My body has a capillary condition which results in my having constantly cold hands. In the winter, I have a particularly difficult time keeping them warm—especially if I’m outside for any period of time. In talking with my doctor about the condition, he suggested wearing mittens instead of gloves so that the collective warmth of my fingers would help them fight off the cold. But I challenge you to find an attractive pair of mittens for a man. Or, perhaps I mean to say, I feel unman-like while wearing mittens.
Whatever the case, I don’t wear them. So here’s what happens when I’m outside during winter: my hands get numb. It starts in my pinky fingers and then slowly moves across them from the outside in. If you’ve ever had numb hands, you know it’s a strange sensation. There is a certain level of pain to it, but you get used to it because you stop feeling your fingers after a time.
The real pain begins when you come indoors. As your fingers start to warm up, it’s like a thousand little needles being jammed in every nerve ending. The more numb your fingers, the more excruciating the pain when they begin to thaw.
In my last post, I described my experience of trying to let feelings enter my life again. I hinted at the challenge of this process, but didn’t dwell on the pain involved in it. I’d like to try to describe that further here.
Justin Barringer is a guest writer whose voice we’re honored to share. You can read more about Justin in his bio at the end of the piece.
Today as I was frantically trying to finish up some writing for a major project I had the TV on the in the background and Facebook open in another window. I was switching among the coverage of the American presidential inauguration, the commentary of my social media friends, and the document I needed to complete. I felt like I needed to say something because I have seen so many well-meaning Christian friends (and perhaps a few with less beneficent intentions) offer up words of apparent comfort but that have come across as mere aphorisms at best and as disdainful toward marginalized and frightened people at worst. Here is what I wrote.
I have a regular walking route around the city where I live. I particularly like taking a stroll in autumn when the trees are at their peak.
A few years ago, the trees lining the street were especially beautiful—that stunning gold, yellow that steals the breath. During one walk, however, I turned a corner to witness a scene even more arresting than the trees around me: a young man stepped up on the curb to embrace a young woman in the most tender of ways. He reached out slowly, gently and she leaned into him in trust. It was a snapshot of love and beauty that has remained with me. I remember thinking at the time that I shouldn’t have seen it. That the moment wasn’t meant for me. Yet, that is where my eyes fell—at the precise instance of their embrace.
And then a strange thing happened: I felt feelings. As a gay kid growing up on the church, I have worked hard to not feel anything—to keep everything at the level of my intellect. This, of course, was a coping mechanism to deal with too many feelings most of which seemed to run counter to my growing faith. I just couldn’t figure out how to sync my desire for other guys with what I was learning about Jesus.