clintonshanebradleyontheedg-blog

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Full Circle, Chapter One. A Choir, a Closet, a Close Friend

Hillsdale Freewill Baptist Bible College in Moore, Oklahoma, wasn’t your typical Liberal Arts College. I could describe it better to all the folks out there who have ever been to Church or Bible Camp. To describe one as popular, or most well know, was vague and inconsistent with the student population. Everyone was popular, and everyone was well know. With a student body of roughly five to six hundred students, you pretty much knew everyone. The only way of getting your name in lights was either going to be dawning the reputation of school sinner or school saint.

After my first year of seminary school in Nashville, TN. I had to stay home due to health concerns and recovery. During a school break as I was home visiting family back in Oklahoma, I became very sick and had to be rushed to the ER. On the evening of Super Bowl 1997 I was not only having an appendicitis attack, but we discovered it had been ruptured for nearly forty eight hours. I remember the pain was so intense, and I recall grabbing the ER Physician’s tie demanding he stop whatever was happening.

I was in the hospital for almost two weeks. Not only had my appendix ruptured, but gangrene had already set in. The surgeons had to remove almost four pints of infection. They told my parents it was a wonder I hadn’t already passed out from the pain and died. After my hospital stay I went home to recover for the next several months, which included home health and several hospital visits due to staph infections.

After my full and complete recovery, I was eager to get back to school to finish my ministerial degree. Instead of heading back out to Nashville, TN, I transferred to the associated college at Hillsdale in Moore, Ok. I continued at the start of the Spring semester in 1999.

After high school with the constant bullying, and complete lack of friendships, I figured it would be easier to connect with like-minded people at Bible College. Unfortunately, that was not the case. Not only was I the newbie who started mid-year, but I was also the student who was immediately stereotyped. “Sissy. Effeminate. Homo. Queer. Fairy. Prissy.” Those were just a few of the phrases I became identified with upon my new enrollment.

Nevertheless, I was going to school for a mission. I was going to be the next great International Evangelist leading others to Christ. I was going to be leading others from the foundational principles and by-laws of the Free Will Baptist Church. I had already been down the road of peers stereotyping me and judging me without even an introduction. So, everything I already experienced up to that particular point was preparing me for the resilience.

There certainly wasn’t a welcoming committee, and I spent nights in my dorm room just crying and wondering why no one wanted to speak with me. This was BIBLE COLLEGE, and yet I was still an outcast! My only connection was the student who lived in the dorm room next to me. He was an international student from Saudi Arabia. He was Muslim, and up until that point on my life, was quite possibly one of the happiest people I had ever met. Hillsdale was a college known for accepting international students and helping them with their English and basic courses before they transferred over to the University of Oklahoma. Majid always had a smile on his face, and he was always inviting me into his room to talk about his home and family.

It was several weeks into the semester, and I still wasn’t making any strong connections. Majid would often invite me to go with him to the International Student Parties at OU. If Hillsdale found out I was going to International Parties that involved alcohol and dancing, I certainly would’ve been expelled. But, I didn’t care, and I was finding more friendships and connections with the international students.

Day after day I was finding it more difficult to even stay at school. I wanted to be somewhere I was accepted and liked. I decided to join the college choir. The Choir Director was a very tall, classy and operatic gentleman. If stereotypes were pointed at me daily, I’m pretty sure the director and I were batting for the same team. Auditioning wasn’t very difficult, and I barely got three notes in before he let me know when rehearsals were.

The first day walking into the choir room I remember the silence as everyone watched me walk in. It was incredibly awkward, and I remember two sisters sitting at the front immediately ask me my name. They had just started the same semester, but they lived nearby and not on campus, which is why I hadn’t really noticed them. They were nice and insisted I sit down next to them. It was a small choir, and only consisted of about twenty students. I can still remember tone deaf screeches as some choir members were belting out their dreams without talent. Sad, but so true.

As we were all leaving the choir director stopped me to ask if I’d be interested in private voice lessons. My first thought was, “Well, guess I was the one he heard screeching.” My second thought was, “Oh dear, this is one of those really bad after-school specials where I’m being solicited by my professor.” The only thing he was soliciting was his voice coaching to supplement the lack of a real educator’s salary. So, I accepted and we scheduled sessions immediately.

The voice coaching was a little different, and at times completely misunderstood. I grew up singing in church, school and choirs, and never realized how important the exercise of the human voice. After a couple of weeks I was noticing the difference in my voice and the strength in belting out notes. One day, after a session, he asked me if I’d be interested in singing a solo for chapel service in front of the entire student body. “Oh yeah, let’s give them some more ammo to stereotype me with why don’t ya?” Although, having the opportunity will provide me the chance to let the student body know I’m here and not going anywhere. See, my resilient thought was kicking in! “Yes, I’ll Do It!”

The day of my infamous solo I was sweating bullets. I was so scared and intimidated as I watched each student pour into the auditorium. I just sat quietly and prayed, asking God to make sure I didn’t mess up or pass out. As the chapel leader got up to make announcements and accept prayer requests, I began feeling sweat and clamminess as I clutched my hands together. I could feel my heart pounding as if it were trying to get me to stand up and run out of the auditorium. “Oh, it looks like we have a solo today,” the leader stated. “Ummm…Clifton Bradley, are you ready?” Nothing like a formal introduction!

As I walked up to the mic stand as “Clifton Bradley” I remember thinking to myself, “Be cool, and walk with confidence. Just close your eyes and ignore them all.” As I approached the stand I looked out and saw nothing but blank stares and judgement. “Umm…this song means a lot to me, and it has helped me get through each day since I’ve been here.” The song was “He Walked A Mile by Clay Cross.”

As the music started I just closed my eyes and drew everyone out. If I was going to sing this song it was going to be for the big man upstairs, and for none of the judgemental church goers who sit before me. The song ended, and I remember opening my eyes and several people had come forward (Freewill Baptist term for sinners needing to repent), and the student body was all standing up. I quietly placed the mic back on the stand and walked back to my seat. Too much time had passed due to the students praying at the front, and the minister speaking that day wasn’t able to begin his sermon.

Chapel was dismissed, and several students approached me to let me know how well I had done. One female student came up to me and said, “I had no idea something like that, could come out of someone like you!” Ummm…thanks? Like I said, popularity was for everyone at Hillsdale, but that day I made the student body know who I was.

