I’ve never been to a Pride Parade before, let alone walked in one.
It’s the crowds, you see, and the heat, as I told a friend.
But after the tragedy at Pulse in Florida, I felt a pull toward showing my support for the LGBTQI community, but by that time entries into the parade had closed.
No worries, our new deacon at Good Sam got a small handful of us organized and we walked with St. Paul’s Cathedral, along with about four other churches on Saturday.
|Three church ladies walk in a parade...|
As we waited our turn to go, we cheered wildly for the various police departments and law enforcement that passed us by. Because, Dallas. I have no idea how San Diego measures up against the reformed police department in Dallas, but in that moment, it didn’t matter.
I looked up at the streamers carried by the St. Bart’s youth, that usually represent the Holy Spirit at Pentecost in church. And here they were in the world.
Yes, I thought. The Holy Spirit is here.
Or rather, it was a reminder that the Holy Spirit was present, because the Holy Spirit/God is everywhere.
For me, walking in the parade wasn’t about showing how my church is a safe space for LGBTQI, although it is.
For me, it was an expression of love.
What I didn’t expect was to be loved back.
There were hugs and high fives. Eyes met and grins were exchanged.
“Happy Pride!” the watchers yelled. “Happy Pride!” I yelled back, waving until my arm was sore and then some.
The parade was over before I knew it even though it felt like we waited forever to get started (we, did, about an hour, I think.)
I can’t wait to celebrate again next year with people who revel in being free to be who they are and to love who they love. Which at the Pride Parade, seems to be just about everybody.
I also want to be a mermaid next year with blue hair and shiny cotton candy pink scales. But I might settle for digging out my fluorescent pink socks.