I read a post a relative shared on Facebook recently, and it stuck with me all day. I kept turning it over in my mind. He said that “sin is sin,” and that homosexuality is just as bad as murder — and vice versa. Though it pained me a bit, I understand what he was trying to say, but I have a serious problem with that ideology.

I grew up as one of five: my parents, my twin, and an older brother. Our home was far from perfect. Arguments were common, and when my mother’s expectations weren’t met, words could turn sharp and objects could fly. I learned to duck a coffee cup or a lamp more than once. It was survivable—no one died—but it left marks. My mother loved us in her own way, and those rare, awkward hugs often felt worse than the harsh words.