East of Halfdom

Last weekend I attended my grandparents’ fiftieth anniversary party in rural West Valley, NY. It’s a quiet, quaint town with tranquil vistas and calming meadows. I can understand why my grandparents built their large homestead there and mostly why their progeny rarely venture far from there, either.
That said, family shin digs up there always make me uncomfortable. Most of our close-knit relatives live within a 40-minute drive of West Valley; all of my maternal cousins live within the same zip code.
We moved hundreds of miles away when I was five—literally and, apparently, figuratively, too.
I don’t know if I’m projecting my insecurities or if the trickle of second-hand criticisms have gotten to me, but I always feel condescension—a feeling that I’m not as handy, as committed, as grounded as the patriarchy. I have a different last name, which makes my x-half of Boberg genes somehow less than half of my xy.
The funny thing is that I love my life away from this environment. I should. I have a challenging and lucrative job, and I own a national business. I drive an iconic car to an amazing church, where I worship next to my sexy, talented wife. I have a book with my name on the cover, friends literally around the globe, pictures taken from my cameras in eight different countries, a house that feels like home, and more glowing memories than adventures—and that’s saying something. I’m adding value to relationships, which reward me with authentic intimacy and life-altering conversations. My college degree is framed with medals and awards I’ve won both academically and professionally.
If I died today, I’m happy with the content of my obituary. Other than my flippant mouth, I’m embarrassed by little of my life.
In West Valley, I have to defend my lifestyle. In West Valley, my stories are different. In West Valley, I try to fit into their world, even though they want little, if anything, to do with mine. In West Valley, I’m less me; I’m a partial-Ryan.
I wish West Valley weren’t the only place like that. I use the same carefulness around my independent, fundamentalist baptist [IFB] family and friends. They’ve told me I’m being deceived and implied that I’m moving away from God.
I let them condescend. I think that goes back to the college dorm rooms, hotel rooms, living rooms, and telephones during my transition from that world view. Something inside me knew there was more to the Christian life; lazy, I didn’t research my arguments well and gave weak, incomplete, and/or wrong answers.
The Christianity I now know conquered my formerly-prefabricated faith. I was the judgmental fundamentalist with its predisposed reasoning and postures. I’ve been on both sides—fully engaged in both directions. So, I have the perspective none of them own. But even now, when I have the rebuttals that would challenge their clichés, I choose peace and with it impish quietness or insecure attempts at approval.
I shrink away from the Ryan I am at home.
“Lynchburg Ryan” is going places with God I’ve never traveled. I’m seeing a spiritual impact on others’ lives I’ve never seen. I’m making faith steps, enjoying serving, and allowing others into my spiritual junk. I’m part of a community of faith that gets it, that’s seeing constant growth (both deep and wide) and significant life change.
I’m in a good place.
Maybe it’s because I’ve got a clean slate here—and the freedom that comes from that. I don’t doubt that some of the baggage has my luggage tags on it. So, I’m glad I live hundreds of miles from the places where part of me doesn’t come with the rest. But that’s only a partial solution.
Whether I’m ever accepted in West Valley or IFB strongholds, one of my life goals is to take the real me—all of me—boldly everywhere. I don’t know exactly what that looks like, just some of the spectrum of what it doesn’t. But don’t worry: I’ll tell you when I get there.
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