A few days after my chapel solo debut, I walked into the library for a study session. The student working the front desk was nice, pleasant, and not like the other students I had been interacting with. She was different. She had a sense of sophistication and confidence I was immediately drawn to. Her accent was definitely not “okie”, and she dressed in a way that was trendy, but still bible college conservative. “You need to sing more,” I heard her say. “Thanks…I’m glad you liked it.” We began talking, and she let me know she was from the San Francisco Bay Area. Immediately I thought she was cool for coming from some place other than a county in Oklahoma. Her name was Becca, and we became immediate friends.

Becca worked the evenings at the library, and it became routine for me to finish my day of classes and spend long evenings visiting with her before she had to close up. She was a good source of information to have in regards to groups and cliques throughout the student body. Becca didn’t really have a group. She was her own person, and everyone was drawn to her humor and charisma.

As time went on Becca became my closest friend and ally on campus. Because her family was back in the Bay Area, it was difficult for her to fly home for breaks and holidays. I insisted that Becca come home with me for a break and meet my family. What I thought would be a perfect marriage of my family and new friend, quickly turned ugly soon after our arrival.

Becca didn’t tolerate judgement in any form or fashion, and I believe she quickly understood why I had a lack of internal security. My mom wasn’t as warm and inviting with Becca, and my dad was quick to make a comment about her home town. “San Francisco, where all the queers live?” I wanted to sink into a dark hole and cover it up with the heaviest rock possible.

Now, Becca has a certain look when it comes to being displeased with something. It’s a look that is hard for her to hide, and when you are the receiver of said look you will know it. It’s a look where she tightens her lip, scowls, wildly OPENS her eyes, and slightly turns her head to the left. After my dad’s welcoming statement, I cringed and saw the look come across Becca’s face. “I don’t like that term, but yes, San Francisco,” she calmly answered.

Needless to say the weekend didn’t start off well, and I spent the rest of the time trying to be a good host while convincing my parents why she’s a good friend. I had never had a friend who stood up or talked back to my parents. I found it both cool and refreshing. No matter what my parents opinion of Becca was, I still insisted she come home with me for breaks and holidays. She was my true friend and counterpart.

A few semesters passed and Becca and I became closer friends. She would come home with me over the weekends, and I’d go with her to visit her mom who had just moved to Arkansas. I was becoming well-known at school, and also moving into becoming a ministerial leader on campus. My friendships were good, but internally I was tormented, struggling with my sexuality. I found myself slipping into states of depression and skipping classes. The more my feelings of same-sex attractions became real, the more I would withdrawal from people and friends.

One particular Christmas break I found myself slipping deep into depression. I had several male friends on campus, but one particular friend I found myself becoming very attracted to. He was handsome, athletic, charming and kind. We spent a lot of time together, and in my state of depression I withdrew from everyone. I stopped returning my friends phone calls, and I stopped going to my mid-year class, which had both Becca and my friend in it.

The guilt and shame I was feeling became so overwhelming that I resorted to my closet to pray and cry the “sin” away. The phone consistently rang, but I didn’t answer. Finally, the doorbell rang, and I heard Becca open the door as she said hello and ask if I was there. “I’m here,” I said through the tears, sitting in my closet. “What is going on? Do you know how many people are worried to death about you?” I couldn’t stop the tears in order to make a clear answer to her question. I took a couple of deep breaths. “Becca, there is something I have to tell you that no one else knows, and you have to promise me you won’t tell anyone.” I could see the look in her eyes, and little did I know she already knew the answer.

Years of battling this secret, and here I was sitting in a closet with my closest bible college friend about to reveal. But, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t make the words come out of my mouth. Every time I tried to mutter, “I’m gay,” the tears and crying just became more intense. Finally, I looked at Becca and said, “Can you guess what it is?” She calmly replied, “Is it because you think you might be gay?” This was it…there was no turning back. This was the inevitable moment in my life, and there was no turning back. But, the moment she asked me, I remember a peace and calmness I had never felt before.

I asked Becca what I should do. She didn’t have any answers, instead she sat with me and cried. I looked up at her and asked why she was crying. She simply replied, “Because you’re hurting, and I can’t imagine the torment you must be going through.” Becca and I both knew coming to terms with my sexuality also meant coming to terms with our school policy. The student handbook stated that if any student were to reveal or act upon “homosexual” feelings or activities, they must be expelled or adhere to a conversion therapy program.

That night Becca also had her own reveal. She let me know that her sister had recently come out to her. Becca’s sister still lived in the Bay Area. Not only was her sister, her sister, but she was also her best friend. Becca was coming to terms with knowing her sister was a lesbian, and also knowing our church’s teaching. Our church taught that it’s better to shun the sinner in order for them to see the error in their ways, and hopefully they will return from a reprobate state of mind. Becca and I just sat, cried and hugged each other. We had no idea what was in store for us, but we knew we had each other.

[clintonshanebradleyontheedg-blog]

