“Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection.” After I had said these words, buried another citizen of our small community, and bid the family goodbye, Laurence asked me if he could take me on a tour of the cemetery. The seminary that I was attending was on summer break, so there were no books I was assigned to read, no papers I had to write. It was a beautiful morning. Why not?
In those days and in that part of the world, neither Laurence nor I would have used the word “gay” to describe him. There was no word, or at least no respectful word, to describe what made Laurence different. Having no words, part of Laurence was invisible to his pastor and congregation.
What I knew of Laurence was that he was in his late 60s and that he was a lay scientist. His collection of Eastern moths rivaled that of Cornell University or the Smithsonian. He had won an international award for breeding a new variety of gladiola.
