“There is a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance…”
— Ecclesiastes 3:4
To what can I compare this generation? They are like children sitting in the marketplaces and calling out to others: ‘We played the flute for you, and you did not dance; we sang a dirge, and you did not mourn.’ For John came neither eating nor drinking, and they say, ‘He has a demon.’ The Son of Man came eating and drinking, and they say, ‘Here is a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners.’
— Matthew 11:16-19
In the first grade …
We both played with toy cars in the dirt.
In the second grade …
We both thought girls were icky.
In the third grade …
You pulled Kathy Jo’s pigtails to get her attention while I played Barbies with Cindy and Sue.
In the sixth grade …
You had kissed Kathy Jo on the playground and I had a silent crush on our teacher, Mr. Becker.
In the seventh grade …
You and Kathy Jo were holding hands in the hallway of the Junior High and I was in the library looking up the word “homosexuality.”
In the eighth grade …
You went to your first dance with Kathy Jo. I sat at home and read.
In ninth grade …
You and Kathy Jo were going steady. Your parents thought it was cute. My parents admired my musical abilities and deep spirituality.
In tenth grade …
You took Kathy Jo to the movies and sat working up the courage to put your arm around her shoulder. I was in the vacant lot near the high school contemplating suicide and working up the courage not to cry again.
In eleventh grade …
You told Kathy Jo that you loved her. I told my pastor that I was gay and that I knew it was wrong and would he ask God to change me.
In twelfth grade …
You took Kathy Jo to the Graduation Party Dance. I walked around the outside of the gym and peeked into the windows. You two looked so good together.
In college …
You asked Kathy Jo to marry you. I buried myself in school and church.
After college …
You married Kathy Jo and the whole town came out for your wedding, even me. Your mother sat on the front row and cried. Your father punched you in the arm, “I’m proud of you son.” Someone came up to me and handed me a glass of punch and said, “That’ll be you up there someday!”
In your 30s …
You call to tell me that Kathy Jo is pregnant. I call to tell you that I’m dating. (It is a weak lie.)
At 35 …
You call to tell met that Kathy Jo is pregnant, again. I have buried myself in work and the church.
At 40 …
You have me over for dinner and your boys run up to me and call me Uncle David. My pastor’s prayers were never answered. I’m still gay.
At 45 …
You consider me your best friend. I tell you that I am gay. You never speak to me again.
At 45 …
I have had my first kiss. I have made love for the first time.
At 48 …
Your first son has graduated from high school and I am now ready for someone to ask me to the prom.