Full Circle, Chapter One. A Choir, a Closet, a Close Friend

Hillsdale Freewill Baptist Bible College in Moore, Oklahoma, wasn't your typical Liberal Arts College. I could describe it better to all the folks out there who have ever been to Church or Bible Camp. To describe one as popular, or most well know, was vague and inconsistent with the student population. Everyone was popular, and everyone was well know. With a student body of roughly five to six hundred students, you pretty much knew everyone. The only way of getting your name in lights was either going to be dawning the reputation of school sinner or school saint. After my first year of seminary school in Nashville, TN. I had to stay home due to health concerns and recovery. During a school break as I was home visiting family back in Oklahoma, I became very sick and had to be rushed to the ER. On the evening of Super Bowl 1997 I was not only having an appendicitis attack, but we discovered it had been ruptured for nearly forty eight hours. I remember the pain was so intense, and I recall grabbing the ER Physician’s tie demanding he stop whatever was happening. I was in the hospital for almost two weeks. Not only had my appendix ruptured, but gangrene had already set in. The surgeons had to remove almost four pints of infection. They told my parents it was a wonder I hadn’t already passed out from the pain and died. After my hospital stay I went home to recover for the next several months, which included home health and several hospital visits due to staph infections. After my full and complete recovery, I was eager to get back to school to finish my ministerial degree. Instead of heading back out to Nashville, TN, I transferred to the associated college at Hillsdale in Moore, Ok. I continued at the start of the Spring semester in 1999. After high school with the constant bullying, and complete lack of friendships, I figured it would be easier to connect with like-minded people at Bible College. Unfortunately, that was not the case. Not only was I the newbie who started mid-year, but I was also the student who was immediately stereotyped. “Sissy. Effeminate. Homo. Queer. Fairy. Prissy.” Those were just a few of the phrases I became identified with upon my new enrollment. Nevertheless, I was going to school for a mission. I was going to be the next great International Evangelist leading others to Christ. I was going to be leading others from the foundational principles and by-laws of the Free Will Baptist Church. I had already been down the road of peers stereotyping me and judging me without even an introduction. So, everything I already experienced up to that particular point was preparing me for the resilience. There certainly wasn’t a welcoming committee, and I spent nights in my dorm room just crying and wondering why no one wanted to speak with me. This was BIBLE COLLEGE, and yet I was still an outcast! My only connection was the student who lived in the dorm room next to me. He was an international student from Saudi Arabia. He was Muslim, and up until that point on my life, was quite possibly one of the happiest people I had ever met. Hillsdale was a college known for accepting international students and helping them with their English and basic courses before they transferred over to the University of Oklahoma. Majid always had a smile on his face, and he was always inviting me into his room to talk about his home and family. It was several weeks into the semester, and I still wasn’t making any strong connections. Majid would often invite me to go with him to the International Student Parties at OU. If Hillsdale found out I was going to International Parties that involved alcohol and dancing, I certainly would’ve been expelled. But, I didn’t care, and I was finding more friendships and connections with the international students. Day after day I was finding it more difficult to even stay at school. I wanted to be somewhere I was accepted and liked. I decided to join the college choir. The Choir Director was a very tall, classy and operatic gentleman. If stereotypes were pointed at me daily, I’m pretty sure the director and I were batting for the same team. Auditioning wasn’t very difficult, and I barely got three notes in before he let me know when rehearsals were. The first day walking into the choir room I remember the silence as everyone watched me walk in. It was incredibly awkward, and I remember two sisters sitting at the front immediately ask me my name. They had just started the same semester, but they lived nearby and not on campus, which is why I hadn’t really noticed them. They were nice and insisted I sit down next to them. It was a small choir, and only consisted of about twenty students. I can still remember tone deaf screeches as some choir members were belting out their dreams without talent. Sad, but so true. As we were all leaving the choir director stopped me to ask if I’d be interested in private voice lessons. My first thought was, “Well, guess I was the one he heard screeching.” My second thought was, “Oh dear, this is one of those really bad after-school specials where I’m being solicited by my professor.” The only thing he was soliciting was his voice coaching to supplement the lack of a real educator’s salary. So, I accepted and we scheduled sessions immediately. The voice coaching was a little different, and at times completely misunderstood. I grew up singing in church, school and choirs, and never realized how important the exercise of the human voice. After a couple of weeks I was noticing the difference in my voice and the strength in belting out notes. One day, after a session, he asked me if I’d be interested in singing a solo for chapel service in front of the entire student body. “Oh yeah, let’s give them some more ammo to stereotype me with why don’t ya?” Although, having the opportunity will provide me the chance to let the student body know I’m here and not going anywhere. See, my resilient thought was kicking in! “Yes, I’ll Do It!” The day of my infamous solo I was sweating bullets. I was so scared and intimidated as I watched each student pour into the auditorium. I just sat quietly and prayed, asking God to make sure I didn’t mess up or pass out. As the chapel leader got up to make announcements and accept prayer requests, I began feeling sweat and clamminess as I clutched my hands together. I could feel my heart pounding as if it were trying to get me to stand up and run out of the auditorium. “Oh, it looks like we have a solo today,” the leader stated. “Ummm...Clifton Bradley, are you ready?” Nothing like a formal introduction! As I walked up to the mic stand as “Clifton Bradley” I remember thinking to myself, “Be cool, and walk with confidence. Just close your eyes and ignore them all.” As I approached the stand I looked out and saw nothing but blank stares and judgement. “Umm...this song means a lot to me, and it has helped me get through each day since I’ve been here.” The song was “He Walked A Mile by Clay Cross.” As the music started I just closed my eyes and drew everyone out. If I was going to sing this song it was going to be for the big man upstairs, and for none of the judgemental church goers who sit before me. The song ended, and I remember opening my eyes and several people had come forward (Freewill Baptist term for sinners needing to repent), and the student body was all standing up. I quietly placed the mic back on the stand and walked back to my seat. Too much time had passed due to the students praying at the front, and the minister speaking that day wasn’t able to begin his sermon. Chapel was dismissed, and several students approached me to let me know how well I had done. One female student came up to me and said, “I had no idea something like that, could come out of someone like you!” Ummm...thanks? Like I said, popularity was for everyone at Hillsdale, but that day I made the student body know who I was. A few days after my chapel solo debut, I walked into the library for a study session. The student working the front desk was nice, pleasant, and not like the other students I had been interacting with. She was different. She had a sense of sophistication and confidence I was immediately drawn to. Her accent was definitely not “okie”, and she dressed in a way that was trendy, but still bible college conservative. “You need to sing more,” I heard her say. “Thanks...I’m glad you liked it.” We began talking, and she let me know she was from the San Francisco Bay Area. Immediately I thought she was cool for coming from some place other than a county in Oklahoma. Her name was Becca, and we became immediate friends. Becca worked the evenings at the library, and it became routine for me to finish my day of classes and spend long evenings visiting with her before she had to close up. She was a good source of information to have in regards to groups and cliques throughout the student body. Becca didn’t really have a group. She was her own person, and everyone was drawn to her humor and charisma. As time went on Becca became my closest friend and ally on campus. Because her family was back in the Bay Area, it was difficult for her to fly home for breaks and holidays. I insisted that Becca come home with me for a break and meet my family. What I thought would be a perfect marriage of my family and new friend, quickly turned ugly soon after our arrival. Becca didn’t tolerate judgement in any form or fashion, and I believe she quickly understood why I had a lack of internal security. My mom wasn’t as warm and inviting with Becca, and my dad was quick to make a comment about her home town. “San Francisco, where all the queers live?” I wanted to sink into a dark hole and cover it up with the heaviest rock possible. Now, Becca has a certain look when it comes to being displeased with something. It’s a look that is hard for her to hide, and when you are the receiver of said look you will know it. It’s a look where she tightens her lip, scowls, wildly OPENS her eyes, and slightly turns her head to the left. After my dad’s welcoming statement, I cringed and saw the look come across Becca’s face. “I don’t like that term, but yes, San Francisco,” she calmly answered. Needless to say the weekend didn’t start off well, and I spent the rest of the time trying to be a good host while convincing my parents why she’s a good friend. I had never had a friend who stood up or talked back to my parents. I found it both cool and refreshing. No matter what my parents opinion of Becca was, I still insisted she come home with me for breaks and holidays. She was my true friend and counterpart. A few semesters passed and Becca and I became closer friends. She would come home with me over the weekends, and I’d go with her to visit her mom who had just moved to Arkansas. I was becoming well-known at school, and also moving into becoming a ministerial leader on campus. My friendships were good, but internally I was tormented, struggling with my sexuality. I found myself slipping into states of depression and skipping classes. The more my feelings of same-sex attractions became real, the more I would withdrawal from people and friends. One particular Christmas break I found myself slipping deep into depression. I had several male friends on campus, but one particular friend I found myself becoming very attracted to. He was handsome, athletic, charming and kind. We spent a lot of time together, and in my state of depression I withdrew from everyone. I stopped returning my friends phone calls, and I stopped going to my mid-year class, which had both Becca and my friend in it. The guilt and shame I was feeling became so overwhelming that I resorted to my closet to pray and cry the “sin” away. The phone consistently rang, but I didn’t answer. Finally, the doorbell rang, and I heard Becca open the door as she said hello and ask if I was there. “I’m here,” I said through the tears, sitting in my closet. “What is going on? Do you know how many people are worried to death about you?” I couldn’t stop the tears in order to make a clear answer to her question. I took a couple of deep breaths. “Becca, there is something I have to tell you that no one else knows, and you have to promise me you won’t tell anyone.” I could see the look in her eyes, and little did I know she already knew the answer. Years of battling this secret, and here I was sitting in a closet with my closest bible college friend about to reveal. But, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t make the words come out of my mouth. Every time I tried to mutter, “I’m gay,” the tears and crying just became more intense. Finally, I looked at Becca and said, “Can you guess what it is?” She calmly replied, “Is it because you think you might be gay?” This was it...there was no turning back. This was the inevitable moment in my life, and there was no turning back. But, the moment she asked me, I remember a peace and calmness I had never felt before. I asked Becca what I should do. She didn’t have any answers, instead she sat with me and cried. I looked up at her and asked why she was crying. She simply replied, “Because you’re hurting, and I can’t imagine the torment you must be going through.” Becca and I both knew coming to terms with my sexuality also meant coming to terms with our school policy. The student handbook stated that if any student were to reveal or act upon “homosexual” feelings or activities, they must be expelled or adhere to a conversion therapy program. That night Becca also had her own reveal. She let me know that her sister had recently come out to her. Becca’s sister still lived in the Bay Area. Not only was her sister, her sister, but she was also her best friend. Becca was coming to terms with knowing her sister was a lesbian, and also knowing our church’s teaching. Our church taught that it’s better to shun the sinner in order for them to see the error in their ways, and hopefully they will return from a reprobate state of mind. Becca and I just sat, cried and hugged each other. We had no idea what was in store for us, but we knew we had each other.

