Dust, Distance, and the Wisdom of Impermanence

This Lent carries a weight I didn’t expect.

On Ash Wednesday—while Christians around the world heard the ancient words “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return”—a dear friend of mine returned to God. Her name was Barbara. She and her husband, Jerry, were among the first people to welcome me into Loomis First United Methodist Church back in 2013. For thirteen years, they have been woven into my story with a kind of steady, unassuming grace.

From what I understand, Barbara became ill on Monday, February 16, and by February 18 she was gone. The swiftness of it still feels unreal.

When I think back on my years in Loomis, I remember how she and Jerry held me with tenderness. They celebrated James and my tenth wedding anniversary. They stood with us at our vow renewal in 2018. They showed up—not just for the milestones, but for the quiet, ordinary moments that make a life feel rooted.

Now, living here in Washington, I feel the ache of distance more sharply than ever. I’ll travel back for her memorial service when it’s scheduled, but right now it’s hard to feel helpful or supportive from so far away. I know Jerry is grieving. I know the church family is grieving. And I feel disconnected from the people who once held me so closely.

Lent has always been a season of reflection, repentance, and returning. In the United Methodist tradition, it’s a time to slow down and look honestly at our lives—our fragility, our limits, our need for grace. We remember that life is finite and yet deeply sacred. We remember that Jesus walked willingly into the wilderness, into suffering, into death itself, not to glorify pain but to transform it.

But this year, Lent is asking something deeper of me.

Barbara’s passing has pulled my attention toward my own mortality—not in a fearful way, but in a clarifying one. And interestingly, the wisdom traditions outside Christianity echo the same invitation.

Buddhist teachers speak of anicca—impermanence—as the truth that makes every moment precious.

Hindu philosophy describes death as a doorway, a transition of the soul rather than an ending.

Indigenous traditions often speak of ancestors walking with us, reminding us that the boundary between here and beyond is thinner than we imagine.

Even secular mindfulness practices teach that noticing our breath, our aging bodies, our changing lives is a way of waking up to what matters.

Different languages, different metaphors—yet all pointing toward the same truth:

Life is brief.

Love is urgent.

Presence is sacred.

The ashes on our foreheads are not meant to shame us; they are meant to wake us. They remind us that our days are numbered, and therefore infinitely valuable. They remind us that community is a gift, not a guarantee. They remind us that the people who shape us—like Barbara—are part of the great tapestry of grace that holds us all.

United Methodists talk often about grace—prevenient, justifying, sanctifying. Grace that goes before us, meets us, shapes us. As I sit with Barbara’s memory, I realize how much of God’s grace came to me through her life. Through her welcome. Through her presence. Through her quiet, steady faithfulness.

And maybe that’s the invitation of this Lent:

to honor the people who have carried us,

to bless the ones who have returned to the Mystery,

and to live the days we have left with intention and tenderness.

I don’t know what the rest of this season will hold. But I do know this: Barbara’s life was a blessing. Her death has become a teacher. And even in grief, grace is still moving—across traditions, across distances, across the fragile, beautiful span of a human life.

Dust to dust.

Love to love.

Grace upon grace.

Our precious gem - Norbu

Our dogs have been such an important part of our life together. Norbu was the first dog that James and I adopted together.

Norbu, whose name means “wish-fulfilling gem” in Tibetan, was chosen by my husband for its special significance. Norbu joined our family on August 28, 2010, estimated to be between one and two years old at the time. His early life was marked by trauma—he spent time on the streets and was labeled “un-adoptable” by the pound due to his fearfulness and tendency to bite. Despite this, we found him at a rescue center in Elk Grove, and from the very first day, he formed a strong bond with us. He and his new sister, Willow, became inseparable, and Norbu’s gentle nature won our hearts, quirks and all.

On November 28, 2018, Norbu experienced his first seizure, which soon escalated to frequent, intense episodes—sometimes as many as eight to ten within half an hour. After two years of dedicated care, we managed to control his seizures, and he remained seizure-free for over eighteen months. In November 2020, Norbu faced a serious bout of pancreatitis, and we feared for his life.

A month after Willow passed away from liver cancer in September 2021, Norbu was diagnosed with a heart murmur and an enlarged heart. The prognosis was grim, but we responded with determination: strict diets, costly medications, and special food kept him vibrant and happy.

Everything changed on March 29, 2024, when Norbu’s lungs began filling with fluid and he started coughing up pinkish phlegm. Despite his resilience, by noon the next day, it was clear his suffering had become too great—his kidneys were failing, and his breathing was labored. He remained on oxygen, and James and I were able to be with him during his final moments.

Norbu’s absence is deeply felt. As he slipped away, I whispered for him to find Willow, so they could play together once more. In my heart, I believe they are reunited.

Rest peacefully, dear Norbu. We miss him terribly.

For Michael - Happy Heavenly Birthday

I was nine and a half years old when my baby brother came barreling into my life — though “barreling” might be generous, because in late summer of 1969, when Momma and Daddy told Craig and me we were getting a new brother or sister, I was not thrilled. Not even a little. We had finally moved into a house where Craig and I each had our own bedrooms, our own space, our own little kingdoms. And now here came this baby, threatening to upset the delicate balance of everything I held dear.

But then Christmas rolled around, and Momma let me feel the baby kick for the first time. Something shifted in me. Suddenly this wasn’t just “the baby.” This was a tiny person doing somersaults under Momma’s skin, and I was enchanted. And convinced — absolutely convinced — that I was getting a baby sister out of the deal. I had already named her in my head. I was ready.

On February 12th, 1970, a family member showed up at school to pick Craig and me up early. When we got home, Daddy told us we had a new baby brother.

