Poem: The Parable of the Man of Grief

It has been about a year since a fight with my father led to my
decision to stop speaking to him.

In November last year I had a falling out with my father. In some ways, it was what I expected to happen when I went over to his house that day, after not visiting him for over a year because of personal mental and emotional struggles and obligations to school and my job. I knew he wouldn’t understand my reasons for staying distant, even though I was doing most of the suffering and experiencing all of the guilt—and I certainly couldn’t admit that I actually felt a little better by not feeling obligated to visit him when all he did was drink and talk badly about everyone I loved.

Excepting that visit last fall, I have not seen or spoken to my father for two years, collectively. I knew it hurt him and fostered much bitterness and hatred for which my father is infamous. But in my one-sided attempt at a tolerable father-son relationship, none of my struggles mattered to him, and neither did my love for him. Though the phone works both ways, the maintenance of our bond rested solely on my shoulders, and I had failed in his eyes.

His first words to me when he answered the door were not that he missed me, or was glad to see me—they were “I haven’t seen you in a year.” He counted every day of negligence so he could hurl them in my face the moment I came back to admit my mistake; that is so his style, and I knew it would happen. The other details of that visit are not necessary; I’ve shared them with close loved ones and made peace with what happened. But I left his house abruptly, at his order, and the tears began to flow the moment I got into my car a drove away. It was one of the hardest cries I’ve had in years.

The parable of the Good Samaritan, as depicted here by Dan
Burr, inspired the hymn that then inspired my poem about my dad.

The next time I saw my therapist after the encounter, he and I had a really good session talking about my dad and my personal issues that I feel stem from my relationship with him. I asked Chris, my therapist, if there was a way to work through some of my “daddy issues” after I had identified several in that session, and he just encouraged creative means, like journaling, music, poetry, etc. Without total resolve, I made a note in my mind to try to write a poem about my dad someday. It was in my thoughts, but not a priority.

In early 2017, perhaps 2016 as well, I had been spending my restless nights trying to memorize all the verses to the hymn “A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief.” I’ve always liked the tune, and had a couple of the verses already committed to memory, so I made a goal to memorize the rest. I would go over and over them in my head until I fell asleep, and get up in the morning sometimes and check the verses where I knew I had made errors. I decided after I had memorized the whole song that I really loved the rhythm and rhyming scheme, and that someday I would write a poem or hymn text to that same pattern.

New Year’s Eve of 2017, in the wee hours, I lay in bed again restless, and remembered these two goals—to write a poem about my dad, and to use the rhyming pattern from the hymn. So, like I have done many times in the past, I just started imagining lines in my head. The second verse came to me first, and I finished the entire verse in its essence before I fell asleep. Verses one and three I also worked out almost in their entirety before retiring. The theme that came from each verse as I made them up was that of a man in different stages of life, progressively succumbing to a miserable self-induced fate—just like my father.

Once I had the rhyming scheme and imagery together in my head,
the poem about my dad's tragic life was created rather quickly.

I awoke by noon the next day, showered, and got ready to go to my mom’s like I would any other Sunday, holiday notwithstanding. Before I left I sat down and typed out the verses I remembered from the night before so I wouldn’t lose them. I sat there on my computer for maybe half an hour and tweaked the verses a bit as I gave Mom time to run to the store before I drove down. Then I went to my mom’s house and came home just after ringing in the New Year 2018.

I was eager to get back on the computer and work on the poem. Because of my tendency to make poems with many verses, I decided I would make this one shorter, but of course with an even number of verses as per my OCD. I had three written out and the beginnings of a fourth, so I decided on six total. With the help of a thesaurus and rhyming dictionary when I got stumped, I finished the poem around 2:00AM. I was very happy with it. Though I didn’t feel the Spirit of the Lord as strongly as I have in the past when writing inspired pieces, I nevertheless knew that this piece was helped along by divine blessing.

I sent the poem via email to a select few close friends, and then I went to bed. I decided on the title for this poem because of the fact that I was inspired by the rhyming scheme of “A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief.” It’s kind of funny, too, but I also read just a day or two before some new Harry Potter books: “Quidditch through the Ages,” and “The Tales of Beetle the Bard” (well, they were new to me). The latter is a book of short stories with morals, like fairytales, but for the wizarding world; both are written by J.K. Rowling.