[clintonshanebradleyontheedg-blog]

Answered Prayer

For thirteen years, from Kindergarten to Senior year, I attended Olive Public Schools.  The student body averaged about seven hundred from Kindergarten to Senior High. Located at the center of country dirt roads, and surrounded by fighting rooster farms, was my place of education. 

The school itself consisted of a dingy, yellowish bile colored paint over stacks of cinder block.  The halls were covered in a striped carpet with different off color browns and tans.  Of course a carpet with that type of style wouldn’t be complete without the over lay of gray duct tape masking the rips and tears from years of student traffic. 

If the school facade wasn’t enough to call for immediate transfer, the smell alone would do it.  The first wave of aroma was an attack of old vomit mixed with a musty livestock barn.  I never got used to it.

As a student, every night before falling asleep my stomach would routinely knot up from the nerves of facing the next day’s reality of attending.  It wasn’t unusual for me to hurry to the restroom every morning before first period class to throw up from the nerves. 

I hated it.  I feared what new insult would be hurled at me each day.  “FAG” was typical.  “FAG” became my scarlet letter around the small, backwoods campus.

I never wanted to be reactive to the daily parade of insults and physical injury.  My parents tried their best to offer helpful hints when they saw it become too overwhelming for me.  Dad’s suggestion was always to handle it with a fist.  But I knew that with my scrawny appearance, it would be a losing fight. 

My mom tried giving me witty come-backs to fight with.  I can recall a time her getting so frustrated with what I was going through that she suggested, “just call him an asshole and keep walking." 

I had a coach announce I played basketball like a girl.  I had grade school, middle school and high school students insult me for looking and sounding like a girl.  I had older students put me in head locks and choke holds and take turns hitting me in the back.  I had letters and notes constantly slipped in my locker stating there were no faggots allowed, and that I should leave or kill myself.  I had girls tell me I was ugly.  My life was threatened, which caused my parents to have to meet with the superintendent.  My lunch was taken, my lip was bloodied, my body was bruised, my clothes were ripped, my presence was unwanted.

One thing I can appreciate about being raised Freewill Baptist is the doctrinal belief concerning suicide.  We were taught suicide was an unforgivable sin with a hell bound punishment.  Nights I thought about what life would be like if I wasn’t around.  Unwanted and unaccepted, I just wanted the hurting to stop.  Our fundamental and conservative rearing kept me from acting out on that thought.

I realize now my fighting back was more responsive than the reactive approach my parents suggested.  Playing basketball like a girl helped me win first place, most valuable player in a middle school basketball tournament.  My girlish athleticism helped me become a state ranked gymnast. Looking like a girl helped me develop into an International Fashion Model.  Sounding like a girl helped me win singing and speech competitions.  Being placed in choke holds and head locks helped me win honors during basic military training. 

I didn’t want to fight back.  What I wanted was to be accepted and liked. What I wanted was a best friend.  I spent hours day-dreaming about what I wanted in a best friend.  I never went without mentioning my friend request in a prayer.  I gave up, and decided nothing would happen until I left Olive Public Schools.

One day, during the summer of 1990, I was as usual out riding horses with my siblings.  Normally, we would ride on the acreage behind our house.  However, on this particular day we decided to ride on the front portion of acreage. 

