I Prayed to Be Straight. God Sent Glitter!

Arriving at McKendree College in 1973, I was less “eager young scholar” and more “background extra from an after-school special.” Picture a disengaged learner so unfocused, my attention span was less ‘laser focus’ and more ‘confetti in a wind tunnel. My guiding star? I thought I was chosen—to save the United Methodist Church one quirky sermon at a time. Turns out, God wasn’t hiring.

With my parents, small-town congregation, and minister all lining up to canonize me as their next great hope, I marched onto campus with the bracing naiveté of someone who’d never met a cafeteria taco. The professors—particularly one named Mrs. Best—saints that they were, mistook my nervous fidgeting and blank stares for untapped brilliance. They encouraged me with the zeal of a Midwestern grandma pushing extra pie. Academic fireworks ensued—mostly in the form of essays so laced with sarcasm they could double as stand-up routines.

And then—because life adores a twist—I slipped on the existential banana peel that was my sexuality. Realizing I was gay wasn’t just a plot twist; it was a full-on musical number in the Broadway show playing inside my head. Suddenly, all those Sunday school lessons about sin echoed like pop songs you can’t get out of your head: Thou shalt not lip-sync to Village People.

Shame and guilt crashed my mental party and refused to leave, even after the snacks ran out. The idea of entering the ministry began to feel like auditioning for a role I wasn’t born to play. So, I pivoted—spectacularly—to elementary education. If you can’t change souls, try herding sixth graders. It’s kind of the same thing, except with more pizza crusts under desks and a lot more eye-rolling. If you want spiritual growth, try teaching fractions to a roomful of kids just entering adolescence—half distracted, a quarter rebellious, and a remainder absolutely convinced math is a conspiracy.

The guilt, however, stuck around longer than glitter after a drag brunch—sparkly, persistent, and impossible to vacuum up.

Years later, armed with a therapist and a stack of self-help books tall enough to double as a bedside table, I started sorting fact from fiction in my own head. Turns out, God isn’t a cosmic hall monitor. In fact, I suspect the Divine is a fan of both puns and authenticity. Through the gentle wisdom of someone channeling my hero Carl Rogers on a good hair day, I learned to embrace my inner chaos agent—glitter, banana peels, and all.

McKendree College, for all its quirks and cafeteria mysteries, became the launchpad for my real education: learning to accept myself, quirks and all. My professors’ relentless optimism fueled me, even when my papers read more like comedy sets than scholarship. Their faith in me lit a fire that’s still smoldering—occasionally setting off the existential smoke alarm.

That’s the spirit of Empathy on the Rocks: not the kind that pats your hand and tells you everything’s fine, but the kind that hands you a mic, a mirror, and maybe a corndog, and says, “Tell your story. Make it messy. Make it true.”