The latter book left me in a sort of whimsical mood, and I know that when I went to bed that night after reading them, there was inspiration from that book in the way I formed the verses for my new poem. I also had similar inspiration from the sort-of whimsical feel of the hymn itself, and I tried to mimic that feeling while also giving the poem a contemporary, modern application (because the stories about the man in the poem are taken from my dad’s own life and personality and my feelings towards him).

Though certain elements of my poem are symbolic, the piece still
reflects my feelings of growing up with an alcoholic parent.

I should also mention that in my Family Studies courses the last couple of semesters, I’ve learned a great deal about the family of origin and how the environment in which we are reared affects individuals for a lifetime, for good or for bad. I am realizing that much of my dad’s bitterness and misery are from his rough upbringing, which I still know little about. I do not offer that as an excuse (as the last line of the poem denotes—he had a choice), but it helps me cope by knowing that I am not the cause of his grief and pain. It makes me feel sorry for him, and honestly, helps me to forgive him for what he does to our family through his drinking and pride.

I almost decided to change the name of the poem to “The Parable of the Broken Man” because I thought it sounded more compelling. But first I looked up the definition of the word ‘grief’ and realized it was perfect for the man in my poem, and for my dad, upon whom the fictional man is based; the definition for ‘grief’ was “keen mental suffering or distress over affliction or loss; sharp sorrow; painful regret.” The last two words of that definition fit well, but stung a little as I comprehended the miserable end my dad is slowly crawling towards; a sense of regret overwhelms the somber end of the Man of Grief.

I shared this poem on Facebook at the request of family and friends, after I had posted vaguely about how creating the poem was the best part of my New Year’s festivities. It was so satisfying to have this sober reflection recorded permanently on paper, like a lens into my heart, my father’s heart, and the painful relationship we’ve shared.

My therapist told me, in his office that day when we talked about my father, that it was okay to let people go when their actions were toxic and harmful to us. He assured me that as much as it hurts, and even though the confrontation was not my fault, it was okay to think about my mental wellness and emotional health by setting boundaries with my father to prevent him from hurting me more and causing more damage. My therapist reminded me that I can still love my father—and certainly, I do—but I can make the choice to no longer let his choices affect me.

I only wish that the regrettable choices my father’s parents made, and the hurt that he has kept with him for so long could be washed away by something stronger than a million cans of cheap beer. Perhaps only God will ever truly know and understand the stony depths of my father’s heart.

❧

– The Parable of the Man of Grief – 

~ 

A tender boy there was who longed 

For gentle care and love refined, 

But by his fam’ly he was wronged 

And learned to isolate his mind. 

He had no place to turn for peace, 

But through his anger found release; 

From all his grief away he ran, 

And grew to be a broken man. 

A young man sought to drown his woes, 

So to his lips he put strong drink. 

A slurring speech replaced his prose; 

He ceased to feel, he could not think. 

Then laid he on his bed to rest, 

The bottle still clutched to his chest; 

But when he woke and rubbed his eyes, 

The pain returned—to his surprise. 

A father worked hard to provide, 

But fam’ly was to him a slight; 

His love for them he cast aside 

And took his poison every night— 

Indulged his thirst to great excess 

To drive away his deep distress, 

And as he slumped down in his chair 

It’s like he wasn’t even there.

A man with heart so insecure 

Learned only how to praise himself; 

His conscience he would self-assure 

And boast about his skills and wealth. 

His pride laid ruin to his life— 

He lost his children and his wife; 

He watched them go, but with a scoff 

Insisted he was better off. 

An old man carried much regret 

For words unsaid and deeds undone; 

With hardened heart, he would not let 

Himself be loved by anyone. 

He mourned for all the wasted years— 

The time was past for shedding tears. 

He saw now as he reached his end: 

The bottle was his only friend. 

The mem’ry of a man lived on 

Within the hearts of those who knew 

The roots of suff’ring long foregone— 

The hurt that he could not undo. 