We noticed a couple of girls riding horses across the road.  One girl we recognized as an Olive student.  The other girl however was not recognizable of anyone from school.  All you could see on top of the horse she was riding was a fiery glow of bright red hair.  On that day, and I remember it so clearly, my prayer was being answered.

Her name was Sunny, and I was instantly drawn to her.  She was tall and slender, freckle faced with a mouth full of braces.  It didn’t take long for me to instantly realize how she got her name. 

Her accent was like that of some west coast family members I had met at a reunion.  I remember how her red hair would wave uncontrollably while she tried desperately to keep her horse tame.  At first I thought she was a transfer student, but she was introduced as a friend visiting her dad for the summer.     

After taking some time to meet our new friend and ride around for a bit, we quickly invited them to swim in our pool.  The two girls quickly went home to get their bathing suits.  We raced to get the horses put away, and rushed into the house to tell mom about the girl we met.  We jumped into the swimming pool and anxiously waited for our new friend to arrive. 

Mom came outside to the pool when the girls arrived, and began talking to our new friend, Sunny.  Mom was always good about talking to a stranger and getting to know them.  She was a youth leader, so it was easy for her to talk to young people. 

Sunny was from Arizona, and was beginning to spend the summers with her dad who lived directly across from us.  Mom invited her to have dinner with us. Sunny went back up our driveway and across the way to ask permission.  Before we knew it, she was having a sleep over with us and spending almost every day at our home. 

We loved her, and she instantly became part of the family.  My parents took her in like she was one of theirs.  She was our hilariously comical, fun-loving, stylish, care-free, adventurous, crazy friend who accepted us as much as we accepted her. 

From that summer on, everything was planned around Sunny’s annual visits.  Trips, vacations and annual summer events were not complete without her.  We adopted "Sunny-isms” that were spoke about throughout the year.  We would find ourselves laughing uncontrollably from remembering something funny she would say or do.  My dad gave her the nickname “starburst” after a candy misunderstanding.  My mom thought of her as one of her own children.     

For me, she brought life inside this tiny world I thought was my reality.  She introduced me to what was beyond Silver City, Oklahoma.  Her presence gave me a hope that carried me through the rest of my time at school.  When the summers were over, and the harsh reality of returning to school became difficult to deal with, those summer memories with Sunny would get me through another year. 

I was able to cope with the constant gauntlet of verbal and physical abuse from students by knowing I had a best friend.  I had a best friend that was beyond judgment or ridicule or hate.  I had a best friend no bully or jealous classmate could ever live up to.

To help get through the time before another summer would hit, we’d often get letters from Sunny.  She was the best letter writer.  Always great hand writing with a fun and quirky stationary.  Her letters came on a monthly, biweekly, and at times a weekly basis.  Sometimes we’d get two in one week.       

Her letters described her weekly and daily activities at school and home.  Her letters illustrated for me a place to retreat to when I wanted to give in and give up.  I would often place her weekly letter in a notebook, or school folder, and read it while students taunted me with insults and spit wads. 

One day at school there was a group of students sitting behind me laughing and kicking my desk.  I kept feeling wet wads of paper hitting the back of my neck and back.  I just sat in my desk and ignored it.  By the end of class I reached back to see that my coat had been saturated in spit wads and green “hackers."  I grabbed my things and went to a private bathroom located in the school gymnasium. 

I don’t even remember going to my next class.  I remember locking myself in the single stalled bathroom and crying until I developed a headache.  Through the tears I remember thinking, "Who would really miss me?" 

I wanted to end it.  I didn’t want to exist.  I wanted it all to stop.  That moment, in that small bathroom, I wanted my life to be over.

I sat quietly and silently prayed, begging for help.  Feeling the time slip by, I waited until it didn’t look like I had been crying any more before leaving my sanctuary.  I stood up and reached down to grab my things, and there was Sunny’s letter. 

I must have read it twenty times before heading back to class.  It was then that Sunny became more real and closer to me than anyone in my life.  I knew then, that she was my answer to so many prayers. 

Almost twenty-five years now, and even though we don’t see each other very much, she is my family, my sister, my redheaded hope, my hero … my very best friend. 

I love you Sunny … and thank you.

[clintonshanebradleyontheedg-blog]

Sometimes, goodbye IS a second chance...

“Tell my mother, Tell my father I’ve done the best I can To make them realize This is my life I hope they understand I’m not angry, I’m just saying… Sometimes goodbye is a second chance…”

-Shinedown

The words of this song from Shinedown resonated with me the very first time I heard them.  However, I didn’t realize how much the impact would be until I came to terms that my biological family was nothing more than just a blood line.

On June 26, 2015, The Supreme Ruled on a 5 to 4 Vote Same-Sex Marriage Nationwide.  A month later, my partner and I were driving to his family’s reunion in Topeka, KS.  Not wanting to cast judgment or stay jaded due to my own family experiences, I kept an open mind knowing my partner’s family would be nothing but loving and accepting.  And…they were!  

Not long after our arrival, several family members approached us about the recent court ruling.  When are you guys getting married?  Do we need to start planning for your wedding?  Not only was I overwhelmed by their love and support, but that with all my drama and history, they found me worthy to marry their son, nephew, brother, cousin and uncle.  

Evan and I had discussed getting married, and we knew nothing would make us happier than spending the rest of our lives together.  On the way home from Topeka we talked about how surprised we were by the family’s excitement to see us get married.  Of course, our gay genes kicked in immediately as we discussed theme, colors, location, catering, etc.  “So, do you want to?” I timidly asked.  “Yes!” he said.  As we finished the drive of an unconventional proposal, my thoughts went directly to my family.  “Should I tell them?  What will they say?  Should I invite them?”  

We didn’t waste any time to tell Evan’s family and contact a friend to help us begin planning.  We had one year to plan the biggest celebration of Love and Family!  We were on cloud nine as we received an outpouring of love and support.  However, I found myself fighting back the tears and pain with laughter and smiles as I would think about my family.  Even though my friends had become family, I still held on to the hope that perhaps one day my family will accept me as their gay son. It had been years since the relationship with my family had been broken, but I still hoped that a life changing event such as my wedding might bring a reconciliation.  

We set the date for September 24, 2016, and we wasted no time to get started on planning.  It was going to be a full year of caterers, themes, colors, entertainment, travel, parties, venues, vendors, and wine…LOTS OF WINE!  For the next year our home became a Pinterest Board.  Evan’s family didn’t hesitate to volunteer or help in any way they could. I was the happiest I had ever been, but deep down I was struggling with knowing I’d have to speak with my family about my engagement.  

