She was thankful for Sean's gentle support, his hand cupped beneath her elbow, as they climbed the stairs to the second story.
DRAW NEAR TO ME, MY DAUGHTER, AND I WILL DRAW NEAR TO YOU. LOOK INTO MY FACE. FIX YOUR EYES UPON ME.
Yes, Lord.
BELOVED, I FORMED LUKE'S INWARD PARTS. I WOVE HIM IN YOUR WOMB. HE IS FEARFULLY AND WONDERFULLY MADE. HOW PRECIOUS ARE MY THOUGHTS TOWARD HIM. WILL YOU TRUST ME?
Yes, Father, I'll trust You.
Rick stopped before reaching a half-open door. He looked over his shoulder, questioning her with his eyes.
"Though I walk in the midst of trouble, Thou wilt revive me; Thou wilt stretch forth Thy hand against the wrath of my enemies, and Thy right hand will save me. The Lord will accomplish what concerns me; Thy lovingkindness, O Lord, is everlasting; Do not forsake the works of Thy hands."
Peace welled up inside. Peace, yet it came with a power that left her awed. She knew she'd felt the touch of God.
"I'm ready."
He gave a nod, then pushed open the door. "You have visitors, Luke." He walked toward the bed. "They've come a long way to see you."
Miriam drew a deep breath, then followed the nurse into the bedroom.
The man in the hospital bed was gaunt, dark half-moons etched beneath his eyes. His head had been shaved. Or perhaps his hair had fallen out. Miriam heard a wheezing sound with every breath he took. His frail body barely disturbed the blankets that covered him. He looked old. So very, very old. She realized then that she'd expected to see her boy, her Luke, the teenager he'd been before he ran away.
A part of her mind was screaming. A part of her heart was shattered. But God sustained her.
Rick raised the head of the bed, then placed an extra pillow behind Luke. "It's time we had some company, isn't it? My jokes were getting stale."
Her son squinted at her, and she wondered if his vision was bad.
"It's me, Luke," she said, trying to keep her voice from quavering. "It's Mom." She moved to the opposite side of the bed from Rick. "I've missed you, darling." She wondered if he would allow her to take hold of his hand.
"You shouldn't have come." He closed his eyes, as if those few words had drained the last of his strength. "I don't want you to see me like this."
She took his hand, unable to keep from it, and leaned forward. "I'm not leaving, Luke. I love you. I want to be with you. I want to help you."
"It's too late to help me," he whispered.
"No." She fought the tears. Later she would cry. Later when she was all alone in the safety of her hotel room, she would cry to God, pouring out her pain. But not now. She didn't want to cry now. "It isn't too late, Luke. There's still time for you to be loved. There's still time for you to know the Author of love."
The despair in his eyes when he met her gaze stole her breath away.
"Let me stay, Luke. Please let me stay."
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
KEEGAN TEAGUE MET MIRIAM AND SEAN UPON THEIR RETURN THE following morning. "Why'd you come now, Mrs. Tucker?" he asked before the front door closed.
Miriam didn't find the question strange. After all, Keegan had lived with her son for five years. He must know Luke hadn't seen or talked to her since he left home so long ago. Keegan had reason to be suspicious.
"Look," Sean said, a hint of anger in his voice, "we aren't here to—"
She stopped Sean's retort with a touch on his arm. "I came because I love my son, Mr. Teague."
He eyed her warily.
"Has he said he wants me to leave?" Miriam asked.
Keegan shook his head. "No."
"Then I'd like to be with him in the time that remains." She glanced toward the stairway. "I want him to know how much I love him. That's all."
"We won't get in your way, Mr. Teague, or cause you any trouble." Sean placed a protective arm around Miriam's shoulders and drew her close to his side.
"I believe you." Keegan turned, walked to a side table, where he picked up a shoe box, then returned to Miriam and Sean. He held the box toward Miriam. "I think you should read these. They're addressed to you. Maybe they'll help."
She took the box but didn't look inside.
