologize to this woman for being a complete jackass. In my defense, we started dating with the understanding that it was just for adult intimate friendship. The expectation in those kinds of situations is that you’re not looking to fall in love. But I should’ve known better.
I was in complete self-protection mode—emotional vulnerability was not my strong suit.
She was in an open relationship at the time, and I was just doing my thing. But it is very difficult not to fall in love with someone who is, well, lovely.
She had a beautiful heart. She was kind. Thoughtful. The attraction was there. The affection was there.
I just wasn’t always 100% there.
I remember one night at a club where we had met up. We’d probably been dating for a few months. I was drinking, the club was packed, music was pulsing, my friends were there, and I was dancing with her.
I don’t know if it was the night, the appletinis, or the heart-thumping beats, but she said, “I love you.”
I stared at her, blinking for what felt like hours, but was probably just seconds, and said:
“Thank you.”
Please don’t hate me.
I immediately looked for my friend (I think it was Kimi) and tried to explain what just happened. I was super confused—had I even heard her right?
But I know she said it.
To be completely honest? I never really thought I was good enough for this woman.
There’s more to the story, but what I will say is this: I was blessed to have had her in my life when I did. She saw something in me I couldn’t even see at the time. And even though it didn’t last, I was completely changed for the better after we stopped dating.
She moved on and found someone who could love her the way she needed. And I moved on, dating someone who eventually brought me to Minnesota.
I love my lesbro friends. After being single for a couple of years, I decided to get on the dating apps again. There’s a running joke that I could trip over a rock and end up in a relationship. So I’ve actively tried to stay single because I am, admittedly, a serial monogamist. Is that bad? Does that sound bad?
I asked for advice from my gang of lesbian friends because I started dating this woman and didn’t want to make the same past mistakes.
Let me just say: lesbians are not always the best people for dating advice.
There’s that running joke about second dates and U-Hauls—which, while amusing, is also toxic.
Their advice? “You need to be more emotionally vulnerable.” What does that even mean?!
I had just started dating this woman. I tried my best to follow their advice, and it backfired. I came across like I was love-bombing her. She probably thought I was some narcissist trying to reel her into my trap to use her for emotional & psychological supply. Let’s just say? That didn’t last very long.
I love my friends, but they aren’t always the best advice-givers. There’s got to be a middle ground in sapphic dating.
At 50, I’m just trying to stay on top of my blood pressure medication, menopausal mood swings, and fighting off osteoporosis.
Love is still complicated. But at least now? I’m trying to be better at it.
Lenten Reflection: The Love We Are Called to Give
Lent is a time of deep reflection—on our failures, our growth, and the ways we are being called to change.
1 Peter 4:8 reminds us: “Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.”
The thing about love—whether romantic, platonic, or spiritual—is that it demands presence. To love deeply, we must show up fully. This reflection is an acknowledgment that I didn’t always do that.
Love isn’t just about saying the words. It’s about:
Being emotionally present.
Allowing yourself to be vulnerable.
Letting people see the parts of you you’re still figuring out.
Trusting that love isn’t just about perfection—it’s about effort.
I don’t always get it right. But I’m still learning. And maybe, that’s the best any of us can do.
Lent invites us to reflect on the ways we have failed to love well. But it also invites us to move forward, to love better, deeper, and more fully.
And so, I keep trying. Because love, real love, is worth the effort.
For additional readings for biblical context and connection to Liberation Theology Go HERE