FAQ’s

Because “The Slightly Off-Kilter Yet Fabulous Episcopalian” was too long for a URL.
Kidding… mostly. I wanted a name that proudly claims who I am: disabled and deeply rooted in the Episcopal tradition. No shame, no hiding, just me showing up—sparkle and all.

My eyesight didn’t just ghost me overnight—it pulled a slow fade starting in 2009. It began with awful headaches and a diagnosis of ocular hypertension, then crept away bit by bit: peripheral vision first, then color, depth, and night vision.
On January 3, 2012, I went to work like it was any other Tuesday… and came home legally blind. Surprise plot twist, right?

Honestly? It was terrifying. Imagine not being able to see your loved ones’ faces. Fear gave way to sadness. Therapy (thank you, social work background) and a whole lot of prayer saved me. My therapist said I had to grieve my vision like the loss of a loved one—and she was right. It was a long, messy, healing journey, and I’m grateful I made it through.

Yep. My optic nerves are basically on a permanent coffee break. They’re not sending the “see this” memo to my brain—even though my actual eyes are structurally fine. My eyes are okay; the wiring behind them? Not so much.

Left eye: a whole lotta nothing. Not even flickers of light.
Right eye: about 20/800 vision with a teeny tiny central pocket of usable sight. Think of it like peeking through the top of a saltshaker. I can see shapes, shadows, and—thanks to technology—even read large print. Sometimes I have to hold things really close, but hey, whatever works.

“Blind” means no sight at all—total darkness.
“Legally blind” means your vision is 20/200 or worse, even with the strongest glasses. For perspective: what a person with 20/20 vision sees at 200 feet, I’d have to be 20 feet away to see (and even then, it’s iffy). Basically: don’t assume “legally blind” means “can’t see anything”—it’s more complicated than that.

Sometimes! The cane is like my VIP pass: it tells others “Hey, I can’t see well, so a little patience would be appreciated.” It helps me detect curbs, steps, and surprise obstacles.
If I’m somewhere familiar (like walking to my mailbox), I skip it. If I’m solo in an unfamiliar place, the cane comes out like a trusty sidekick. Blind folks use different tools—cane, guide dog, human guide, or none at all. I like having options.

Yes, and her name is Teagan—my four-legged, tail-wagging coworker since July 2021, thanks to Fidelco Guide Dog School. She’s nearing retirement (sniffle), and I’m waiting to be matched with my next furry partner-in-crime.

Years of cancer treatments (chemo, radiation, the whole glow-in-the-dark package) left me with post-chemotherapy alopecia. My hair and I had a dramatic breakup, and honestly? I don’t miss the drama.

Once upon a time. But by my 40s, I said “to hell with this itchy mess.” Now I rock a fedora like it’s a crown. Comfortable, stylish, and zero bobby pins required.

As an interfaith minister, I’ve studied and learned about many faith traditions—their doctrines, their worship styles, and the unique ways they express the sacred. I deeply respect the traditions of all faiths and try to find what I call “holy envy”: those beautiful moments in another tradition or prayer that speak straight to my soul.

I collaborate with people of many faiths on social justice issues, helping them serve their communities. As an interfaith chaplain, I can offer spiritual care and pastoral guidance to people of any faith (or no faith) in settings like hospitals, nursing homes, and civic agencies.

I don’t consecrate the sacrament myself, but I can collaborate with faith leaders who provide reserved sacrament for the people I’m called to serve. I’m also able to perform weddings, funerals, and baby namings, and I can administer last rites when needed.

Oh, absolutely. I’ve always felt a deep, steady call to ministry—it’s been humming in the background of my life for as long as I can remember. I even began the formal ordination process in the Diocese of New York. After completing my discernment day, the Commission on Ministry ultimately recommended that I not be made a postulant.

Was it devastating? Completely. But I also respect the canons of my faith, which remind us that ordination depends on both “God’s will and the people consenting.” I trust that if God wants me wearing a clerical collar in the Episcopal Church one day, God will make sure it fits. Until then, I’ll keep ministering exactly where I am.

As an interfaith minister, my mantra is “never instead of, always in addition to.” That wisdom comes from Rabbi Joseph Gelberman, a pioneer in interfaith ministry.

While I am ordained as an interfaith minister, my home denomination is the Episcopal Church. It’s where my heart lives and where my values have been shaped. Becoming a priest in my home faith would allow me to serve as a leader within my denomination, dispense the sacraments, and continue the ecumenical work I love—rooted in the tradition that speaks most to my heart.