"I'll be out the rest of the day." Keegan grabbed his briefcase that was sitting on the floor. "Rick knows how to get ahold of me if I'm needed." He opened the door. "You don't have to stay at the hotel. There's room for you here, if you want." Then he left.
Miriam was surprised by his abrupt departure.
"He won't be around much," said a voice from behind her.
She turned to see Rick Joyner standing on the stairs, midway between the upper and lower floors.
"Keegan's scared and angry about what's happening," he continued. "He's having a hard time handling all of this, so he stays away as much as he can. He uses work as an excuse."
"I thought he was closing his studio," Sean said.
Rick descended the rest of the way. "He is. Plans to leave Philadelphia, I understand. Just as soon as he can."
Just as soon as Luke's gone, Miriam amended silently.
"I came down for some coffee. Would you like some?"
Miriam shook her head. "No thanks. I'll go up, if it's all right."
"Sure. Luke's sleeping, but you can sit with him if you like."
Sean stayed behind, and Miriam was grateful. She wanted to be alone with her son. She needed time to pray for him, time to gather her thoughts.
Luke's bedroom was as large as the living room in Miriam's Boise home. The ceilings were extra high, making more space for the many framed photographs that hung on the walls, most of them nature shots. Photographs, both large and small, some black and white and some in color. There was one of a lake at sunset, another of a stormy sea, another of majestic mountain peaks capped with snow.
He sees Your magnificent creation, Lord. Now let him see You, the Creator.
Miriam walked slowly to Luke's bedside and sat in the nearby chair, her gaze fastened to his face. She tried to ignore the various machines that were placed around the bed, machines that beeped and whirred as they monitored the ebbing life of her son.
Lord Jesus, he knows about You because I told him when he was a boy. Now I want him to know You. To really know You. I long for him to take You into his heart and into his life. God, Your word says Jesus hasn't lost one that the Father gave Him, so I'm trusting You not to lose Luke.
She prayed for several more minutes, then sat in silence, simply watching her son, remembering him as the boy he'd been. At long last, she glanced at the shoe box on her lap and lifted the lid with trepidation.
The box was filled with envelopes, many of them sealed and stamped. All of them were addressed to her. She opened one and began to read.
June 1981
Dear Mother,
How many times have I tried to write this letter, and how many times have I ripped it to shreds? I keep searching for the right words, and they never seem to be there.
Your son is a homosexual. There it is, in black and white.
It frightens me, writing this to you. I don't know how you feel about me after all these years. I don't know if you've forgiven me for running away like I did, let alone if you can forgive me for this.
Can you? I'm not sure I can forgive myself. . .
After she'd read the first, she opened the next letter.
June 17, 1983
Dear Mom,
Today is my 30th birthday, and I've been thinking about you. Can't get you off my mind. Three different times I picked up the phone to call you, and three times I hung it up again.
You were always so sure of who you were. You always said it was who you were in Christ that mattered.
Well, I've never been sure of anything. I've been loaded down with guilt and self–loathing for so many years . . .
December 25, 1984
Merry Christmas, Mom,
It's cold and snowy in Philadelphia, and I'm remembering when I was a kid and was in Cub Scouts and Bert Rey was the cubma
ster. The pack went snowshoeing in McCall over Christmas break, and I came home half frozen. You made a fire in the fireplace, and we sat on the floor—you and me—and toasted marshmallows on coat hangers while I thawed out. Remember?
Keegan and I are spending a quiet Christmas at home. That's the way it usually is, mostly because we both still have "two sets" of friends, those who know about us and those who don't. Fear of rejection drives us into seclusion . . .
May 1988
I'm dying, Mom. I've known for a long time. I've wanted to tell you. All these unmailed letters. I've got a box full of them, telling you what's happened to me over the years, telling you that I'm gay, telling you that I've been successful with my photography and thanking you for buying me my first camera. None of that matters now. Maybe the letters don't matter now either. Maybe you'll read them after I'm dead and buried. Maybe you'll never know. Maybe life isn't supposed to make sense. Maybe this is all there is . . .
