Gay Marraige is Legal - Don't Panic!!!

Look, panicking can be fun. It can give us purpose, energy and lots to talk about. For about 34 years, I was a bit addicted to panic and I’d lose sleep over every expert claiming “the end is nigh!” I was so panicked, in fact, that in 2011, I bought two five-pound bags of flour because a conservative newscaster had me—a new and paranoid mother of one—convinced that the world was going to hell and I needed to stock up. (It took me batch after batch of cookies to finally finish that damn flour purchase and, you know, the world is still here and it’s even still pretty.)

So as much as I’d like to give a lot of credence to the panicking going on over the Supreme Court ruling this morning, there are several ways we can look at this—no matter where you stand on the issue—and find common ground and even a common goal for change.

First, of course, are the Christians saying that this is a sign Christ is coming back soon. Which is awesome. But kind of unlikely since that’s been said to be right around the corner by the original apostles. However, I’d just like it noted that if He is about to come back and solve all of these uncomfortable problems, I think most of the “burning” that will be happening will be of child abusers, rapists, murderers and mutilators (and if you like bad guys getting the rough treatment, you should read my new thriller, Stranglehold, which is only three bucks on Amazon, so....), but I kind of doubt He'll be mowing down consenting adults who are actually generous, conscientious, devoted people and happen to eschew marriage or live in a same sex one. I just, somehow, don’t think Christ would say, “Yeah, you help the poor, nurture many of my children, and bring joy to so many, but you’re a dude who likes dudes, so hell it is for you!”

But, still, if you’re a Christian, this is good news!

But if He doesn’t show, we have some things to discuss.

For instance, some may cry out that making it legal is somehow encouraging it. But, in all honestly, I can only say that the current state of society is exactly what religious conservatives have asked for.

Of course I’ll explain.

[But not before I first inform you that I am not a legal analyst, I did not read the decision word for word, and I don’t appreciate Supreme Court judges ruling on something that has nothing to do with the nation’s Constitution, as I am a proponent of state’s rights and would rather we the people rally for our own Constitutional amendment on this issue instead (as well as for a rescinding of Amendment 17 and for the creation of an amendment for term limits)—but we’re just too busy to educate ourselves enough to manage our own freedom, because, like, our Netflix queue is getting backed up, ya’ll, so thus it is.]

But back to the initial subject of my exquisite insights…

For the last few decades (probably more, but I was a toddler or unborn, so I can’t be sure), people have been harping on the shifting of American values and how this is a Christian nation (though that is not set forth in the Constitution, but you knew that). So Christians have demanded that the government rule them according to a certain belief system—enacting laws, forbidding things, granting things, going to war, etc. And so if a certain demographic wants the government to represent beliefs (which are largely emotional) and make laws according to the loudest cries of anguish (also emotional), then that government will shift according to the emotional arguments that best shift beliefs.

In essence, this is what you’ve wanted, this is how things have always been done—emotionally. But now the tables have turned.

I’m not antagonizing you. I’m not trying to insult you. I’m trying to convert you.

But bear with me.  I have another point to make.

As someone who was raised an LDS Christian, I cannot number the lessons we were taught about free agency, about how we wanted so badly to choose that we begged to come to earth and be tested, and that it was Satan’s plan to rob us of all choice.

Well, another option for marriage has been legalized. More choice. Could that really be a bad thing? I mean, wouldn’t it say more about a person’s faith to have all options and choose the path your faith defines?

Now, of course, so many will come at me with all kinds of options that should not be offered such as abortion, drugs, or other things that threaten life and property—but this does nothing of the sort. Same sex marriage, while new and largely untested, does not—as a concept or even in practice thus far—threaten life or property. Bend it this way or that, give me the worst case scenario, and, sure, you can imagine something horrible coming of this, but that’s panicking, and that’s not reasonable.

To be honest, religions have had a bit of struggle defining marriage throughout the centuries. And usually women were on the losing end of these experiments. Just read the Old Testament. Give that sucker a gander and you’ll see that men could pretty much own women at their whim. Even as recently as the 1800’s in America, Christian religions were popping up and either opening marriages to communal orgies or were simply allowing powerful men to hoard wives and send younger men out of the communities to hunt for mates.

So I guess if you want to be ruled by Christian values, you’re going to have to be pretty specific on the sect (and have all Christians agree on this sect—hahahah, best of luck because pretty much all differing sects think all of the other sects are dummies), and, if that sect is chosen, that sect had better have a pretty spotless history when it comes to marital doctrine and practice.