One particular day, during a visit to the wineries in Weston, Missouri, I became overwhelmed with anxiety.  I was at a crossroads.  I knew I was fully committed to the marriage with Evan, but I knew it would also mark the complete end to my biological family.  This was it!  This is where my family would become nothing more than memories and genetics.  

During our trip to Weston, in a little craft store, Evan found a plaque, “Family isn’t always blood.  It’s the people in your life who want you in theirs.  The ones who accept you for who you are.  The ones who would do anything to see you smile and love you no matter what.” I lost it!  I couldn’t hold back the tears anymore.  I looked over at my fiancé, hugged him and told him, “This, will be the theme to our wedding!”  

The year was going by quickly, and as we reached the halfway mark I consulted with my maid of honor about my family.  She grew up with me, and she knew my family all too well.  “Should I send them an invitation?  Or, should I call them and talk to them about it.”  The discussion always came back to knowing that no matter what approach was taken, it was inevitable that my family wouldn’t be coming. However, we also knew that there have been times my family has been known to make surprise visits or appearances.

As I was getting ready for work one morning I found myself convinced that I had to confront my family in person.  I called my Franchise Owners to let them know there was something I had to do, and that I had to drive down home to see my family.  I gave Evan a hug and kiss that morning before he headed off to work, and I got into my car to make the long drive to Silver City, Oklahoma.  

It had been a few years since I had visited, and that was for my grandfather’s funeral.  Thirty minutes from my parents’ home, and I could feel my heart racing and pounding through my chest.  I wanted nothing more than to just turn the car around and head back. As I pulled up to my parents’ small horse and cattle ranch I took a deep breath and thought, “Maybe I should make a quick video in case this is the last time anyone ever sees me.”  When you grow up with a father who says, “If I ever find out my son is gay, I’ll throw them in closet with a bible after I shoot their lover.”  You have a tendency to be a bit paranoid.  

I anxiously walked up to the door, rang the doorbell, and knew there was no turning back.  My mother answered the door, and I was greeted with a hug, followed by my sister and dad.  My sister introduced me to her little girl.  She was five years old, and it was my first time meeting her.  She was shy and timid, just like my sister at that age.  We went into the kitchen to sit down, and my dad began talking to me about some of his new livestock.  I couldn’t help drawing him out as I looked around the open floor plan noticing the interior decorating exactly resembled a Christian book store.  Walls and shelves were filled with scriptural passages and biblical figurines.  

One by one they all talked about what was going on in their lives, as to remind me what I was missing. Not once did they ask what was going on in my life.  I just sat back quietly and listened.  My dad asked if I wanted to go see some of his new livestock, and we headed out the door to begin the grand Triple B Ranch tour.  

For two-hours he drove me around on their ATV introducing me to new members of the herd, and showing me improvements made to the property.  Again, nothing was asked as to how my life was going, or what was new in it.  I just rode along quietly listening and respectfully smiling as he went on his prideful guide.

We got back to the house, and my mom insisted I had to see her new fifth wheel travel trailer.  One thing about my mother, she never skimped on the luxuries of travel.  This travel trailer was amazing!  Fully equipped with a flat screen TV, three slide outs, a full bath tub, king sized bed, and a fire place!  It was not only beautiful, but would also be my residence for the weekend.

I got settled into my weekend digs and called Evan to let him know I made it safely and hadn’t been thrown into a closet, yet.  My mother let me know that my grandmother and the rest of the family would be coming over for dinner.  She let me know the family really missed me, and they all were excited to see me.  

I had been down this road before with my family. Over the years during the times I would visit, they’re intentions were always to show me everything I was missing out on, hoping I would turn from my evil ways and come back home.  This particular visit was no different.  As always, the agenda was to overwhelm me with everything going on in their world, but not once asking me about mine.  See, my family knew that if they asked me about my life it would include knowing about my fiancé, career or lifestyle.  So, they would continue with keeping me silent and inundated with their life’s current events.  

My grandmother was the only one who asked me something about my life.  When I first saw her, it took her a second to focus on who it was, then she cried as she gave me a hug.  She asked me where I was living and what I had been up to with work.  I sat next to her as she was peeling a pot of potatoes, and discussing the dramas of her recent ailments.  To me, it seemed like time had been good to my grandma, and she still considered me grandma’s boy.  

Dinner consisted of me eating and listening to the rants of my simpleton brother regarding politics, and the downfall of American society by President Obama.  Or, as my brother claimed, the anti-christ.  I didn’t eat much, and I certainly didn’t say much.  I could’ve ripped into my brother with facts, statistics and knowledge, but it would’ve been in vain.  As much as he believed in his rants and opinions, the fact was he was ignorant and certainly didn’t know any better. 

The weekend consisted of horseback riding, dinner at my sisters, and a little bit of reminiscing in the evenings over a glass of wine.  But, I didn’t forget my purpose in visiting.  I still needed to get the private time with my parents to inform them of my wedding.  

The last morning, right before leaving to head back to my home, I went inside the house to have coffee with my parents.  We sat down, and I let them know there was something serious I needed to speak with them about.  I could feel my heart in my throat as I tried to find the right, eloquent words to open up with.  The words didn’t come like I had hoped, and I started out by boldly stating, “I’m getting married this year.”  No words, only silence.  My mom asked, “Is this the guy you’ve been with for the last couple of years?”  “Yes,” I answered.  

I knew my parents’ acceptance of me as their gay son was never going to happen.  For nearly fifteen year we had been battling the terms of how to move forward with any type of relationship.  I will never be invited as their gay son to family holidays or events. My partner or friends will never be accepted or received if I bring them for a visit.  I will never be asked about my life because it is sinful.  I will never be called to see how my day was, or what is new in my life.  The only thing I will receive from my family are hopes and prayers that one day I will return home and turn my life over to God.  And, start the tortuous journey to become cured from homosexuality.  

These were the terms I knew coming out to my family many years ago.  But, I still held onto a hope.  There was still a small ounce of hope inside, and I still believed that perhaps if my family knew how much in love I am, and how wonderful my fiancé is, and how happy I am, they might slightly consider coming to my wedding.  I had the unconditional love and support of my friends and Evan’s family, but I still longed for the acceptance of mine.  Even against the advice and insight of my closest friends (family), I still needed the answer of where I stood with my family after all these years.

