Stonewall Revisted

How deep is the anguish when your son says he is homosexual? And, later, that he is dying of AIDS? I know, because these things have happened to me.

"I've decided to let you know another part of me. That is-I'm gay. It is only out of my experience of your absolute love for me that I can share this with you."

"Take this burden, Lord," I prayed. "I cannot bear it. My precious son-I give him to You. Love him. Keep him close to You. . ."

The enemy began pelting me with guilt. Where have I failed? Haven't I prayed for him a thousand nights? Didn't I model Christian principles? Why me?

That night, I lay awake for hours, going over our life with Roger, the middle of our three children. He had been so gifted, so compassionate. How long had he struggled with an identity problem?

After we regained our balance from the blow, we exchanged letters regularly with Roger, always being careful not to address issues that might alienate us. The fear of loss haunted me.

Our son joined the San Francisco Gay Men's Chorus and went on their 1981 summer tour. When he invited us to a performance in nearby Lincoln, Nebraska, we agonized over the decision.

My husband, Marvin, felt strongly that our attendance would indicate approval of the homosexual life-style. I prayed for wisdom as I wrote a letter indicating our reasons for declining.

A reply from Roger soon followed: "Your letter hurt me so deeply that I am going away from you to heal. I have never been so totally put down in my entire life or had my self-esteem so damaged. . ."

Anguish cut through my heart like a razor. Night after night my pillow was drenched with tears. Why was I led to write that letter? Had I not listened to the Lord's counsel?

After six weeks, I started writing to Roger again, sharing news about family and local happenings. Day by day I turned over my anxieties to the Lord and trusted Him to bring about a healing in our relationship.

Finally, four months later, Roger sent a brief letter. The silence was broken. The Lord was answering our prayers.

I received further encouragement when Betty, a dear friend, shared with me a passage from Jeremiah: "Restrain your voice from weeping and your eyes from tears. . . . There is hope for your future. . . Your children will return to their own land." (31:16,17)

I immediately applied these words to Roger's repentance and restoration. During the following months, I clung to those verses for hope.

Several years dragged by. One Saturday in August, 1985, Marvin and I were relaxing in our den when the phone rang. It was Roger in San Francisco. He'd been ill, and he recited details of multiple infections he'd had since the beginning of the year.

"It seems so strange to me that you have all these infections, one right after another," I finally blurted out.

"Well, Mom," came his overwhelming response, "I don't have an immune system!"

My breath came in short gasps. "Do you have. . .AIDS?" I wanted to hold my ears shut so I couldn't hear his answer, but I already knew the truth.

"Yes." The word sounded deep and sad, like a death knell.

It can't be true, I thought numbly. Haven't we suffered enough? Haven't we prayed for our only son night and day to be protected from sin and evil?

The next Sunday morning, Marvin and I were in church as usual. I felt like exploding. I couldn't conceal the awful secret-but who would understand? And would others point the blame at us?

We were part of a small group that met every Sunday morning before worship in our church. Boldly yet tearfully we told the group of our plans to take a hurried, unexpected trip to San Francisco to see our son who was terminally ill.

Immediately they surmised it was cancer. With trembling lips I spoke the truth: "No, he has AIDS."

There was a stunned silence, then an outpouring of love that carried us through the following weeks and months. I don't know how we could have survived without our Christian friends.

Our family was also supportive. Sheryl, our oldest daughter, and her husband, Leo, insisted on coming with us to see Roger, so we drove together out to California.

During the long hours on the road, I asked myself many questions. How sick was Roger? Could he still walk? How contagious was AIDS, really?

As Roger greeted each of us with an affectionate hug, it was hard to hold back tears. This tall, gaunt figure with a scaly skin condition all over his body was our dear son! He walked with a cane and clung to nearby furniture for support.

I was glad to see him, but his appearance broke my heart. We talked a long time, then prepared to depart to a nearby motel.

"Mom, before you leave I'd like you to do something for me, if you would," Roger said wistfully.

"Of course, if I can," I answered. "What is it?"

"I'd like for you to rub my back."

