When You Stop to Eat.

Yesterday was Real Town’s Pride. It is, functionally, a picnic. Community organizations, nonprofits, vendors, and churches come to a local park, set up under the trees, and connect with folks—queer and allies, family and friends. We had a face painter and t-shirt tie-dying and lawn games. We gave away free hot dogs, burgers, and chips. Even the fire department came with an off-duty firetruck for the little kids to explore and get plastic fire helmets.

It was about as wholesome a day in the park as you could hope for.

Those who arrived early enough to grab spots under the generous shade of the park’s trees were grateful for it, because the weather turned out hotter than expected, all of us growing a touch sweaty by one o’clock. But there was plenty of water and Gatorade in iced coolers.

I was one of the organizers. I kept count of the number of people who showed up to the event throughout the day. It was well over 150 people (and three dogs).

And two protestors.

My neighbor alerted me to their presence when he arrived.

“They’re under one of the park signs in the parking lot.”

Another person described someone with a large sign with lots of small writing on it, “stuff about Jesus. But he’s not harassing anybody. Just being quiet. Can’t hope for much better.”

I was just happy that there was not significant resistance. I had been interviewed in the local paper informing the community of the event with a photo of myself from last year’s event. I knew it was important to raise the profile of the event so that folks would know about it. But part of me desperately wanted people to not know about it. I wanted the event to be able to remain safe and peaceful above all else.

I wasn't sure if that would happen if it was a well-advertised event.

One of my LGBTQ+ support organization’s members—a wise woman in her sixties with a contagious smile and the occasional weepiness granted by hormone replacement therapy—is a protestor herself and is not afraid to approach those who picket Pride events. She makes it a kind of loving-kindness practice.

She told me she had gone out onto the edge of the parking lot to meet them and see what they were about.

“They just wanted people to know about Jesus,” she said. “I thanked them for it. They weren’t hateful at all.”

She’s a regular churchgoer in her home community, so was comfortable with Jesus language.

“I asked them,” she continued. “If they had had any water. It’s a hot day.”

I smiled when she said she had taken them some water.

“Do you know if they’ve eaten?” I asked.

She and I went to the parking lot to invite them to share our food, if they were hungry. If they were willing. It was hot, and they had been out there, at that point, for several hours.

One was dressed neatly, carrying a personal study Bible in a nameless dust jacket. The other could have just gotten off of work from any farm or rougher blue-collar job, wearing work boots and layers of farmer’s tan, graced by new redness.

“Have you eaten?” we asked. “We have lots of food. Burgers. Hot dogs. Chips.”

They exchanged a wordless look. The mention of food obviously lit them both up, but there was a hesitation. A pause.

The first man mentioned that he had to leave soon but admitted as he’d missed lunch amid all the day’s events. The other rubbed the back of his neck, in the traditionally awkward redneck gesture which means something like, “I’m trying to find the polite way to say something.” He settled on, “I could eat.”

I think that moment held a question. It was nothing so silly as “will eating with them make me gay?” It was more along the lines of, “who do we become to each other if we eat together?”

The first man told us that some people had revved their trucks at them in the parking lot to blow smoke on them. The second man said, “we hope we didn’t make anybody feel hated or afraid… we just know that there isn’t usually a big church presence at these things. We wanted people to know that God loves them. To hear that.”

I nodded.

I could have told them about the hatred that many of my queer and trans friends have had spewed at them from pulpits from an early age. I could have told them about the way that hatred wraps itself up in God’s name in Jefferson City, so smooth and easy, making concern sound so reasonable and righteous you could almost nod along with it. The pleas to “love the sinner and hate the sin” that break apart hearts and minds and families. I could have told them about the pain of religious abuse and how deep that poison can go.

Instead, I said, “We really have a lot to eat, and we’d love to share.”

And they walked with me. They graciously put down the sign—the kind of posterboard trifold used for science fairs—which was covered in sideways red marker with so many slogans that it was overwhelming. I didn’t read them.

We stood in line together. The first man—with the Bible and the clean shirt—looked at me fondly for a minute before he said, “you remind me of my sister.”

And he told me personal details about a person who might as well be me, except driven further away from her family now. I made my guesses about her; some of them turned out to be correct.

They ate and drank quickly, and we all walked back out into the parking lot together.

The first man asked, “can I pray for something for you?”

My queer friend and I had already told them that we were people of faith, so it wasn’t an awkward or unexpected one.

But it was still a tender question.

If they were afraid when I asked if they would share our food, I admit, I was afraid when they asked if I would share their prayers.

“Yes, please,” I said, and I told him the name of someone I was praying for and why. The two young men and I bowed our heads beside their car in the park, and the man with the Bible spoke freely and confidently.

“Lord, we ask Your blessing on all who are gathered today. Keep them safe, Lord. Bring them joy in their togetherness and give them all awareness of Your love. We ask that you bless and keep Cassie. Give her Your wisdom, Lord. And let her feel Your love. Help Cassie to walk each day more in Your ways. And give her that peace, Your peace, that surpasses all understanding.”

There was certainly more, but that was the bulk of it. None of it was hurtful or ungracious. None of it asked for anyone to change or become straight. And it began with a prayer for the Pride event and our safety.

My amen was heartfelt and humbled.

We said a few more words, and then I let them get on with their day.

Next I heard, there was no one with a scary-looking sign in the parking lot at all.

Rainbow flags flutter beneath the edges of colorful popups in the breeze under a searingly blue sky and trees too green for September.