Miriam wiped the tears from her eyes, then refolded the last of the letters and returned it to the shoe box. She felt tired, too tired even to move the box from her lap to the floor.
O God, help me.
She looked toward the bed and discovered Luke watching her. Her heart skittered and her stomach knotted.
"You look old." He sounded surprised.
She smiled tenderly. "I am old."
"I didn't think you'd change." He closed his eyes. "I always saw you staying the same."
He hasn't much time left. Her heart was filled with a sense of urgency. God, help me know what to say.
"You read the letters." His breathing was labored, and it was obvious how much effort it took to speak. "You must hate what I am. I know what you believe."
Miriam took hold of his hand. "I'm here because I love you, Luke. Not to condemn you. I'm here to remind you that God loves you, too."
Luke tried to pull free of her grasp, but she didn't let him.
"If God loves me," he whispered hoarsely, "why'd He make me this way?"
Miriam felt a moment of panic. How could she answer? She didn't know what to say. The gay rights protesters she'd read about in the papers and magazines said they were born that way. Were they? And if they were, then how could God judge them?
Like an electrical current, the Lord spoke the answer into Miriam's heart, and she, in turn, spoke to her son.
"God didn't create any human being to sin, Luke. What He made was good and right and perfect. We're each one of us fearfully and wonderfully made. God created us to fellowship with Him. He loves us and longs to be with us."
Luke tried again to pull free from her grasp, and again he was too weak to succeed.
"Luke, we're sinners, all of us, because we live in a fallen world. The human race was given free will, and we chose to sin. All of us choose it, each in his own way. But your sins, whatever they are, are no greater than mine. And God made a provision for us, a way of escape, a way for us to break free of whatever bondage Satan would trap us in." She leaned closer, speaking softly but forcefully. "Luke, you know the way to freedom. You've known it in your heart since you were a young boy."
He turned his head on the pillow so she couldn't see his face. "It's too late for me. This is what I am, and this is the way I'll die."
"But it isn't too late. All you have to do—"
"It's too late!" With what little energy he possessed, Luke jerked free of her hold. "Leave me be."
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
TIME AND AGAIN, DESPAIR DESCENDED UPON MIRIAM, AND time and again, she refused to give it a foothold. She stayed in Luke's room, sitting at his bedside, praying quietly, reading aloud to him from her Bible, occasionally singing songs of praise to God. She didn't know if her son heard or not, but she prayed his spirit did.
She was vaguely aware of the comings and goings of Rick as he tended to Luke. She was barely aware of Sean sitting on a small sofa on the opposite side of the room, most likely praying for her as well as for Luke.
Time held no meaning for her as she waged spiritual warfare on behalf of her son.
The hour was late, the bedroom cloaked in the shadows of night except for the small reading lamp beside Miriam's chair and the glowing green, red, and yellow lights on the monitors.
"'He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will abide in the shadow of the Almighty,'" she read. "'I will say to the Lord, "My refuge and my fortress, My God, in whom I trust!" For it is He who delivers you from the snare of the trapper, and from the deadly pestilence. He will cover you with His pinions, and under His wings you may seek refuge; His faithfulness is a shield and bulwark.'"
Thank You, Lord.
"'You will not be afraid of the terror by night, or of the arrow that flies by day; of the pestilence that stalks in darkness, or of the destruction that lays waste at noon. A thousand may fall at your side, and ten thousand at your right hand; but it shall not approach you. You will only look on with your eyes, and see the recompense of the wicked. For you have made the Lord, my refuge, even the Most High, your dwelling place. No evil will befall you, nor will any plague come near your tent."'
Lord, drive out this plague from my tent. You are a covenant God, and I pray in the power of Your righteousness, not my own.
"'For He will give His angels charge concerning you, to guard you in all your ways. They will bear you up in their hands, lest you strike your foot against a stone. You will tread upon the lion and cobra, the young lion and the serpent you will trample down.'"
Reveal Yourself to Luke. Bear him up.
