There are moments in life when you don’t realize how much you needed something until you are suddenly standing in it again.
Recently, in a season that has felt like a series of in-between spaces, my husband and I found ourselves surrounded by familiar faces—LGBTQ+ friends who, at one time, held pieces of our stories in a key season of life.
These were people we had done life with. People we stood beside as they got married and adopted children, and who later stood beside us—with those same children—at our own wedding.
People who had known us in a particular chapter. People who had shared in the work of becoming—of navigating identity, calling, belonging, and faith in spaces that did not always make room for all of who we were.
And as we stood together again, something stirred.
Not just because of where we were…
but because of who we were with.
Because these were the people.
The ones who had been there in a season when a particular community had brought us together—when we were all finding our way, discovering what it meant to belong, and learning how to hold faith and identity in the same breath.
And as we stepped into that space together again, there was that quiet, almost disorienting feeling of recognition—as if something in us remembered before we had fully caught up to it.
We were there to be present for a dear friend and colleague in ministry as he brought his time in that community to a close. But we were also there because these relationships mattered to us—because they had shaped us in ways that still linger, even after time and distance.
And as the morning unfolded, something unexpected happened.
We were welcomed.
Not in the formal, “please sign the guest book” kind of way. But in the deeper way—through eye contact that lingers just a second longer, through a smile that says I remember you, through the quiet recognition that reaches past time and distance and gently says, you still belong here.
And something in me softened.
Because in that moment, I was reminded that community is not always something we maintain the way we intend to. There are seasons when we mean to reach out, to stay connected, to show up… and life simply gets full.
Not because anything has been lost, but because life has a way of gently shifting our rhythms without us noticing.
And yet, there is something almost overwhelming about realizing how much we need those connections when we find ourselves back in their presence again.
Part of what made that morning so meaningful was not only being present—but being ministered to.
Our friend stood to preach one final time in that space—and it mattered that it was him. That it was them. That this was a story we had, in some way, lived alongside.
As he spoke, you could feel it—the weight of the years, the shared experiences, the sacred intersections of identity, calling, and belonging. This wasn’t just a sermon. It was a testimony of what it means to be seen and to be welcomed as your full self.
He spoke about the call he and his husband felt—the quiet but persistent nudge of the Spirit that led them there. He spoke about what it meant not only to be called, but to be welcomed… not in spite of who they were, but fully, openly, and without condition.
He named the intersections of life that were formed in that season—the friendships, the shared work, the moments that didn’t seem significant at the time but somehow became sacred. And in that naming, he lifted up those who had helped shape that journey—including Pastor Ali, who in her own quiet and faithful way had gently encouraged many of us as we stepped into our own becoming in ministry.
And he spoke honestly about a church that chose courage… a church that didn’t have all the answers, but was willing to grow, to stretch, and to become a more open and affirming home.
And more than that, it was a story of a community that chose to be the Good Samaritan.
A community that did not pass by.
A community that did not look away.
A community that stopped… even when it was uncomfortable…
drew near… even when it required something of them…
and made room.
It was not a perfect story.
But it was a brave one.
And as I sat there, surrounded by people who had once held such meaningful parts of my story, I realized I was not just witnessing his goodbye.
I was remembering what it feels like to be held in connection.
And as a gay pastor preparing to begin my first call to serve a church in the United Church of Christ, this moment held even more weight.
To sit in a space where a friend—alongside his husband—could speak openly about call, about belonging, about being fully welcomed into the life of a church… it was more than meaningful. It was encouraging in a way that reached deeper than words.
Because this is not just part of my story.
It is the story I am stepping into.
And to witness it lived out—to see a church choose welcome, to see a community choose presence, to see faith and identity not in conflict but held together with care—was a reminder that this kind of community is possible and does exist in many areas.
And that it matters.
As we step into Pride Month, I find myself holding that experience a little closer.
Because for many of us within LGBTQ+ communities, connection is not just a nice idea. It is something we search for. Fight for. Sometimes even grieve when it is absent.
To be known.
To be welcomed.
To be remembered.
These are not small things.
They are life-giving things.
And when they happen—even unexpectedly—they don’t just feel nice…
they restore something in us we didn’t realize had grown quiet.
In the work of abundant aging, we often talk about connection as essential to well-being. That as we age, meaningful relationships are what sustain us, shape us, and remind us who we are.
But perhaps it is important to remember that regardless of how many years we have lived, we are all aging. We are all moving through seasons of life—through beginnings and endings, through becoming and releasing, through moments of deep connection and moments of distance.
And maybe part of that sacred work is this: not only seeking connection, but becoming it.
Becoming the kind of people who notice.
Becoming the kind of people who draw near.
Becoming the kind of people who refuse to pass by.
Because connection is not only about who is present with us today.
It is also about the people who have held pieces of our story over time.
The friendships that shaped us.
The people who, even after time and distance, still recognize something true about who we are.
And perhaps abundance is found not in how many connections we maintain perfectly—but in the quiet, persistent grace of knowing that some connections endure.
That sometimes, we can return.
And sometimes, we are invited to be the reason someone else can.
And in that holy work, we just might find ourselves becoming the community we need.
For Reflection:
As you sit with this story, I invite you to pause—not just to think, but to feel.
When was the last time you found yourself in the presence of people who truly knew you—and what did that awaken within you?
How has your understanding of community changed as life has carried you through different seasons?
Are there relationships that once gave you life that you feel a quiet pull toward even now?
And who are the people who have held your story—who saw you, welcomed you, and made room for you to belong?
As you reflect, I gently invite you to consider this:
Where might you be called not only to seek community—but to become it?
Who around you might be waiting to be noticed?
To be met with presence instead of distance?
To experience a space where they can finally belong?
Because abundance is not found in what we hold onto—but in the connections we are willing to tend, the courage we are willing to embody, and the welcome we are willing to extend.
And in doing so, we may just become part of something that gives life—again and again.