And from his life they kept the best— 

Preserved the good, forgave the rest; 

But still lamented deep within 

The man they wish he could have been. 

~ 

- Wade A. Walker - 

January 1, 2018

~

** NOTE:  I share my writing on this site trusting that visitors are scrupulous enough not to plagiarize. If you'd like to share this poem or other content with others, please share the URL to the entire blog post. Please DO NOT copy and paste any text for personal use without written permission. As the original writer of the content herein, I’d like the credit for these pieces to remain mine. **

Characteristics of Christmas

The meaning of Christmas lies beyond
the lights and tinsel.

I hadn’t planned to post anything until the New Year; but tonight I was going through folders and folders of writing that I’ve collected on my computer hard drive over the years—something I do when I’m bored but want to feel productive (I like tweaking words and punctuation and checking for errors that have escaped my meticulous eye). I found a poem that I wrote for Christmas nearly twenty years ago, called “Characteristics of Christmas.”

My love of writing began early in my life, and I can remember writing my first story in Third Grade. I did enjoy the entertainment of my Sega Genesis video game system and watching Nickelodeon for hours on end; but sitting at our kitchen table with nothing but lined paper, a pencil, and an idea was an even richer form of both leisure and fun for me.

I can remember writing several stories during a school year—some for homework, and some just for fun. I was always so proud of them, and loved to share them with doting teachers. In Fourth Grade my teacher taught us how to write poetry using some prompt words that he encouraged us all to interpret individually. I think I still have it somewhere, in my plastic tote of memorabilia. In Fifth Grade I wrote a poem for class about Halloween, the first rhyming poem I’d ever done. My teacher was so impressed by it that she submitted it to a district-wide Halloween poetry contest, and I won first place.

Christmas is more than trimmed trees
and treat-filled stockings.

I had no idea I’d even been in the contest until a classmate and her mother showed up at our door around 9:00PM one night to congratulate me, as they’d just come from the award ceremony where my name was announced and my poem read aloud at a microphone by an adult performer. I still have the award certificate with a gold ribbon attached to it; I think I won ten or twenty dollars, too, and I’m sure I spent it on a burger and fries, which was a rare delicacy growing up in the 90’s with a mother who cooked all our meals.

After that Halloween poem success, I made a habit of writing about different holidays; I still have poems for Valentine’s Day, Saint Patrick’s Day, and the Christmas one. I know I started some for April Fool’s Day, Independence Day, and Thanksgiving, but I never finished them. Much like the case is today, I cannot usually write without some kind of inspiration, or at the least a ‘mood’ for writing. I’m not surprised that I couldn’t come up with anything for those holidays; I still have pieces that I’ve been working on for years, and maybe one day I’ll finish and maybe post them here.

Just for fun, I thought I’d share the Christmas poem I wrote in December 1998, when I was twelve years-old. It’s interesting to recognize that the characteristics of Christmas, to me, were the familiar images of trees, lights, snow, and traditional Santa Clause folklore. I describe those things in rhyme in eight verses, using the last two to convey a heartfelt message from a boy who did not yet know the reason for the season. Ten verses total, of course; even in my youth my obsessive compulsive need for counting things in fives was noticeable (and surely that hasn’t changed).

The true characteristics of Christmas are
the gifts from the Savior of the World.

Though I did not quite know exactly who the babe was who lay in the manger in my mother’s ceramic nativity set, I still understood that there was something special about Christmas; something you could feel at that time of year that seemed, for some reason, difficult to sense the rest of the year. I also determined, though young as I was, that Christmas was not a passive event, but a deeper ritual symbolizing a spirit of goodwill and gladness, one toward another. And while the nostalgia of sleepless Christmas Eves, opening presents before sunrise, and my mother’s breakfast on Christmas morning are what live on from my childhood holidays, nowadays I have a better understanding of why we celebrate this glorious time of year in the first place.

The words of LDS Prophet Gordon B. Hinckley (1910 – 2008) always ring truer when I ponder this wondrous season:

          “Christmas means giving. The Father gave His Son, and the Son gave His life. Without giving there is no true Christmas, and without sacrifice there is no true worship. There is more to Christmas than neckties, earrings, toys, and all the tinseled stuff of which we make so much. 

