A Time to Love A Time To Love
By Helen Hostetler
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 havehappened to me.
It was a mild February day in 1978 when I opened a letter from ourson, Roger, who lived an hour south of San Francisco. He shared abouthis work, his new exercise routine, a recent training seminar. Thencame the shocking news:
“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 absolutelove for me that I can share this with you.”
My mouth felt dry, my heart racing. I stared out my kitchen windowtoward the oak trees framed by billowy clouds in the wide Kansas sky.Agonized sobs wrenched through my body.
“Take this burden, Lord,” I prayed. “I cannot bear it. My preciousson-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 Christianprinciples? Why me?
That night, I lay awake for hours,going over our life with Roger, the middle of our three children. Hehad been so gifted, so compassionate. How long had he struggled withan identity problem?
After we regained our balance from the blow, we exchanged lettersregularly with Roger, always being careful not to address issues thatmight alienate us. The fear of loss haunted me.
Our son joined the San Francisco Gay Men’s Chorus and went ontheir 1981 summer tour. When he invited us to a performance in nearbyLincoln, Nebraska, we agonized over the decision.
My husband, Marvin, felt strongly that our attendance wouldindicate approval of the homosexual life-style. I prayed for wisdomas I wrote a letter indicating our reasons for declining.
A reply from Roger soon followed: “Your letter hurt me so deeplythat I am going away from you to heal. I have never been so totallyput down in my entire life or had my self-esteem so damaged. . .”
Anguish cut through my heart like a razor. Night after night mypillow 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 newsabout family and local happenings. Day by day I turned over myanxieties to the Lord and trusted Him to bring about a healing in ourrelationship.
Finally, four months later, Roger sent a brief letter. The silencewas broken. The Lord was answering our prayers.
I received further encouragement when Betty, a dear friend, sharedwith me a passage from Jeremiah: “Restrain your voice from weepingand 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 andrestoration. During the following months, I clung to those verses forhope.
Several years dragged by. One Saturday in August, 1985, Marvin andI were relaxing in our den when the phone rang. It was Roger in SanFrancisco. He’d been ill, and he recited details of multipleinfections he’d had since the beginning of the year.
“It seems so strange to me that you have all these infections, oneright after another,” I finally blurted out.
“Well, Mom,” came his overwhelming response, “I don’t have animmune system!”
My breath came in short gasps. “Do you have. . .AIDS?” I wanted tohold my ears shut so I couldn’t hear his answer, but I already knewthe 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 fromsin and evil?
The next Sunday morning, Marvin and I were in church as usual. Ifelt like exploding. I couldn’t conceal the awful secret-but whowould understand? And would others point the blame at us?
We were part of a small group that met every Sunday morning beforeworship in our church. Boldly yet tearfully we told the group of ourplans to take a hurried, unexpected trip to San Francisco to see ourson who was terminally ill.
Immediately they surmised it was cancer. With trembling lips Ispoke the truth: “No, he has AIDS.”
There was a stunned silence, then an outpouring of love thatcarried us through the following weeks and months. I don’t know howwe could have survived without our Christian friends.
Our family was also supportive. Sheryl, our oldest daughter, andher husband, Leo, insisted on coming with us to see Roger, so wedrove 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 hardto hold back tears. This tall, gaunt figure with a scaly skincondition all over his body was our dear son! He walked with a caneand clung to nearby furniture for support.
I was glad to see him, but his appearance broke my heart. Wetalked 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 youwould,” 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 thepromise of James 5:16 for healing and forgiveness after anointing andprayers of faith. As I rubbed Roger’s back, I thanked the Lord forwhat 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 lastevening, we gathered around his bed.
“I want to thank you for your love,” he said, his voice husky. Hiseyes filled with tears. “I know that I’m going to die, and I want youto know I’m ready.”
For over two hours, Roger told us about his fears, struggles anddisappointments. He informed us of his business liabilities andassets, 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 ina tired voice.
Over the following months, Roger’s phone calls increased.Gradually he was growing more debilitated. Then one day he calledfrom the hospital.
“I have pneumocystis,” he announced, referring to a type ofpneumonia common in AIDS patients. “Pray for a miracle.”
As I lifted up this new crisis, I had a deep assurance of God’sintervention. I believed Roger would be healed of the pneumonia, andhe 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 healthadvice.
Then his conversations began to show signs of dementia: shortattention span, rapid jumping from one topic to another, memory loss.
“I’m suffering so much,” he said one morning. “I’m tired offighting. 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 beingtaken to San Francisco General’s psychiatric ward. “I’m putting himon a 72- hour hold until you can get here and decide what to do. Canyou come right away?”
Her words stunned me. I didn’t know Roger’s mental condition wasso serious. I learned later he had thrown new furniture down thestairwell of his building, scorched pots and pans on the stove,burned candles down to their holders. . .then dismissed all hiscare-givers because he didn’t need their help! I shook my head inbewilderment. How deadly the AIDS virus had become.
Even at this point in Roger’s illness, he longed for the pleasureof 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 myown and children to love. Will you forgive me for the heartaches I’vecaused you?”
Marvin and I made several more trips to San Francisco, always onshort 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 andgave 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. RuthBuxman, a local Mennonite pastor, was a daily visitor, offeringcompanionship, comfort and guidance. During their many hourstogether, 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 solong. Roger’s condition was critical.
During the hurried flight west, I felt surrounded by an amazingcalm. When we arrived at Roger’s side, I wasn’t prepared for thesight. 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 burninghot 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 betroubled. There are many rooms in my Father’s house. . . Peace Ileave with you. . .”
About 1:00 a.m. I noticed Roger’s breathing had changed togasping, and I knew the end was near. His pulse was thready. . .thenimperceptible. I watched as he took his last breath.
“The Lord has given. The Lord has taken away. Blessed be the nameof the Lord,” I choked out between sobs.
Roger’s long journey was over. We had loved him to the end. He wasnow safe in the arms of his heavenly Father. And beneath the pain, Iwas at peace.
Adapted by permission from the book, A Time to Love by HelenM. Hostetler. Distributed by Love In Action, PO Box 753307, Memphis,TN 38175-3307; 901/542-0250