Living with AIDS:
A Personal Journey

continued from

I was, and probably still am, a religious innocent. I still harbor a childlike desire to really see Jesus, talk with Him, ask Him a few questions. So, the question of when and where Christ is actually present has always been important to me.

I can tell you truthfully that I have seen Christ. When I see someone holding a person with AIDS who is crying desperately, I know I am in the presence of holiness. I know Christ is present. He is there in those comforting arms. He is there in the tears. He is there in love, truly and fully. There stands my Savior. Critics notwithstanding, He is here in the church, in the person sitting next to me in the pew on Sunday, in my pastor who has shared tears with me on more than one occasion, in the widow at church who is helping us to set up an AIDS caring network. And you can be a part of that.

But, finally, you will be called upon to grieve; yet, you will know you have made a difference, and you will realize you have gained more than you could ever have given. An old, old story really . . . about 2,000 years old.

I am reminded about a song recently released titled: "In The Real World". Part of the lyrics read: "In dreams we do so many things. We set aside the rules we know and fly above the world so high, in great and shining rings. If only we could always live in dreams. If only we could make of life what in dreams, it seems. But in the real world we must say real good-byes, no matter if the love will live, it will never die. In the real world there are things that we can't change and endings come to us in ways that we can't rearrange."

When I was asked to contribute to this Focus Paper, it was suggested that I try to make it a statement of challenge to the church. I have no idea if I've accomplished that goal or not. It sometimes seems that a challenge should not be necessary since we are dealing with the most basic and fundamental tenets of our religion. If we cannot respond to those with AIDS (at whatever stage) as Christians, what is to become of us, what is to become of our church?

Evely also tells this story:

"The good are densely clustered at the gate of heaven, eager to march in, sure of their reserved seats, keyed up and bursting with impatience. All at once a rumor starts spreading: 'It seems He is going to forgive those others, too!' For a minute, everyone is dumbfounded. They look at one another in disbelief, gasping and sputtering, 'After all the trouble I went through!' 'If only I'd have known this . . .' 'I just can't get over it!' Exasperated, they work themselves into a fury and start cursing God; and at that very instant they're damned. That was the final judgment, you see. They judged themselves, . . . Love appeared, and they refused to acknowledge it . . . . 'We don't approve of a heaven that's open to every Tom, Dick and Harry.' 'We spurn this God who lets everyone off.' 'We can't love a God who loves so foolishly.' And because they didn't love Love, they didn't recognize Him."

As we say in the Midwest, it's time to "hitch up your britches" and get involved. The consequences of not caring, not loving are much too severe. One final story. Soon after I had discovered I had AIDS, the most important person in my life brought home a small package of seeds. They were sunflowers. We lived in a small apartment with a tiny patio with a bare patch of earth - really more of a flower box than any sort of a garden. He said he was going to plant the sunflowers in the "garden". Okay, I thought. Our luck with growing things had never been tremendous, especially such large plants as pictured on the package in such a small plot of ground. And I had much more important fish to fry. I was, after all, dying of AIDS and I had never paid much attention to anything as mundane as flowers in a flower box.

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He planted the seeds and they took hold. By summertime, they stood at least seven feet high with glorious, bright yellow blooms. The blossoms followed the sun religiously and the patio became a hive of activity as bees of all descriptions hovered relentlessly around the sunflowers. Out of row upon row w of apartments which were indistinguishable from one another, it was always easy for me to spot our patio with those great halos of yellow towering high above the fence. How precious those sunflowers became. I knew I was coming home: home to someone who loved me. When I saw those sunflowers, I knew that everything, in the end, would be alright.

For those of you who do care and find yourself ready to make this kind of Christian commitment, I would like it very much if you could come to my house. We wouldn't do a whole lot. We would just sit on kitchen chairs, have some iced tea, and watch the bees in the sunflowers.

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Written in 1989. Last reviewed: 10/05

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