It isn’t possible. And while it’s scary to be ruled by different values or no values whatsoever, that is kind of what the founding fathers had in mind in creating a “charter of negative liberties,” so that the federal government would have little say in the day to day dealings of American citizens. So we don’t have to be scared. We can simply get back to basics and get back to minding our own business.

That said, I have to say that I’m not perfect in this regard. MYOB was not my strong suit in 2008. At the behest of my church—against my own judgment and experience—I supported Prop 8. I hated every minute of it, but I did it. And I paid heavily for it. And it will forever be a reminder to me to trust myself and never allow any institution to tell me to override bigger principles for petty ones.

And what are my principles? Do I have any values whatsoever? And what am I trying to convert you to?

That’s easy. Libertarianism.

No, not the college campus libertarianism where they argue for the legalization of drugs ad nauseam. (I’m a libertarian against the legalization of drugs, but that’s for a different post.) I’m talking about the grown up kind, where we have to come to a place of trusting good people, owning guns because bad people exist, and diminishing the idea that government is also religion and decides what is good and bad for us and society. If we had never allowed government to do this in the first place, I’m not sure we’d be here. In fact, I’m sure we wouldn’t be. Because the government would be so small and so limited to constructing roads, maintaining a military defense, and facilitating trade that we’d be like, “That’s nice, but just fix the potholes, please. We got this.” And same sex marriage would be defined by whatever sect would practice it and other sects would have a lot to say but little power to do much about it.

Politicians, activists, cable news anchors—they’re using you and messing with you. And they're making boat loads of money doing it.  

So join with me, please, in not giving a crap. In telling your children, “Be good, be honest, be giving, do good, work hard, and mind your own business.” And then start voting for small government candidates. And then start donating to charities so we take care of each other more and need government less. Because I believe in us. I believe we’ll take care of each other and be good to each other and find that, in this life, we’re all we’ve got and breaking each other builds nothing of worth.

Stranglehold, OUR and Tim Ballard

I get a certain question a lot. And, almost always, there’s an expression of concern or even caution on the asker’s face.

“Why do you write what you write? Where does it come from?”

Sometimes, depending on their eyes, the question I hear is, “Did you not get enough hugs as a kid? Is something wrong with you?”

I get it. What I write is unexpected. It’s dark. It’s difficult to get through at times.

And there’s a misconception out there that writers write from personal experience, especially if it’s written well. (I think I just paid myself a compliment, and I’m keeping it.) To a degree (small or large depending, obviously, since I’ve never been a vigilante assassin nor have I ever been a mother who lost a child), this may be true—for me. And if I ever write a memoir (psssssssh, doubt it), you can have fun connecting the dots.

But for now, the reason I write about darkness is to upchuck what I consume in learning about the sick capabilities of the barely-human in our species. Since I was a kid, I’ve had this problem of taking everything in and making it mine, putting myself in people’s shoes, truly trying to understand and imagining every detail. This wouldn’t be a problem if I liked living in a bubble and continually insulated myself from all things negative.

That’s not how I’m made.

And so, in 2007, with the new-ish popularity of Facebook, with the long, late hours of my husband, and with my need to be politically and worldly aware, I was given a couple of glimpses into the realm of human trafficking.

I was astonished and sickened and I immediately ferreted out articles, documentaries, exposés, anything.

At that point, there wasn’t much that could be done. But it was everywhere. Massage parlors, sweat shops, brothels, basements. And there were children, as young as toddlers, being stolen and sold. Mostly from third world countries where dirtbags were trapping and selling their own people into slavery (much as slavery has always been done).

As I wrote Stranglehold, I felt strongly that I needed to weave the sex trade into the storyline. People had to know. Yes, it was dark, yes, it was unfathomable, yes, it bordered on the ridiculous, because how could anyone be so evil and was I just stretching the truth as an author? No. I actually toned it down quite a bit, making it bearable for me to process into words and making it somewhat easier for readers to grasp.

But then there was a problem. How could I open people’s eyes to such a disturbing, disgusting, horrific reality and then end the fictional series and say, “Thanks for buying it! Take care!”

I couldn’t.

And so I searched for any organization that was doing something, anything, to stop this, to save those living under threat of such agony that they would endure the humiliation and torment of being raped multiple times a day. None such organization existed. Most of these victims came from countries with corrupt or inept governments. While I knew that the US ran sting operations through the vice sectors of their police departments (I’ve even been privy to the details of these operations through my friends in law enforcement and it’s truly nauseating), what was being done in elsewhere? Not much.

As I continued to write the series and delve deeper into the characters that perpetuated these crimes, and then portray the victims—some rescued and others lost—I felt the pit of dread within me deepen. How could I, in good conscience, detail the darkest of human capabilities with no solution to give my readers (and myself) some comfort?