          ~ President Gordon B. Hinckley, "'What Shall I Do Then With Jesus Which is Called Christ?'" Ensign, Dec. 1983.

Indeed, the true characteristics of Christmas are and ought to be the characteristics of the Savior Jesus Christ and the feelings that emanate from His perfect life: Love, Peace, Forgiveness, Service, Joy, Hope, Charity, Faith, and the belief in Miracles.

May your Christmas be blessed by His presence in your life.

❧

– Characteristics of Christmas –

~

Snow is falling

Down so sound,

Laying a blanket

Of white on the ground.

The tree releases

The sweet scent of pine;

Presents sit under,

One yours, one mine.

The Christmas lights filter

Through the darkness of night;

Santa Clause walks the roof,

Stepping so light.

His reindeer await

So patient and calm

For Santa to pull the reins,

Then they are gone.

The sleigh that he rides in

Sparkles of jewels;

Cushioned in velvet,

Fashioned with tools.

The elves at the Workshop,

At the North Pole,

Get ready for next year—

With a long way to go!

The plate of warm cookies

We left out for him,

Have filled up his belly

For his long night’s trip.

We find the next morning
Our stockings are filled; 

The presents have doubled, 

The wrapping is skilled.

The spirit of Christmas
We hold in our hearts;
When we let it out,

The holiday starts.

So make Christmas a feeling,
Not just something you do;

Merry Christmas from me, 

Merry Christmas to you!

~

- Wade A. Walker -

December 1998 

"Wise men [and women] still seek Him."

g

** NOTE: I share my writing on this site trusting that visitors are scrupulous enough not to plagiarize. If you'd like to share this poem or other content with others, please share the URL to the entire blog post. Please DO NOT copy and paste any text for personal use without written permission. As the original writer of the content herein, I’d like the credit for these pieces to remain mine. **

The Best (and Worst) of Times

It has been ten years since I graduated high
school.

As of May, it has been ten years since I finished high school. This July my ten-year high school reunion will take place. It’s hard to believe that a decade has passed since I was an eighteen year-old. The few years following my graduation in 2004 were some of the best and worst that I have ever experienced. This time in my life was highlighted by a number of firsts—new, fresh occurrences and events that I had never before experienced.  Some would happen only once and never again.  Others would be repeated over time.

The christening event of my newly-acquired adult life was attending my first semester of college, just minutes from the home I was still sharing with my mother and stepfather. I enrolled full-time, with a government grant to fund my education, and began classes in January 2005, after a well-desired summer and fall break from educational responsibility.

To summarize the misadventure of my first four months of higher education, it suffices to say that I didn’t apply myself at the full measure of my capabilities, making the entire semester a disaster. Consequently, my failure was the basis of my decision not to enroll for another semester, also making that the first time I dropped out of college (which I would do more than once in coming years).

After a brief summer on my own,
I had to move in with my dad.

With my college career ruined (for a time), I sought out other ways in which to become independent and grown-up. Naturally, at least for me, the best way to do this was to get out into the world (or at least the next town) and try living on my own. So, I packed a few things from what little I had of my own at my mom and stepdad’s house, and moved with a friend into a cheap student apartment just a few blocks from where I had attended college. This was another of my firsts during those years—living away from parents under my own roof that I was paying for myself.

My brief summer stay in that apartment was a time of my life that I think back on often, and with a lot of happy feelings; sometimes I wish I could go back and experience that summer all over again, even if I didn’t get to change anything that happened. All of it could happen the same way again—like the retelling of an epic story, tragedies and triumphs altogether—and I would still be content just to live it once more. I made new friends, experienced new things, and had plenty of room to stretch my independence. 

There were some difficult lessons learned that summer, and they were learned in the hardest ways; but I’m grateful for that now, because those things have stayed with me, and have made me better. It was in that apartment, pondering alone one night with a set of scriptures that I reconnected with my spiritual self, from which I had been separated for some time. One highlight of that summer was attending my first Kelly Clarkson concert that July, which substantiated a long-time obsession with the singer that I am well known for among my friends and family.