My dad quietly answered, “You know…I’m happy.  I have my grandkids, a great retirement and my life is fulfilled.  It’s sad that you’re not in it, but I don’t worry or stress about it anymore.  This is a decision you have made, and you know we can’t accept it.  I wish you the best, and don’t want any harm to come to you, but our lives are filled…without you in it.”

My mother didn’t hesitate to agree with my father.  She was quick to add, “I’ve lost nights of sleep, increased medical concerns due to stress and anxiety worried about whether you’re coming home or not.  I finally had to give it over to God a couple of years ago, and I was given such peace about letting go of my son.”

I couldn’t even cry anymore. I just sat there and asked if there were any other family members who might want to come to the wedding. Quickly, they replied, no.  There were no tears from myself or my parents. There was only a complete understanding of where we stood in our relationship, and how we would move forward.

My parents saw that I was moving forward with my life with the understanding they can’t be a part of it. It was the first conversation we had in nearly fifteen years that didn’t end with a fight.  It was a surreal moment as I gathered my things to leave. We hugged.  The hugs seemed shallow and without connection.  Again, there were no tears, but only an absolution. It wasn’t the closure I wanted, but it was the one I expected. 

Halfway home I couldn’t fight back the hurt and pain anymore.  The tears were too much, and I had to pull over due to not being able to see the road.  This was it. This was the moment and point in my life where I came to the complete understanding and conclusion about my family. My family was nothing more than a biological blood line.  The tears cleared, and I began to pray.  I hadn’t prayed in a long time, but I still needed to know I wasn’t completely forgotten. I prayed that I would have peace, and forgiveness in my heart toward my family.  I prayed they would have peace to always know they raised a good, loving, kind and caring person.  Peace…all I had was peace.

I called my soon to be husband to let him know I was on my way back home…Our Home.  He asked how it went, and I described it as a long, drawn out divorce that finally came to an end.  

I got onto my Pandora and played the song from Shinedown.  Goodbye was my second chance, and I have found more family, life, love and happiness than ever before. 

All My Love,

Clinton Shane

[clintonshanebradleyontheedg-blog]

Sometimes, goodbye IS a second chance...

“Tell my mother, Tell my father I've done the best I can To make them realize This is my life I hope they understand I'm not angry, I'm just saying... Sometimes goodbye is a second chance...”

-Shinedown

The words of this song from Shinedown resonated with me the very first time I heard them.  However, I didn't realize how much the impact would be until I came to terms that my biological family was nothing more than just a blood line.

On June 26, 2015, The Supreme Ruled on a 5 to 4 Vote Same-Sex Marriage Nationwide.  A month later, my partner and I were driving to his family’s reunion in Topeka, KS.  Not wanting to cast judgment or stay jaded due to my own family experiences, I kept an open mind knowing my partner’s family would be nothing but loving and accepting.  And…they were!  

Not long after our arrival, several family members approached us about the recent court ruling.  When are you guys getting married?  Do we need to start planning for your wedding?  Not only was I overwhelmed by their love and support, but that with all my drama and history, they found me worthy to marry their son, nephew, brother, cousin and uncle.  

Evan and I had discussed getting married, and we knew nothing would make us happier than spending the rest of our lives together.  On the way home from Topeka we talked about how surprised we were by the family’s excitement to see us get married.  Of course, our gay genes kicked in immediately as we discussed theme, colors, location, catering, etc.  “So, do you want to?” I timidly asked.  “Yes!” he said.  As we finished the drive of an unconventional proposal, my thoughts went directly to my family.  “Should I tell them?  What will they say?  Should I invite them?”  

We didn’t waste any time to tell Evan’s family and contact a friend to help us begin planning.  We had one year to plan the biggest celebration of Love and Family!  We were on cloud nine as we received an outpouring of love and support.  However, I found myself fighting back the tears and pain with laughter and smiles as I would think about my family.  Even though my friends had become family, I still held on to the hope that perhaps one day my family will accept me as their gay son. It had been years since the relationship with my family had been broken, but I still hoped that a life changing event such as my wedding might bring a reconciliation.  

We set the date for September 24, 2016, and we wasted no time to get started on planning.  It was going to be a full year of caterers, themes, colors, entertainment, travel, parties, venues, vendors, and wine…LOTS OF WINE!  For the next year our home became a Pinterest Board.  Evan’s family didn’t hesitate to volunteer or help in any way they could. I was the happiest I had ever been, but deep down I was struggling with knowing I’d have to speak with my family about my engagement.  

One particular day, during a visit to the wineries in Weston, Missouri, I became overwhelmed with anxiety.  I was at a crossroads.  I knew I was fully committed to the marriage with Evan, but I knew it would also mark the complete end to my biological family.  This was it!  This is where my family would become nothing more than memories and genetics.  

During our trip to Weston, in a little craft store, Evan found a plaque, “Family isn’t always blood.  It’s the people in your life who want you in theirs.  The ones who accept you for who you are.  The ones who would do anything to see you smile and love you no matter what.” I lost it!  I couldn’t hold back the tears anymore.  I looked over at my fiancé, hugged him and told him, “This, will be the theme to our wedding!”  

The year was going by quickly, and as we reached the halfway mark I consulted with my maid of honor about my family.  She grew up with me, and she knew my family all too well.  “Should I send them an invitation?  Or, should I call them and talk to them about it.”  The discussion always came back to knowing that no matter what approach was taken, it was inevitable that my family wouldn’t be coming. However, we also knew that there have been times my family has been known to make surprise visits or appearances.

As I was getting ready for work one morning I found myself convinced that I had to confront my family in person.  I called my Franchise Owners to let them know there was something I had to do, and that I had to drive down home to see my family.  I gave Evan a hug and kiss that morning before he headed off to work, and I got into my car to make the long drive to Silver City, Oklahoma.  

It had been a few years since I had visited, and that was for my grandfather’s funeral.  Thirty minutes from my parents’ home, and I could feel my heart racing and pounding through my chest.  I wanted nothing more than to just turn the car around and head back. As I pulled up to my parents’ small horse and cattle ranch I took a deep breath and thought, “Maybe I should make a quick video in case this is the last time anyone ever sees me.”  When you grow up with a father who says, “If I ever find out my son is gay, I’ll throw them in closet with a bible after I shoot their lover.”  You have a tendency to be a bit paranoid.  