I couldn’t.

I had drafted my entire 4-part series. As I put my efforts into getting it published, I could only hope that, sooner or later, I would find an organization that would kick ass and take names. Frankly, I wanted something heroic to happen. Something akin to what my characters in Stranglehold would do. Manipulate, lie, lure, laugh, and then break some necks. (Figuratively, I guess. *sigh*)

And then, one day early last year, something popped up in my newsfeed on Facebook.

A man named Tim Ballard was combatting human trafficking with a team of ass kickers and name takers.

Operation Underground Railroad was my answer.

After listening to the interview, relief washed through me, peace enfolded my darkened, heavy heart and I put my head on my desk and cried.

Finally.

These were men and women stepping away from safety and into the slippery and spiked darkness to pull the innocent to safety.

Having a close family member in law enforcement, I’ve learned a lot about what people will do to defend their seedy livelihoods. And I’m not talking about the heads of cartels. I’m talking about local drug dealers and identity thieves. When they’re found out, when they see cops coming, when they realize they’re about to lose it all, a flip is switched in some of them and finding a way to get a thirty-second head start becomes their only goal—whether that means hitting a cop or worse.

Now, imagine being in another country without a Constitution, without trial lawyers, without a vigilant (I use that term loosely) media, and without prisoners’ rights. Imagine the fight people on an OUR team face in case they’re found out. Imagine being in a situation where you’re playing at being one of the bad guys, so you can’t be decked out in tactical gear that will shield your most vital areas from bullets and punches. And imagine being in those situations thousands of miles from home where the medical treatment might be less than stellar.

I’d been writing about some majorly badass characters for years, and I’d been praying for badasses like them to save the women and children from the most scarring of invasions.

When I learned that OUR existed, I knew I had to help.

For a few years, I’ve toyed with how to tithe my earnings. I’ve donated to several charities, kind of spreading it out over a few causes that were dear to me. But, last year, after feeling like I had been kicked in the chest by the warmest fuzzies ever, I knew that my tithes needed to go to OUR. And I started sharing their information whenever and wherever I could.

I could tell my readers that, yes, they were going to read about some grimy things, but by simply purchasing my novel, they had already contributed toward the solution. Because a portion of my income from this series (yes, all 4 parts) is going to OUR to save more and more children and prevent so many more from ever seeing this living hell.

About six months after OUR was established, Carly, a friend of mine, mentioned that she’d seen my interest in OUR and that she wondered if I wanted to help put on an after party for an OUR 5K Rescue Run she was helping with. I was blown away for a second, but said, “Yeah. I mean, yeah! Of course.”

She said, “A mission costs twenty five thousand dollars,” she said. “That’s one mission. We want to raise that much.”

I thought about it for a second, realizing that if I shifted some things around, I could help.

“I can get you (this amount),” I told her. “We can pay that. We usually pay that at the end of the year, but we’ll make it work early if we have to.”

She stared at me for a moment.  “Kate, I can get you a booth for that. You could be a sponsor. You’d be on the t-shirts and everything.”

That made me stupid for a second. That sounded so grown up and, you know, official.

Fast forward another six months to the day of the event.

I was up before dawn. My supplies for my booth were all organized and ready. And I was dressed strategically—it would be a hot day and I wanted to be as much help to Carly, Rebeca, Renae, Jill and their crew as possible. So instead of heels, it was flats, and instead of long, glamorous curls, it was a high pony.

And the first thing I said to Carly that morning? “I hope I get to meet Tim Ballard.” The founder of OUR, he was speaking at the event and I just wanted to shake his hand.

I’ve met actors, musicians, famous people. They’re nice. If they’re at a distance, I don’t bother them. I point them out by saying, “Hey, there’s (that guy),” and then I go on with my day. I don’t rush in for a selfie or an autograph, mostly because I would HATE it if people were constantly interrupting my life.

But when it came to Mr. Ballard, it was different. This man is a hero. And so is his wife, dang it! (Maybe especially his wife, because some people are just made to do dangerous work and their minds don’t worry like the minds of their spouses who get it but don’t get it and who support it but also secretly—though maybe only slightly—hate it.) And I wanted to thank him. I had to thank him.

I was at my booth as much as possible, signing copies of my book, hugging friends, holding babies, taking pictures. It was fun. But when I heard Mr. Ballard’s voice through the speakers, I abruptly left a conversation to join the crowd, telling my hubs to take over and forge my signature if need be—I wasn’t going to miss this.

When Mr. Ballard descended the stage and was immediately engulfed in the crowd, I went back to my booth, thinking I’d see him pass by or something and be able to stop him for a moment.

