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My career trajectory over the last four years has my dad doing a lot of hand wringing. I've gone from working as an aide for James Dobson, to ministering to male prostitutes, to making café lattes at a Chicago coffee shop. But even that path seems normal considering that once, 12 years ago, I went from serving in media relations at the National Organization for Women, to serving in media relations at Focus on the Family. Translation: I swallowed the culture and spit out a feminist worldview; then, within a short period, I swallowed the culture and spit out a conservative Christian worldview. Needless to say, I've wrestled fiercely with worldview and faith.

My job as a barista puts me smack dab in the "real world"—which to me, means not defending an abortion clinic, leading nonviolent civil-disobedience trainings, stalking an anti-abortion activist at 3 A.M., or writing a news release on "Banned Books Week" (or Lorena Bobbitt). Nor is it stepping into a college auditorium knowing that my story of coming to Christ and out of homosexuality could elicit tears, laughter, ridicule, and even protests.

With a history like this, pulling perfect shots of espresso and steaming pitchers of milk are middle-ground activities.

Janet is a coffee-shop regular. She's a brilliant writer, and her warmth and dry humor remind me of my good friend Kathy in Colorado Springs. Janet is also a lesbian.

For weeks now, she has suggested that we exchange writing assignments (and spend time hanging out). From the moment she made the proposal, I've thought "bad idea"—especially since one of my most recent projects was writing nine articles for Focus on the Family on being married to a gay spouse. My manager at the coffee shop is a lesbian, as is my district manager and assistant manager. Getting to know these women reminds me of the tremendous friendships I had in the gay and lesbian community. It's also a painful reminder of what I left behind when I made the decision to follow Christ.

In the past eleven years, I've had a proverbial foot in each world, which I've found to be both a blessing and a curse. It's a blessing because it helps me err on the side of grace when dealing with someone with a different worldview; the humanity of my ideological "opponent" is always part of the conversation, so there's an authentic avenue by which to evangelize; and because it helps me avoid demonizing my past.

The curse part is always present, too: Wanting to throttle gay and lesbian activists because I once used hypocritical rhetoric for political gain myself; the nagging feeling that I knew more community in the gay community than as a Christian; dealing with the reality of sexual temptation that may always be with me (I opened doors sexually that God never meant to be opened); and recalling what it felt like to be just out of college and filled with passion so explosive that I believed I alone could create lasting cultural change.

Now I'm in the daily grind, surrounded by lesbian women and asking, "Does God want me to risk $8.50 an hour—and rock-solid health insurance—by sharing my story? Is the Devil testing my commitment?" I've shared my testimony countless times before, but now there are no co-workers at Focus gushing that I'm brave and loved. There's nothing to buffer me from harsh criticism, no comrades to swap war stories with, no sharp career to protect my ego—just me and God taking a stand for truth. (Of course, when I was on stage in a lecture hall full of students, it was just me and God standing for truth!)

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March 2008, Vol. 52, No. 3