THE PROMISE

My friend Jacque died on October 9, 2008. She was only sixty six years old. She was the matriarch of a family I’ve known for more than twenty years now.

I met Larry and Jacque’s daughter Tobia in Los Angeles while doing a summer internship in college. Once I met the folks I was taken in as one of their own. I was invited on camping trips to Mount Lassen and Yosemite. There was never a holiday where I wasn’t included. I loved them all but Jacque and I had a special bond. We were kindred spirits. Jacque was a devout Christian woman devoted to her faith – yet it didn’t at all faze her that I was gay. Not once did she try to convert me. Not once did she attempt to shame me or guilt me into believing that my lifestyle was sinful. She met my partner on more than one occasion and always showered him with nothing but love.

I’ll never forget the afternoon I received that urgent call from Tobia: “Lar – you should come now. It’s critical.”

I hopped into my truck and drove straight to Sacramento. I hadn’t seen Jacque since the previous Christmas. Then I’d seen only the beginnings of what cancer does to the body.

I didn’t know what to expect when I got to the hospital. I asked Larry to meet me in the lobby. I needed a little debriefing before just waltzing in her room with a big bouquet of flowers. Walking down the hallway I made up my mind that I would show no shock in my face. It was tough . . . but within just a few short moments I was quickly able to see past the human body ravaged by cancer. All I saw was a beautiful woman.

The hour I spent with Jacque that night was the last lucid moment I had with her before she died. Her departing words I’ll never forget. Tobia sat on one side of the bed. I sat on the other. Over and over, “Treasure every moment . . . treasure . . . precious . . . treasure”. There we sat, all holding hands, looking into each other’s eyes, saying our goodbyes.

I told her to look up my granddaddy when she got to heaven, letting her know she’d probably find him on a golf course. And I told her to give me a sign every now and then – throw down a quarter or something.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a quarter, pressed it gently into the palm of her withered hand: “Promise me”.

She struggled to make a feeble fist, mustered up all the strength she had left, and hurled the shiny coin to the floor. I leaned close, and whispered in her ear, “And if you really want to get my attention, make it a bicentennial, sweetness”.

She died the following week. Her life was celebrated with exuberance. I was a pallbearer.

After the graveside service a friend and I found a dive bar where gin and tonics were only two bucks. Reverently we ordered our drinks and began to sip, not saying a word to one another. As the weathered bartender brought us our change, she apologized that she had to give it to us in quarters as she had run out of one dollar bills. She pressed the loose change into the palm of my hand and there lay two bicentennial quarters . . . and now they show up often – in random places – seemingly at times of struggle – and I smile because I know my dear friend is fulfilling her promise.
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Two friends, Larry and Chris, whose joint stint in New Hope ministries, a communal “reparative therapy” (or “ex-gay”) program, has sparked a friendship lasting almost twenty years. Through those years Larry and Chris have struggled to discover who they are as spiritual gay men whose relationship with God could never be taken away or denied.

They’ve fought, they’ve laughed, they’ve loved and somehow, through Guidance neither could have foreseen, they’ve found their way to loving and accepting themselves as gay men … gay men who are loved by God, just as they are.

These are their stories.