After that incomparable summer—my last summer as a teenager—I had lost another job (my second time being fired that year), and was forced to move in with my father back in my hometown; my mother and stepdad hadn’t given me the option to move back in with them when I left, which, looking back, was a blessing. My relationship with my father during those years was not the best, which encouraged me to get back out on my own once my finances were in better order. I moved back into my childhood home with my father in August 2005, and stayed for a little over a year.

I began attending church again, this time with
young single adults my own age.

Back in my hometown again, and a bit more comfortable in familiar surroundings, I began attending church again, this time with other young single adults, another first for me. I had been largely absent from the Sunday worship services of my faith—the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (Mormons)—while I was away on my summer exile. As an adult aged 18 to 29, I had the option to attend church and other activities with members of my faith who fell within the same age range, in a special, separate congregation, or ward. There I met new friends and reconnected with old friends from high school with whom I have stayed very close.

During that time, I worked in telephone customer service and as an aide in a care center for disabled children and young adults. Neither jobs were really ones I wanted to keep long-term, but they helped me pay my bills while getting free rent from my father. Both jobs, however, didn’t last long, and I was again fired from both; the growing trend with me and employment was a problem with attendance. 

This began a crescendo of an addiction, you could say, with sleep; I used sleep like a drug to forget and temporarily escape my responsibilities and problems, or anything I didn’t want to deal with at any given moment. This escape tactic and coping mechanism began with problems in high school, which you can read about in my other posts, “Walk Like a Man” and “Dear Andy.”

The next of my firsts would shape my financial stability for the next year or two. I spent my nights in the late spring of 2006 in a trade school to earn my nursing assistant certification (CNA). It was the first successful course of education I had completed since high school, and it boosted my ability to find jobs that I enjoyed, where I could help and serve others, while earning better pay. 

My sins weighed down upon my for years until
I finally confessed them.

In the summer of 2006 (though I wish I could remember the exact date), I made another first-time decision that would change my life forever. It was when I went to my Bishop, the leader of the first ward I ever joined, and confessed to him that I was attracted to men. Not only that, but I had been having sex with men since I was 17 years old and still in high school. My promiscuous activities were spiraling out of control, and I felt that getting closer to God and attempting to forsake my sins would bring about more peace in my life. To learn more about the teachings and beliefs of the LDS Church in regards to homosexuality or same-sex attraction, click HERE.

Subsequent to my confession and the beginning of a process of repentance, I also began reparative therapy, also known as conversion therapy, with a locally-renowned psychologist. The aim of the therapy was decrease my same-sex attractions, and possibly even make me straight. But I quickly became frustrated with my therapist’s attempts to help me, and ended my weekly sessions with him, never going back to anyone to attempt to change my sexual orientation again.

I dropped out of the therapy because I felt that I couldn’t be content in my homosexuality until I had tried—successfully or unsuccessfully—to have a monogamous relationship with a man. These feelings led to another first-time event as I got my first boyfriend. My relationship with him only lasted three months before I decidedly couldn’t be happy living contrary to God’s commandments anymore. I broke things off with him in the early fall of 2006, and returned to the spiritual care of my Bishop and the process of cleansing I had begun a few months before. It was the only time I ever tried to date my same sex. To read about this experience in more detail, see my post “The Greener Side.”

By late fall of that year, I would land a job working as a CNA for a home care and hospice company, travelling all over the county caring for individuals of all ages. Perhaps it is a little embarrassing to say, at my age, but this was the best job I’ve had in my life (thus far). And true to form, I would lose it, too; a combination of things led to that loss, which leads into another first.

My uncontrollable swearing tics cost me the best
job I ever had, and others, too.

It was in 2007, while I was working as a CNA, that my battle with Tourette syndrome became even more grueling. That was the year I developed coprolalia, a rare symptom of Tourettes that involves vocal tics of swearing, cursing, and the (often loud) uttering of inappropriate words and phrases, often at the most inopportune moments. My one-time boyfriend, with whom I spent a lot of time, had the habit of swearing recreationally, and I am almost certain now that joining in with him in his foul-mouthed talk eventually brought me to a point of no return.