What an opportunity! As I poured on the oil, I recalled the promise of James 5:16 for healing and forgiveness after anointing and prayers of faith. As I rubbed Roger's back, I thanked the Lord for what He was going to accomplish in our lives through this trial.

In the following days, we cleaned Roger's apartment, cooked meals, fixed medications, bought groceries and ran errands. On our last evening, we gathered around his bed.

"I want to thank you for your love," he said, his voice husky. His eyes filled with tears. "I know that I'm going to die, and I want you to know I'm ready."

For over two hours, Roger told us about his fears, struggles and disappointments. He informed us of his business liabilities and assets, his desire to be cremated and buried beside our plot.

"What do you want us to tell the relatives and friends back home?" Marvin asked as we prepared to leave.

"Tell them to pray for me, and send letters and cards," he said in a tired voice.

Over the following months, Roger's phone calls increased. Gradually he was growing more debilitated. Then one day he called from the hospital.

"I have pneumocystis," he announced, referring to a type of pneumonia common in AIDS patients. "Pray for a miracle."

As I lifted up this new crisis, I had a deep assurance of God's intervention. I believed Roger would be healed of the pneumonia, and he did recuperate. But new illnesses continued to invade his body: gastrointestinal disease, amoebic dysentery, mouth ulcers, psoriasis. Because of my nurse's training, Roger called me regularly for health advice.

Then his conversations began to show signs of dementia: short attention span, rapid jumping from one topic to another, memory loss.

"I'm suffering so much," he said one morning. "I'm tired of fighting. Could. . .could I have your blessing to just give up?" Marvin and I said yes, our voices trembling.

Another time, a hospice worker called to tell us Roger was being taken to San Francisco General's psychiatric ward. "I'm putting him on a 72- hour hold until you can get here and decide what to do. Can you come right away?"

Her words stunned me. I didn't know Roger's mental condition was so serious. I learned later he had thrown new furniture down the stairwell of his building, scorched pots and pans on the stove, burned candles down to their holders. . .then dismissed all his care-givers because he didn't need their help! I shook my head in bewilderment. How deadly the AIDS virus had become.

Even at this point in Roger's illness, he longed for the pleasure of normal family experiences. "If only I could have been straight," he sobbed one day. "I would so much have loved to have a family of my own and children to love. Will you forgive me for the heartaches I've caused you?"

Marvin and I made several more trips to San Francisco, always on short notice and in response to a new health crisis. Back home, friends came by to encourage us and give us gifts in times of need.

Through the whole experience, God was faithful to His promises. "Come, I will give you rest," He spoke to me one day through Matt. 11:28. I was tired in body, broken in spirit. I raised my hands and gave my weariness to Him.

"It's now for you to carry, Lord. Roger belongs to you." I wept, and the burden lifted.

Roger spent his last weeks in a San Francisco hospice. Ruth Buxman, a local Mennonite pastor, was a daily visitor, offering companionship, comfort and guidance. During their many hours together, Ruth helped Roger find peace and forgiveness with the Lord. Another of our prayers answered!

Then came the phone call we'd been expecting-but dreading-for so long. Roger's condition was critical.

During the hurried flight west, I felt surrounded by an amazing calm. When we arrived at Roger's side, I wasn't prepared for the sight. He was packed in ice, his eyes glassy, his breathing labored. I hardly recognized him.

"I'm. . .dying," he whispered.

"It's okay," I said as we embraced for a long time. He was burning hot in spite of the ice packs.

"Are you ready to see Jesus?" I asked him.

He nodded, and I read some Bible promises. "Let not your heart be troubled. There are many rooms in my Father's house. . . Peace I leave with you. . ."

About 1:00 a.m. I noticed Roger's breathing had changed to gasping, and I knew the end was near. His pulse was thready. . .then imperceptible. I watched as he took his last breath.

"The Lord has given. The Lord has taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord," I choked out between sobs.

Roger's long journey was over. We had loved him to the end. He was now safe in the arms of his heavenly Father. And beneath the pain, I was at peace.

Adapted by permission from the book, A Time to Love by Helen M. Hostetler. Distributed by Love In Action, PO Box 753307, Memphis, TN 38175-3307; 901/542-0250

Email this to a friend