I anxiously walked up to the door, rang the doorbell, and knew there was no turning back.  My mother answered the door, and I was greeted with a hug, followed by my sister and dad.  My sister introduced me to her little girl.  She was five years old, and it was my first time meeting her.  She was shy and timid, just like my sister at that age.  We went into the kitchen to sit down, and my dad began talking to me about some of his new livestock.  I couldn’t help drawing him out as I looked around the open floor plan noticing the interior decorating exactly resembled a Christian book store.  Walls and shelves were filled with scriptural passages and biblical figurines.  

One by one they all talked about what was going on in their lives, as to remind me what I was missing. Not once did they ask what was going on in my life.  I just sat back quietly and listened.  My dad asked if I wanted to go see some of his new livestock, and we headed out the door to begin the grand Triple B Ranch tour.  

For two-hours he drove me around on their ATV introducing me to new members of the herd, and showing me improvements made to the property.  Again, nothing was asked as to how my life was going, or what was new in it.  I just rode along quietly listening and respectfully smiling as he went on his prideful guide.

We got back to the house, and my mom insisted I had to see her new fifth wheel travel trailer.  One thing about my mother, she never skimped on the luxuries of travel.  This travel trailer was amazing!  Fully equipped with a flat screen TV, three slide outs, a full bath tub, king sized bed, and a fire place!  It was not only beautiful, but would also be my residence for the weekend.

I got settled into my weekend digs and called Evan to let him know I made it safely and hadn’t been thrown into a closet, yet.  My mother let me know that my grandmother and the rest of the family would be coming over for dinner.  She let me know the family really missed me, and they all were excited to see me.  

I had been down this road before with my family. Over the years during the times I would visit, they’re intentions were always to show me everything I was missing out on, hoping I would turn from my evil ways and come back home.  This particular visit was no different.  As always, the agenda was to overwhelm me with everything going on in their world, but not once asking me about mine.  See, my family knew that if they asked me about my life it would include knowing about my fiancé, career or lifestyle.  So, they would continue with keeping me silent and inundated with their life’s current events.  

My grandmother was the only one who asked me something about my life.  When I first saw her, it took her a second to focus on who it was, then she cried as she gave me a hug.  She asked me where I was living and what I had been up to with work.  I sat next to her as she was peeling a pot of potatoes, and discussing the dramas of her recent ailments.  To me, it seemed like time had been good to my grandma, and she still considered me grandma’s boy.  

Dinner consisted of me eating and listening to the rants of my simpleton brother regarding politics, and the downfall of American society by President Obama.  Or, as my brother claimed, the anti-christ.  I didn’t eat much, and I certainly didn’t say much.  I could’ve ripped into my brother with facts, statistics and knowledge, but it would’ve been in vain.  As much as he believed in his rants and opinions, the fact was he was ignorant and certainly didn’t know any better. 

The weekend consisted of horseback riding, dinner at my sisters, and a little bit of reminiscing in the evenings over a glass of wine.  But, I didn’t forget my purpose in visiting.  I still needed to get the private time with my parents to inform them of my wedding.  

The last morning, right before leaving to head back to my home, I went inside the house to have coffee with my parents.  We sat down, and I let them know there was something serious I needed to speak with them about.  I could feel my heart in my throat as I tried to find the right, eloquent words to open up with.  The words didn’t come like I had hoped, and I started out by boldly stating, “I’m getting married this year.”  No words, only silence.  My mom asked, “Is this the guy you’ve been with for the last couple of years?”  “Yes,” I answered.  

I knew my parents’ acceptance of me as their gay son was never going to happen.  For nearly fifteen year we had been battling the terms of how to move forward with any type of relationship.  I will never be invited as their gay son to family holidays or events. My partner or friends will never be accepted or received if I bring them for a visit.  I will never be asked about my life because it is sinful.  I will never be called to see how my day was, or what is new in my life.  The only thing I will receive from my family are hopes and prayers that one day I will return home and turn my life over to God.  And, start the tortuous journey to become cured from homosexuality.  

These were the terms I knew coming out to my family many years ago.  But, I still held onto a hope.  There was still a small ounce of hope inside, and I still believed that perhaps if my family knew how much in love I am, and how wonderful my fiancé is, and how happy I am, they might slightly consider coming to my wedding.  I had the unconditional love and support of my friends and Evan’s family, but I still longed for the acceptance of mine.  Even against the advice and insight of my closest friends (family), I still needed the answer of where I stood with my family after all these years.

My dad quietly answered, “You know…I’m happy.  I have my grandkids, a great retirement and my life is fulfilled.  It’s sad that you’re not in it, but I don’t worry or stress about it anymore.  This is a decision you have made, and you know we can’t accept it.  I wish you the best, and don’t want any harm to come to you, but our lives are filled…without you in it.”

My mother didn’t hesitate to agree with my father.  She was quick to add, “I’ve lost nights of sleep, increased medical concerns due to stress and anxiety worried about whether you’re coming home or not.  I finally had to give it over to God a couple of years ago, and I was given such peace about letting go of my son.”

I couldn’t even cry anymore. I just sat there and asked if there were any other family members who might want to come to the wedding. Quickly, they replied, no.  There were no tears from myself or my parents. There was only a complete understanding of where we stood in our relationship, and how we would move forward.

My parents saw that I was moving forward with my life with the understanding they can’t be a part of it. It was the first conversation we had in nearly fifteen years that didn’t end with a fight.  It was a surreal moment as I gathered my things to leave. We hugged.  The hugs seemed shallow and without connection.  Again, there were no tears, but only an absolution. It wasn’t the closure I wanted, but it was the one I expected. 

Halfway home I couldn’t fight back the hurt and pain anymore.  The tears were too much, and I had to pull over due to not being able to see the road.  This was it. This was the moment and point in my life where I came to the complete understanding and conclusion about my family. My family was nothing more than a biological blood line.  The tears cleared, and I began to pray.  I hadn’t prayed in a long time, but I still needed to know I wasn’t completely forgotten. I prayed that I would have peace, and forgiveness in my heart toward my family.  I prayed they would have peace to always know they raised a good, loving, kind and caring person.  Peace…all I had was peace.

I called my soon to be husband to let him know I was on my way back home…Our Home.  He asked how it went, and I described it as a long, drawn out divorce that finally came to an end.  

I got onto my Pandora and played the song from Shinedown.  Goodbye was my second chance, and I have found more family, life, love and happiness than ever before. 

 All My Love,

Clinton Shane