I have become an old man—despite it all.  My sisters have long since passed.  And sometimes the miracle seems like a curse.  How long must the “magic” last?  Will I ever enter the valley of the shadow again?  As long ago as it is, I remember those days.  Younger folk have learned, to their regret, that if they give me any excuse, I’ll retell the stories in excruciating detail.  Like that last Sunday before everything fell apart—or seemed to.

He didn’t say he was running from the law when he showed up.  But we knew. Even if I hadn’t owed him my life, we would have taken him in.  We had loved each other long before that.

My sisters and I might as well have been his family.  Yes, he had his mom—and they were close.  And a brother.  But family had its own dynamics, it’s own obligations.  Sometimes he just needed a safe place to completely be himself.  So we had become “home” for him.  His little band of followers came with him that time.  I’ll give them that—since they knew the danger.

My older sister took charge as always.  She made a ritual of every meal.  But this time…  The way she broke the bread and passed the wine.  Her gestures charged the atmosphere.  I glanced over; he sat transfixed.

Then my younger sister came in.  I couldn’t quite tell what she was up to.  She stooped before him—uncharacteristic for her.  She had always faced him eye-to-eye.  Met his little discourses with eager questions and challenges.  Not this time.

I smelled the perfume before I realized that the sound I had heard was a bottle breaking.   She was all over his feet—practically washing them with that ointment.  Just the way she touched his feet.  The way she caressed him with her hair.  I was so close to jealous.

Except, I saw his face.  The fugitive anxiety had disappeared.  A peace that was full of resolve had taken its place.

I shuddered.  I knew that look; knew that peace.  It was the peace of a dead man.

(see John 12:1-8)

In the Gospel of John, Martha and Mary identify Lazarus to Jesus as “he whom you love.”  Some scholars speculate that Lazarus may have been “the disciple whom Jesus loved.”   What was the nature of their love?  What intimacy did they share?  We cannot know.  But as a Gay Old Soul, I feel entitled to speculate.