"'Because he has loved Me, therefore I will deliver him; I will set him securely on high, because he has known My name. He will call upon Me, and I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble; I will rescue him, and honor him. With a long life I will satisfy him, and let him behold My salvation.'"
Finishing the psalm, Miriam closed her eyes and pressed her Bible against her breast. She heard the soft ticking of the mantel clock above the fireplace. She heard the hated beeps and whirring of the machines. She heard the raspy breathing of her son.
What more can I do, Jesus? What more?
"Mrs. Tucker?"
She opened her eyes to find Rick standing beside her chair, leaning close.
"Why don't you let me read to him for a while?"
"No, I want—"
"You're exhausted. Let me help."
"Well, I—"
"Maybe we should let him know what heaven's going to be like."
She hesitated.
"The twenty-first and twenty-second chapters of the book of Revelation make it pretty clear."
"You're a believer?"
He nodded.
"Thank You, Jesus," she whispered as she reached out to touch the side of Rick's face. "You are an answer to a mother's prayers."
"And you're an answer to mine."
Curious, she asked, "How long have you been caring for my son?"
"I arrived three weeks ago."
"Three weeks." A wave of awe washed over her. It had been three weeks since she'd received Sally's letter.
DO NOT FEAR, FOR I AM WITH YOU; I WILL BRING YOUR OFFSPRING FROM THE EAST, AND GATHER YOU FROM THE WEST.
In a whisper, she said, "You've been praying for Luke the whole time, haven't you?"
"Yes, ma'am."
She held her Bible toward Rick. "Read to him about heaven. I want him to know."
They continued like that for five days and nights—Miriam and Sean and Rick—taking turns reading the Bible aloud, taking turns praying. Most of the time, Luke seemed unaware, but occasionally, he appeared to listen.
It was midmorning of the sixth day. Miriam sat alone in Luke's bedroom while Sean slept in another room. Rick had left the house to run a few errands. Keegan still spent most of his time at the studio, avoiding the sickroom.
In a voice made gravelly from too many hours of use, Miriam read from Second Corinthians. "But whenever a man turns to the Lord, the veil is taken away. Now the Lord is the Spirit; and where the Spiri
t of the Lord is, there is liberty. But we all, with unveiled face beholding as in a mirror the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from glory to glory, just as from the Lord, the Spirit."
"What liberty?"
She swallowed a gasp as she looked toward the bed. The appearance of death was written on Luke's face.
"What . . . liberty?" he asked again, speaking with difficulty.
Miriam rose from her chair, stepped to the bedside, and clasped his frail hand in both of hers. "You shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free. Jesus is the truth, Luke. All you have to do is reach out to Him."
"You don't . . . know . . . what I've . . . done."
She leaned forward, staring hard into his eyes, speaking urgently. "My darling boy, it doesn't matter what you've done as long as you ask Jesus to cleanse it all away."
"Too . . . late."
"No. No, it isn't." She tightened her grip on his hand.
Unblinking, Luke stared at her, and in the depths of his eyes, Miriam saw the desire to believe, the need to hope.
"Remember the thief on the cross, Luke. It was the eleventh hour. He was dying. He couldn't do anything to make up for his sins. He couldn't change a single moment of the life he'd lived or the choices he'd made. It was too late for him, too." She drew his hand to her lips and kissed his knuckles. "Only it wasn't really too late. He called upon Jesus to remember him in His kingdom, and Jesus did."
Her son shook his head, almost imperceptibly.
"Luke, listen to me. Time is growing short. Don't hold yourself apart from God a moment longer. Satan has already stolen your life here on earth. Don't let him have your eternity." Her voice rose, tinged with anger. "Don't let him steal that from you, too."
Luke's eyes widened a fraction.
Tears welled, and her vision blurred. A lump formed in her throat.
" I . . . give up," he whispered.
Miriam blinked, wanting to see him clearly, needing to see him clearly.
His eyes drifted closed, and he rolled his head to the side, away from her.
O God, not yet. Not yet.
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