This is perhaps one of my favorite stories. I told it for the first time at my mother’s memorial service. Even as I told it, I could hear her voice say my name, “DAY-vid … I don’t remember that at ALL.”
I remember my ordination well. It was the culmination of years of hard work and study. I no longer have the piece of paper that proved me to be a pastor. Instead, comma I have shoeboxes full of cards and notes from people over the years affirming that call.
My parents were not ones for frequent public displays of affection. Only a few years back, and it could be costly as a gay man to exhibit public displays of affection. The height of irony it to be beaten up for kissing someone.
I began dating Picasso after breaking my arm. There were moments of high romance and tender mercies during that time. Unfortunately, he did not paint my picture. He only changed the way I looked at men and at life.