Soon I was swearing every few seconds, especially when excited, upset, or stressed. Most unfortunately my word of choice was the dreaded “F-word,” which slipped in between sentences like an impatient, interruptive child begging for attention. The patients for whom I cared daily, most of them elderly, began to notice my foul language, though they knew I had Tourettes and had seen and heard my other tics. Slowly my patient load decreased as more and more patients or their spouses or family members began calling my boss to request a new aide in their home.

Immediately I requested a dose change in my tic-inhibiting medication, which only increased my level of lethargy, drowsiness, and drained me of energy; this did not at all help my “sleeping addiction.” My supervisors were amazingly understanding, and did everything they could to help me. But eventually we came to a crossroads, and, regrettably, they had to let me go. It was a terrible blow to my financial circumstances, and my self-esteem. I would eventually recover to some point, and even make it back to college again, but I have yet to hold another successful job as long as I held my CNA position.

After months of spiritual cleansing, I could enter
the temple to perform baptisms for the dead.

By the winter of 2006, my Bishop felt that my repentance was complete. I was once again able to partake of the sacrament of the Lord’s supper, similar to the Catholic communion; this is a crucial ordinance in Mormon worship that takes place every week in Sunday church meetings as a way to reflect upon the sacrifice of Jesus Christ and renew our devotion to Him. I also received a temple recommend, which allowed me to enter Mormon temples to perform the ordinance of baptism for the dead, as mentioned by the Apostle Paul in the New Testament.

My circumstance were finally beginning to improve; and with a small financial gift from my Bishop (from donations of my ward members), I paid the deposit on a new apartment in a new town not far from my hometown, and moved out of my father’s house to start a new life. I moved in February 2007. While I worked as a CNA, before the coprolalia began, I was enjoying the bachelor life, and a life clean and pure from sin and transgression. I began attending a family ward in my new town—a little reluctantly because of the swearing tics—and it was one of the best decisions I made while living in that apartment for the next two years.

By 2008, I was highly active in my faith, attending regular Sunday meetings as well as weekday activities with my ward members and their families. I developed more relationships, and have held on to many of them to this day. After a period of time, my new Bishop and I agreed that I was ready to advance in my Priesthood authority, and I was ordained an Elder in the Melchizedek Priesthood in August 2007. 

Then, in January 2008, I began preparing to enter the temple, God’s holy house, to receive the higher ordinances of the Mormon faith, known as the endowment. I was open about my homosexuality with my Bishop and other leaders, and they supported me in my desire to receive my temple rites; I viewed it then as the icing on my spiritual cake, so to speak—the last official step in my spiritual journey, in order to better prepare myself for the possibility of a lifetime as a single gay Mormon. I have since become more open to the opportunity of marrying a woman, which would also take place in the Temple. To read more about why a gay Mormon would consider marrying a woman, try my posts “The Road Less Traveled By” and “When a Man Loves a Woman.”

This photo of the Provo Utah Temple was taken the
day I entered that building to receive my endowment.

On March 8, 2008, I entered the Provo Utah Temple, accompanied by many friends and family members, to receive my temple ordinances. It was one of the happiest days of my life so far, and the crowning moment of all the experiences I had had during those four years since my high school graduation. Today, six years since my endowment in the temple, I remain steadfast in the gospel of Jesus Christ and active in my faith, in spite of my continued attraction to men, which passion I must carefully bridle.

Truthfully, not all my firsts have been accounted for in this post. I have left out one of my most beloved and significant influences of the past nine years to create a more poignant effect for this inclusion in my blog. It is not an event or a happening, but a person—someone who was by my side during nearly all of the events I have just listed. In a previous post, “The Greener Side,” I wrote a little about my relationship with this person:  a special girl named Danielle.

I actually went to high school with Danielle; she was a year older than me, but I really only knew of her rather than actually interacting with her on any occasion. However, we finally made a friendly connection during that first semester of college in 2005. She also happened to be good friends with the cousin of my best friend, so I had a chance to talk to her a few times. Though I’m not entirely sure how it started, we began meeting up on campus in between or after classes. We wrote notes to each other, and traded them in between our meetings. Soon I invited her to my parents’ house, where I was living then, to hang out. We would eat snacks and watch our favorite childhood cartoon reruns, something we shared in common (adults though we were).

