Late one night I started thinking about Bernard, my dad – though I haven't called him "Dad" since I was 9 years old. It dawned on me that I've never given Bernard a present for Father's Day. There are two reasons for that. He never lived with my family as I grew up. He's also dead now.

It was so fulfilling to feel James' love and trust in a very solid friendship. A friendship that has been forged in the fires of pain and difficulty, but even more so in the joys and triumphs of accomplishing some of God's purposes for our lives. I know I wouldn't be the man I am today without James' influence. He has helped me change the way I live, from being a victim to becoming a victor.

Phillip Henry died yesterday at 29 years of age. That was the short, somber text message on my phone. No! Not Phillip! I thought. He was such a close friend. That last thought was only a half-truth. My friendship with Phillip had only just begun, and I'd had such hopes for it. Now, he was gone.

After the funeral, I felt almost paralyzed. I just couldn't force myself to lead at the house. James needed me to lead and be a help to him, so he confronted me on being too passive. I admitted he was right, but I felt unable to get beyond my emotions and lead others. Things degenerated until James and I barely talked.

He wanted me to be a man, to be tough, emotionally disciplined and not giving in to my grief. After all, we should consider ourselves like soldiers in battle who can't afford to stop and grieve when someone dies. I couldn't fully process everything at the time, but you can imagine how I felt as a sensitive guy.

All these ups and downs often caused me emotional pain. I had to take risks rather than stay safe and comfortable. My SSA made me feel weak and ineffective around all these straight guys. These painful things tested my friendship with James, too.

My gay brother had been burned. What started as seemingly harmless sexual experiments ended as an out-of-control obsession that literally killed my brother.