The Roses

Don't, under any circumstance, open yourself up to the possibilities unless you are ready to pay the price. The questions start out small and seemingly harmless, but become like fine sandpaper on the surface of truth.

There are on my table a dozen red roses, a gift from Darrell's mother. These roses, beautiful and real, confirm what I believe to be our purpose here: to play our part in the Great Workings of the universe. From the ground, looking up, it is difficult to comprehend that. However, the evidence of that fact can be found all around us. Like the roses on my table.

On January 1, 1988, Mike and I began our work with Persons With AIDS. On August 2, 1989 I gave the final tribute at the wake of Darrell Marcell Smith: born April 4, 1958, died July 31, 1989. One and one-half years of simple kindness and loving mercy put me before a room filled with Darrell's people. But it was I who was privileged to tell about him.

What's the big deal about knowing a young, gay, black man? To be allowed into the experience of those who are dying; to be called upon because no one else will do; to receive their final tears and sadness is to become part of them and allow them to become a part of you.

If you hold on to that little bit of them that remains within you, and they take with them that little bit of you that is within them, then the Kingdom of God comes — there and here. And the more that happens, the smaller the space between us and God. The fusion of all there is with all that can be.

And the roses, these marvelous, incredible roses. They exist not only here on my table, but also within the garden of God. It is only our finite minds and hearts that keep us from becoming one — with each other, with our universe, and with our God.