I couldn’t possibly contain all of my memories with Danielle in this post without it becoming a novel; but from that semester on, she and I grew only closer. Several of her friends became my friends, and mine hers, so we were spending even more time together socializing. When I moved out for the first time, she was a constant guest in my apartment. It was my blossoming relationship with her that made that summer unforgettable. We stayed up late, often with other friends, watching movies, hot-tubbing and swimming, and playing games. After she would leave my place in the early hours of the morning, she would call me when she got home, and while lying in our beds in different towns, we would talk on the phone until the sun came up. Then the next day we would do it again.

I wanted Danielle to be my girlfriend; it seemed
only natural with all the time we spent together.

I remember the night that I thought that I wanted to date Danielle steadily. It just clicked that I liked her, a lot actually, and that the most natural step to take next was to ask her to be my girlfriend. There was protest from one mutual friend when we made our plans to date known, and it caused us some grief; but we moved past the issues involved, and started dating. She was by my side during that first Kelly Clarkson concert, and we sang every song together.

She was there for me when I lost several of those jobs. She attended that single’s ward with me, though we were paired off together, and I was proud to display my love and affection for her. I kept a secret inside me, however, because of my attractions to men. I still desired her, but I also wanted to experience the other world of homosexuality; I was intimate with men many times while she and I were together. I found out later that she suspected I was gay, but she never mentioned it to me directly. She allowed me to wait until I was ready to tell her.

She was the one who told me about the nursing assistant school, which was owned and operated by a family friend of hers; she even came to some of the classes with me. She helped me study and fill out and practice my flash cards. Indeed, she was involved with so much of my life. She was my best friend. After months of knowing her, taking trips together, and becoming intimately connected in so many ways, I knew that I loved her—I had fallen in love with Danielle. I felt like she could be the woman I could marry. But I was still conflicted in my sexuality and wasn’t ready to give up my sexual encounters with men, which I felt were necessary to fill a longstanding void in me and alleviate my psychological turmoil.

Even on the night I went to my neighborhood church building to confess to my Bishop that I was gay and sexually active, she was there to support me; though she knew nothing except that I wanted to make some changes in my life that would require confession. She gave me a note of encouragement to take with me on my walk to the church, which I read just before I entered the building; it brought stinging tears to my eyes. 

On a drive alone up the canyon one night, my admission to
Danielle that I was gay finally came, and not to her surprise.

A few months after the meeting with my Bishop, I told Danielle, too, that I was gay, and confessed every act of indiscretion I had committed while dating her. That was September 2006, and we drove up the canyon together just to be alone for the occasion. It was more of a funny thing for us, as close as we were at that point. We laughed about the odd and crazy experiences I had had, and about how she had really known all along, and was just waiting for me to be ready to tell her.

Just as I can’t really tell where my romantic relationship with Danielle began, I can’t really tell where it started to end, either; but end it did. As we attended the single’s ward together, she was introduced to other men, and I was at that time deciding that I, too, wanted to date a man monogamously. We were the best of friends still, and occasionally kissed each other, but there was no real definition to our relationship any longer. Things between us had evolved, and they would never be the same. 

She confessed that she liked some of the guys in the ward, and I expressed how much I wanted to start dating men myself. She was shy, and I did my best to encourage her to flirt and show interest in other men. I still was in love with her, and I didn’t expect my encouragement to lead her into the arms of another man. But I also couldn’t expect her to wait for me to figure out whether or not I was happy dating men and possibly return to her if I wasn’t. 

Some bridges were burned between Danielle and I; but we
never completely lost our powerful connection to each other.

As my relationship with my boyfriend began and ended within three months (and I even introduced him to Danielle once), I desired to return to the church and back to Danielle. But her closeness with one particular man had grown stronger during that time, and they had declared themselves a couple.  My feelings told me that that man was not good for her, but I wasn't sure if it was just because I selfishly wanted to keep her as my own.   I remember standing before both of them on one occasion, outside a church during a single’s dance, crying almost uncontrollably and begging Danielle to leave the other man and be with me. The man knew that she loved me, and said so, trying to console me; Danielle confirmed her love for me, but told me gently that dating her new lover was the path she wanted to take then. I left their presence devastated.

