Something came crashing into my mind when Peter asked me to be a team leader at church: a stream of familiar feelings, similar to the ones I felt the first time I had to come out. They were feelings of inadequacy; the line of thinking that I was in a somewhat state of sinfulness that compelled me to confess.

I'd spent a long time laboriously looking for a community to belong, and I'd finally found one. With this new community, though, came a growing fear – the fear of eventually being rejected. If they knew me, like really knew me, would they still want to be friends with me or even associate with me at all?

2019 started out with a vision for a cosy, snug year, bundling up in the warmth of other people's bosoms. For those summer months, I was blessed to see that vision fulfilled, experiencing and giving love just the way I wanted. As for the rest of the year, well, God sure taught me another side to loving people than what I'd considered.

Before all the lockdowns started as the coronavirus pandemic spread around the world, I started writing this reflection about how my experience in the "Side B" bubble could play a bigger part in the Church and, in turn, the wider world around me. When this whole pandemic broke out I thought, What better time to play our part but now?

In the year of our Lord two thousand and nineteen, a fun idea came to mind. Instead of coming up with a new year's resolution that would require me to exert some striving effort or discipline, I thought of a fun goal for the year instead. I wrote something in my prayer journal; it's a prayer that became my goal for the year. But what did "To love more affectionately and not robotically" actually mean?

It was an unfamiliar city on the other side of the world, and not one soul knew who I was and what I was about. For the first time in my life I felt free, unrestricted to do anything and be anything I wanted to be. What will I do? Where will I go? Where will God take me? Who's God again?

After about a year, the little gay boi in the closet started knocking again and wanted to come out. The desire to be known started to germinate from that dark, cold, humid corner. The next person placed on my heart to tell was my mom. From my point of view, we weren't that close and I didn't feel very loved. Coming out to my mom was probably the hardest coming out I had to do.

It didn't even feel like sexual lust. I just wanted intimacy. I just wanted a man. A man who will come and carry my responsibilities with me. A man who will pursue and lead me for a change. I want a man who will be there for me in everything. I want a man who will make me feel pursued, valued, and loved.

Last month, I wrote about my botched attempt at sharing my story at a church for the first time. Since then, I realised, I've never really reflected back on my comings out. Taken a birds-eye view of things, processing the other times I've communicated my sexuality to other people. Until today.

The Sunday service started, and I was excited to speak. I'd been praying for this moment for quite a while now — I was about to give my testimony in front of a whole church. The service started, and two songs into worship I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the pastor, and he was motioning me back to his office...

We recently held our second annual YOBBERS retreat: a weekend gathering for our financial supporters and community members on Patreon. Several of our authors attended, and we discussed our time together — both highs and lows — in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

It's Easter season, and I've been reflecting on the meaning of the cross. Not just the meaning of the cross for the bigger picture of salvation for humanity, but also the tangible effects the cross has been having on me.