n April 22, 1997, after suffering a loss of memory and increasing weakness, I finally made the visit that would ultimately change my life forever. Within a few hours, I was admitted to one of Atlanta's hospitals to undergo tests for meningitis. Following a battery of blood tests, the doctor came in with his verdict-AIDS.

Having lived in the homosexual lifestyle for the past twelve years, I never dreamed that I would be one of those who contracted the dreaded disease. In a follow-up visit a few weeks later, the doctor confirmed that not only did I have the AIDS virus but that I was in the last stages of that disease.

In a pastoral visit, the hospital chaplain said that I would have a year, or eighteen months at most, to live. My response to the chaplain was, "Miracles do happen." But her response was, "I have never seen one. Everyone I have talked with is already dead." Even though the chaplain gave little or no hope, there was something within me that reached out in a small way to faith in God. In my mind, there was no way in which medication would be able to help me at this point. God had to be my only hope.

Upon dismissal from the hospital, I returned to my apartment facing hours and hours of loneliness and plenty of time to reflect on my life. Growing up in southern California of Hispanic descent, I had been reared in the Catholic Church along with my seven brothers and three sisters. During my teen years, one of my older sisters began visiting other churches. She would then come and visit my family and share with us the things she was learning about the Lord. Sometime later my sister and brother-in-law led me to faith in Jesus Christ and to the infilling of the Holy Spirit. As I visited various churches, one of the things I remember hearing in the sermons was that if any one were sick they should call on the elders of the church for anointing with oil and prayer. Now, some fifteen years later at the age of thirty-one, those scriptural references came rushing back into my consciousness. Not knowing where to go or what to do, I phoned a fellow Catholic friend for advice. Her response to me was, "The Catholic Church doesn't teach the word of faith. Go to a church that teaches the word of faith." So I phoned a church, Landmark Church, which is next door to the apartment complex where I live, and asked, "Do you believe that God can heal people of AIDS?" When they said that they did, I told them that I needed the elders of the church to come and pray for me.

The following day the elders came over and anointed me with oil and prayed the prayer of faith for healing from AIDS. As they visited with me, they told me that I needed to forgive anyone I had ever hurt or anyone who had ever hurt me. Believing that the Lord had led me to people who would pray for me, I decided that I should follow their advice and forgive those who had wronged me. Hour after hour, I recalled various aspects of my childhood. There were so many things that happened in our home that gave cause to anger, bitterness, resentment, and unforgiveness.

Being the last of eleven children, I had watched my brothers and sisters doing all the grocery shopping and errands, because my dad had insisted that my mother remain at the house. Occasionally, my mom was allowed to go visit her sisters who lived down the street. As I grew older I came to understand why our family operated in this manner. My dad was a known womanizer, and the town where we lived was very small and everyone knew everyone else, along with their business. If my mother had been allowed to go out shopping, then she would have learned of his marital infidelities. I remember that my father never showed any affection to any of his children-no hugs, no kisses, no verbal affirmations. In fact, all of us were very fearful of him. One evening an older sister, with whom I was very close, started dating a divorced man. Because of the Catholic teaching, my father greatly disapproved of that relationship. One evening, when he thought my sister had been out with her boyfriend, in a moment of rage my dad kicked her out of our home. After my sister left, my dad told me that if he ever caught me talking to her again that he would cut my throat. This was so devastating to me, as a ten-year-old, because my sister and I were so close. Even in my elementary school years, my father would call me fagot, stupid, and would remark quite often, "Can't you ever do anything right?" Week after week our home would be filled with verbal abuse.

As I entered the teen years, I can remember being attracted to other boys in my classes. In many ways, I believe I was looking for some acceptance or attention that was lacking in my relationship with my dad. Whenever these thoughts would come, I would tell myself that this was a stage I was going through, this has to be a phase. My brothers are dating girls, and soon I would be doing the same thing...