 

 

Me and My Husband at the OUR Rescue Run, May 30

(Photo credit: Heather Foley DelHoyo)

But the day wore on, the heat of the day pushing down on every inch, and the event slowed to a stop. When my husband started breaking down my booth, I immediately sought out Mr. Ballard, finding his sister instead.

“He just drove off,” she said.

“Okay, alright,” I said. “That’s a bummer. Okay.”

But as I walked away, I teared up a bit.

Okay, fine, whatever. So you didn’t get to thank him. He probably gets it all the time. And you wouldn’t have had time to explain your gratitude anyway.  So what. He wouldn’t have remembered you with the millions of people he’s met and the dozens of people who shook his hand. Who cares. Would Gemma Pearl cry about this? Shaddup. You’re just tired. You need a nap.

The next morning, as I stood in old, stained clothes, sweating in my garage, sorting through things we’d stored for years and carefully covered in layers of dust, my cell phone rang. It was Renae, one of the coordinators of the race.

“Hey, Kate, want to meet Tim Ballard today?”

I started to speak but my throat cramped and it probably sounded more like a burp.

“We need you to bring him some medals from the race and present them to him and his family,” she said.

Want to hear some total boobishness? I started crying. (And yes, I was still tired and a nap would have been delicious!)

It wasn’t that I was starstruck or infatuated. Frankly, I get stupid over almost no one. I can look at others who are talented and successful and say, “We’re all good at different things,” and respect and value them. But it’s an entirely different emotional phenomena for me to meet a man who believes in the same cause but who risked everything—even his life—to do something about it. I didn’t. I just wanted to find someone to take my money and fix the problem. Sure, I can learn all about it and write about it, but leave my job and family to start a non-profit and then shake hands with child rapists in South America?

So, I have an immense respect for men on the OUR team, for their families, for their willingness to walk into a storm and carry children out of the nightmare. And what’s the least awkward way to tell a complete stranger that?

Well, this was my chance to figure that out.

“It’s not right that you didn’t get to meet him,” Renae told me. “Will you do this for us?”

I agreed hesitantly, not feeling that the honor was mine. I hadn’t done as much work as those ladies had done for the Rescue Run, but she insisted that it would be a big favor to her.

When I got off the phone, I looked up at my husband atop the step ladder and said, “You’re coming with me. Look pretty.”

Two hours later, I held the tangled medals in one hand and knocked on the door with the other.

Again, I had been strategic with my outfit choice.

Don’t wear heels. You’re 6’4” in heels and no one’s as tall as you and it’s distracting. Pull your hair back because it’s 500 degrees out. Red lipstick was a risk but it’s not on your teeth, so stop licking them.

My husband wore a button up shirt and jeans. It took him ten minutes. I doubt he was standing there thinking, “I hope this print doesn’t make me look bloated.” Infuriating. But he looked too damn good to be mad at. Which made me mad too.

Not a second later, Mr. Ballard opened the door. He stepped back, waving toward himself and saying, “Come on in.”

Upon stepping into the home and shaking his hand, I was completely disarmed. He took the medals with a smile, read them carefully with a bit of awe in his smile and then shared them with others who had wandered in.

And then he looked at me with a warm smile and waited, giving me my moment. I only wanted one.  And I wasn’t going to cry.

But something happened when I stepped into the presence of someone who is truly on an errand of hallowed devotion. I expected to be shaky, stuttering, sickened with nerves. But when I stood before someone humble and great, he didn’t look at me with expectation or urgency, and I went completely calm and I could speak plainly and I didn’t feel rushed or otherwise crushed.

So I thanked him. I thanked his wife. I gave him a copy of my book with a letter inside. I hugged him. I hugged his wife. I thanked them, over and over. And then my husband thanked them, saying, “Kate’s so passionate about this. She was so excited when she heard about what you guys do. Thanks for doing it.”

I won’t tell you everything we spoke about. But it was nice to tell the founder of an immense, powerful, needed organization that I stood with him and his team, that I was grateful for him and his team, and that I and the purchase my readers made of my work would contribute to the recovery and healing of the most precious who otherwise would have been lost.

 

Thank you for sharing a few moments with me, Mr. Ballard. Thank for being the immense and warm man that you are. I’m grateful that I could tell you of the miracles—big and small—that I’ve experienced so I could support OUR and, likely, because I have supported it. (One of them being not meeting you so I could then really meet you.) This has brought me so much peace and so much hope.

To the OUR team and their families, thank you. To those who gave and continue to give to OUR, thank you. To my readers, who spend their hard earned money on my books because of their love for me and for their support for OUR, thank you. Thank you.