irises

Yesterday I cleared irises. I crouched and crawled my way through a burgeoning iris bed, clipping away wilted fronds and pulling weeds. Occasionally, as I held the streaming leaves firm to cut them, an iris bulb would pop from the wet, sandy soil. I'd replace it, hoping it would survive.

This iris bed lies at the end of a small meadow, in a narrow and deep valley, hidden between the sport fields and museums of Golden Gate Park. One of the US's two national memorials, it promises sanctuary to the grieving.

The 200-voice Gay Men's Chorus lost 250 members through the late 80s and early 90s as the AIDS pandemic ran unfettered by education or drug regimens. "There was no time to go to all the funerals," said one survivor of the era, "our friends were dying, disappearing. Suddenly, they'd be gone, and we wouldn't know where they were." But we knew they were dead. He didn't have to say it.

Growing up in a conservative evangelical community so close to "the Great Babylon" of San Francisco, my perspective on social issues is rather strange. I was born in Berkeley and grew up listening to George Beverly Shea and the Gaithers. Not normal.

(At a Midwestern graduate school, I chatted with a Texan friend. Sharing stories about my life, she interrupted me, "Wait, you have churches in California?" Yes. We have churches. We are not God-forsaken.)

So why was my "Old Rugged Cross"-singing self hanging out in an iris bed with a bunch of gay men? I'm not quite sure. But I know that they are a hurting people. They are wounded and grieving so deeply that only God can bring them peace. They have been so rejected and deserted by family and church that they have no ear for words about Jesus. So, if words won't suffice (and they rarely do), then I'll step into their sanctuary, and work alongside them. I'll care for what they treasure, as I believe Jesus would. does.

While these men lived through the terror of raging epidemic, while they watched their loved ones die, and die, and die--with no satisfactory diagnosis or treatment--I lived an idyllic childhood a few miles away. I took field trips into our city and wandered the Embarcadero on shopping excursions with my mom. I ate crab, I rode cable cars, I watched fog breach the Golden Gate. And when I heard about the mysterious disease killing hundreds and thousands of men in my city, the subtext whispered, "don't worry, if you're good you won't get it. and they deserve it. it's God's judgement for their sin." I don't know if anyone said those words, but the message came through. Little ears hear everything.

I'm still a Bible-reading, Bible-believing girl. I believe that Jesus hung out with the "worst" of the sinners. I believe that he said he came for the sick, not the well. I believe that he said to love everyone. I believe that it is his job to judge and condemn, not mine. I believe that hatred is never OK. I believe that God is love. I believe.

I believe I'll plant some irises in my yard.









national AIDS memorial grove

the grove's flickr page