Eventually Danielle would marry that man; then in a few years, they would also divorce. I continued down the path that I had chosen, progressing in the gospel, and making lasting changes in my life after experiencing so much difficulty. Danielle wasn’t living far away, and we were still best friends. But our time together became shorter and less frequent. The enjoyment and pleasure of her company seemed to be only a glimmer of the bright shining romance that we shared that summer of 2005. And though our relationship would never really be the same again, sometimes talking to her or seeing her makes me feel like nothing has changed. 

Danielle is still the one person, besides probably my mother, who knows me best—all my likes, dislikes, favorites, faults, skills, abilities, traits, feelings, emotions, experiences, tastes, talents, and all the rest. She’s still the person who can laugh with me about things that were funny to us five, seven, or nine years ago. She’s still the one woman whom I can look in the eye and honestly feel that, had circumstances been a bit different, I could have made her my wife. And though we don’t get together often, she is still my best friend, and the only woman I have ever truly been in love with.

The poem I wrote for Danielle, about our changing love,
still reminds me of what we could have had together.

Not a tenth of my legacy of friendship and courtship with Danielle can be told here; but I hold it all my heart. And all of what we went through together has built me into the man I am now, in many ways. I’m not sure if it is a good or a bad thing, but Danielle is the pattern to which I compare all other women nowadays, if and when I date them. All I know is that I would want any woman who would become my wife to be just like Danielle: My best friend in the whole world, the one I can laugh with, cry with, and the one I desire to be with forever.

Once, Danielle asked me if I would write a poem for her. I don’t normally accept such requests, because inspiration for writing isn’t something I can force. But when things started getting rocky between us, and emotions were high, some inspiration did come to me, and I wrote a poem for Danielle. It was a May evening, and there was a soft rain pour outside, which started the pattern that repeats in the verses. 

It was not the romantic sonnet that perhaps she and I had hoped it would be, but it was meaningful and accurate of our relationship. It remains one of my favorite free-form poems that I’ve ever written, and a beautiful portrayal of two lovers drifting apart, but not forgetting each other as they embark on their individual journeys.

❧

– Not the Only Thing –

~

Raindrops are not the only things falling today—
I look into your eyes and can see the tears you are holding back.

The color of my eyes seems to reflect my somber emotions.

Love is not the only thing I feel for you—
The frustration and pain I possess condenses in my eyes; it’s so unusual to me.

Time becomes almost still as a single tear falls;
My imagination magnifies the sound as it meets the pavement; it pierces my thoughts.

I am not the only one who is alone here—
My offering to you lies coldly on the ground, unnoticed.

You turn away, but don’t seem to want to go;

If I reach out, will you take my hand?

I fear we are so far away that no one can save us.

Our moments together are not the only things being wasted—

Your hope for a better day waits upon my ultimate decision;

My serenity lies only in you.

We are heading for unknown destinations, both not knowing what may become of us;

But I hope you can see me there on the horizon.

The sun descends upon who we once were, 
setting the firmament aglow with orange and red;

But the sky is not the only thing burning tonight—

Already abandoned bridges are aflame in the darkness,

The light of them guiding us on journeys down diverging paths.

I know I must leave, but I do not know where I’m going;

My stubbornness enshrouds all my doubts and gives me false hope.

But I am not the only one who is uncertain of my future—

You continue to run from everything that you know is right, 
determined to reach happiness.

Can’t you see that we are both lost, slaves to our own indecisiveness?

But I know, even now, that our hearts will lead us to each other again.

I hope to find myself out there, though I’m not sure if it will really happen.

But if I do find something more that this life can offer,
How much will it really matter if you’re not here to share it with?

A beloved friend is not the only thing I would lose if you left now—

But if you go, you will take my whole heart with you.

~

- Wade A. Walker -

May 21, 2006

Danielle and Wade — Summer 2005

~

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