The first letter was not mine, although my brother Charles and I had spent so much time talking about it that I felt some ownership. I was in San Francisco for the Thanksgiving holiday, and we had read and reread the letter he was planning to send to my father, changing a word here and there, rearranging sentences.



I suggested he replace “gay” with “homosexual,” the word my father was more likely to have heard, usually in the same sentence with “abomination” from the pulpit of the Mennonite church he and my mother had attended for decades.

I was supportive of my brother, respected his courage and was flattered that he valued my opinion about something so important. But I didn’t fully understand.

“You really think he needs to know?” I asked. “How is this is going to help him?”

“It’s not for him,” Charles said. “I’m doing this for me. I’m over 60 years old, and he still thinks I’ll get married if I find the right woman.”