A brother.

Named Michael Anthony Fisher.

I was crushed. I didn’t even care to meet him that day. I had been promised a sister by the universe, and the universe had failed spectacularly.

But then I saw him.

And just like that, disappointment didn’t stand a chance. I fell head over heels for that baby boy. I bottle‑fed him. I changed his cloth diapers — which should qualify me for some kind of medal. I carried him around the house like he was my own personal responsibility. I couldn’t get enough of him.

For years, we joked about how I never got over not getting my baby sister. And Michael, with that dry wit of his, would always say, “Ray, you already filled the role of princess in the family. There wasn’t room for another one.” He wasn’t wrong.

Today, I celebrate his legacy — the boy I adored, the man he became, the brother who made my life bigger, softer, and funnier.

He died on October 8th, 2020 from liver cancer. I miss him every day. And as much as it aches, I can’t help but feel a little jealous that he got to see Momma and Daddy before I did. I imagine the reunion was something beautiful.

Until it’s my turn, I carry him with me — in memory, in laughter, in the stories that still make me smile. My brother. My almost‑baby‑sister. My Michael.

My Life in Christian Music (Or: How a Gay Kid Accidentally Toured the Country Singing About Jesus)

I was 14 years old when I first stepped onto a church platform with my family — The Uplifters. We were exactly what the name promised: earnest, enthusiastic, and held together by equal parts harmony and hope. Dad played guitar, Craig held down the bass, Mom sang alto like she was born doing it, and I was the kid at the piano trying to look confident while silently praying my fingers wouldn’t betray me. That little church was our world, and for a while, it felt like enough.

But then the road started calling.

At 15, I joined a local group called The Traveliers — spelled like that because Christians love a creative vowel. We mostly played within 150 miles of home, which meant I was still close enough for Mom to worry but far enough to feel like I was doing something big. I even recorded my first album with them: Sail On Christian Friend. I was a teenager with a vinyl record. You couldn’t tell me anything.

By 16, I’d leveled up to The Redeemer’s Quartet out of Jacksonville, NC. I came on as the pianist, but when their baritone quit, they looked at me like, “Well, he’s breathing — put him in.” Next thing I knew, I was singing on an album called Introducing the Redeemer’s. My first recorded vocal. Immortalized forever. God help us all.

We toured up and down the East Coast, and I learned two things:

1. Gospel music people are some of the wildest folks you’ll ever meet.
2. A 16-year-old with a suitcase and a two vinyl records under his belt is unstoppable.

At 17, I left the Redeemer’s to follow their tenor — also named Ray — to a group called The Singing Journeymen. (If you’re noticing a theme in these group names, yes: Southern Gospel is 50 percent harmony and 50 percent branding.) I recorded my third album with them, God’s Handiwork, while the group reorganized more times than a church potluck committee.

Then came 1979 — the year I won both the local and regional talent competitions in the Pentecostal Holiness Church. I walked into Nationals ready to conquer the world… and promptly choked. Third place. I was not playing my best that day, and honestly, I’m still a little salty about it.

I graduated high school that same year and briefly worked as a bank teller, which is hilarious because I should never be trusted with other people’s money. Thankfully, fate intervened: I got an audition with my all-time favorite group, The Rex Nelon Singers.

Rex Nelon was gospel royalty — years with The Lefevre’s, an iconic Gospel music family with a massive recording studio in Atlanta, a nationally syndicated TV show (Gospel Singing Caravan). I idolized him. So when I drove nine hours to audition at his house in January 1980, I was a wreck. And it showed. I bombed. Hard. Rex called a few days later to say he was “going in a different direction,” which is Christian for “Bless your heart, but no.”

I was devastated.

But the universe wasn’t done with me. A few weeks later, Rex and the group were singing at a church near my hometown. I went, marched up to him afterward, and begged for another chance — this time with the whole group. And honey, I delivered. I played every song they threw at me and left scorch marks on that piano. Rex offered me the job on the spot.

Two weeks later, March 1980, I moved to Atlanta — my first time living on my own. I was 18, terrified, thrilled, and absolutely certain I was exactly where I was meant to be.

And honestly? I had some incredible experiences with The Rex Nelon Singers (later just The Nelons). I played the Grand Ole Opry at 22. We were nominated for a Grammy in 1983. We won two Dove Awards. We toured the U.S., Canada, and parts of the Caribbean. From the outside, it looked like a dream. I did studio work, met some amazing musicians/performers like Ricky Skaggs, Larrie London, Crystal Gayle, Minnie Pearl, Dolly Parton...and so many others.

But inside… something else was happening.

I was becoming aware — painfully aware — that I was attracted to men. And in the world I came from, that wasn’t just inconvenient. It was a crisis. This was the height of the AIDS epidemic, when Christian media was full of fear, condemnation, and “turn or burn” sermons. I carried shame like a second skin.

Still, loneliness has a way of pushing you toward truth. I ventured out. I met drag queens. I met other gay men. I made friends — real friends — like Rodney, Kathleen, and Ron, who saw me without judgment, without fear, without the theological fine print.

And then, in 1986, Rex found out I’d been going to gay clubs.

Suddenly I had a choice: deny who I was or walk away from the only life I’d ever known.

I walked away.

Atlanta had become home over those six years, so I stayed. I worked whatever jobs I could find. And then the AIDS crisis hit my world like a tidal wave. Friends got sick. Friends died. Ron — sweet, gentle Ron — was one of them.

I watched the LGBTQ+ community show up for each other with a fierce, tender love I had never seen in the church that raised me. And I watched that same church — the one that preached love — turn its back.

That was the real education. The real gospel. The real awakening.

And it changed me forever.