My brothers and I grew up in the 50s and 60s in Des Moines, Iowa. We lived in a suburban neighborhood that was filled with 3 bedroom ranches,. and we attended the best schools that Des Moines had to offer at the time. Randy was my little brother, Larry was my middle brother, and I was the oldest. Larry and I shared a love for baseball. Randy and I shared a love for alcohol, and all three of us shared a secret- we were tied up in knots because we lived in a violent home.
Sometimes, when the screaming gave way to violence, Randy would run across the hall from the room that he and Larry shared to my room. He would climb into bed with me and I would hug him, hoping to be something of a sanctuary for my vulnerable little brother. Eventually of course, we all grew up, married and had our own families. Larry married Anne and they had three wonderful children. I married Sherry and we had two lovely girls. Randy married Linda and they had two great boys. We all built successful careers in grocery business, and then, out of the blue, the day came when we received a phone call from the South Bend area. Randy was in trouble.
He had left his family, believing himself to be gay, and he needed treatment for alcoholism. Surely it was a mistake! I could understand the alcoholism- I have it myself- but no one in our family had ever been gay. Indeed, the Shedenhelms are nothing if not manly. I was hoping, I think, that Randy would discover that he was straight during treatment. He would see that, while he may have been "kinky," he was NOT gay, and seeing this, he would return to his family and live out a normal life. Well, I was wrong. Randy never drank again in his life, but he left the treatment center convinced that he was gay, and that he had been gay for years. He never said much to me about his lifestyle (and I don't think he said much to Larry), but he expressed his struggles and his joys in being gay rather freely with Sherry and Anne.
The years went by, and after a flurry of sexual activity in the Omaha area, Randy settled into more stable relationships and began to rebuild his career. He had a few partners, earned a few promotions, and eventually ended up in Georgia, where he was diagnosed with AIDS. These were pre-concoction years and AIDS was a death sentence. Randy visited Sherry and me in Joliet, where I was pastoring at the time, and I can remember walking around our church sanctuary with him. He asked, "Will you do my funeral service?" and I told him I would. "Are you afraid to die?" I asked, and he said "no." Then he became weaker and weaker and eventually ended up on hospice. Sherry and I visited as frequently as we could, and to get away from the house, Randy's son, Aaron, and I would walk down the street and play tennis for an hour or two. Randy was witty and full of life. He was always playful, but he died quietly and gently, with grace. He was blessed to have his partner with him and to have hospice on his side (they showed him more love than the church even considered showing him). He was, in the end, every bit as vulnerable as he had been when he ran into my room for comfort so many years before. But I could do nothing but cry.
I cried and asked myself, "Why?" Why wasn't he satisfied to just be straight? He had a sex life with his wife- that was evident- and if it wasn't the greatest, so what? Why didn't he just tough it out? Why was he so selfish? Why did he hurt so many people? And why was he so reckless? Why" Why" Why? Why did you die, baby brother? When he was coming down with AIDS, Randy joined Larry and I at a driving range in Dallas. Randy was in town for his nephew's wedding, and the three of us got away for an hour. Larry was always the best golfer in our family, but Randy wasn't bad, and there he was, hitting grounder after grounder. Nothing went more than 50 yards. It broke my heart then and it still does.
I loved Randy as I loved Larry (who is now gone too), but I never considered him a "hero" for being honest about who he was. In fact, I wish he had been honest earlier. Nor do I consider Jason Collins a "hero" for being transparently honest. In an age where words like "hero," are being tossed around indiscriminately, I wish we wouldn't call people heroes for simply telling the truth... BUT I would call both of them courageous because the price one pays for being "different" can be extremely high.
Just a few hours ago I saw a tweet that read, "Tim Tebow says 'I'm Christian' and the media says, 'Keep it to yourself.' Jason Collins says 'I'm gay," and the media says, 'The man's a hero.'" What do you make of this? There does seem to be a bias or bias in play. However, if Tebow had said, "I'm Christian" in the 2nd century, or even today in many parts of the world, I'd have to give him an "A" for admirable courage. If he or anyone of us would say "I'm Christian," in a time when saying it would have disrupted their families, destroyed their friendships, affected their livelihoods, or threatened their lives, I would applaud that person's courage and rejoice in their liberation. In short, I don't think that the word "hero" applies, but the struggle for liberation and authenticity sure takes courage.
My little brother was not a hero, but he was entitled to live life authentically, fully, as himself, in the light of day. I haven't thought about how much I loved Randy for some time now. But I did. I loved him deeply and I would give anything if I could hug him today! Amen.,
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