feet, 11 inches. Frances made his three-piece suits for church. She knew the length of his inseam and the width of his chest.

Matt and Frances knew about the time he burned his little bottom on the house heater, how he loved to eat hot fudge cake, how he broke his pinky finger once while setting the table with his grandmother.

And what they didn't know for certain they assumed -- one day, Stephen would get married and have babies like they had. One day, Stephen would come home to Red Bank and sit beside them on the 10th pew.

When Stephen started dating women in high school, Matt had a single talk with him about waiting to have sex until marriage. Stephen nodded, just like his brothers had.

But by thetime Matt and Frances pulled into the Atlanta hospital, they imagined their son a stranger.

Riding the elevator to the fourth floor, the infectious disease unit, Matt vacillated. He pictured the face of a younger Stephen. Innocent. Buzzed haircut. Dewy eyes. A pouty lower lip. Two big front teeth.

Regardless of who his son was, Matt knew only that he didn't want to lose him, not ever.

Stephen's room was on the middle of the hallway. They walked fast.

***

In all his years as a minister, Matt never spoke in depth with anyone about homosexuality. In seminary, the topic wasn't studied. It didn't often crop up in sermons or in prayer requests. If a parent or a child had faced it, he never knew.

But he did know the Bible verses that seemed