As I consider my history with broken New Year’s resolutions, I notice that they almost always fall into the three categories of faith, sexuality, and masculinity. This is true of resolutions I made many years ago, even before I heard of YOB and was simply trying to organize my life goals as best I knew in such a way that honored Jesus.

Our biggest culture war debates lately have been raging over transgender issues, including gender identity and gender norms. One side says that gender is just a social construct with purely subjective expressions, while another says this is the nihilistic death of traditional masculinity and femininity. Either way the debate rages, is there a line between proper “masculine” or “feminine” gender expression? Or should there even be a line?

Isn’t it a little like God is letting me in on a secret, being able to perceive beauty like this? It’s like he created this beauty in men, but like any artist, he couldn’t bear to keep it to himself; so, he gave some of us men the eyes to see it, in the masculine way his masculine aspect does.

As I walked through the labyrinth, weaving toward the center and back out, I prayed for forgiveness. I prayed for the Lord to take back control of my relationships – the time I’ve spent wandering, wanting to be wooed by everything and everyone around me.

As I entered the labyrinth, I tried focusing only on my thoughts and walking; inevitably, however, I compared my walk with others, noting my slower, struggling pace. The way was narrow, and due to my cerebral palsy my gait is naturally broader than most people’s. I tried not to look “odd.”

This bike race wasn’t about beating any of those men. It was about merely existing with men. Breathing their same air, riding in their same lanes. Climbing, descending, finishing with them. A silly little bicycle race isn’t a substantive piece of where I find my masculinity. But there’s something about this rare experience of dressing athletically like these men and pedaling with them that viscerally reminds me that I am a man, even though I may also starkly differ, living like one of them for a few hours at least in the same three dimensions.

I hear yelling and laughter down the hall – they're out again. Our dorm's nudists don't have a shower party every night, but they seem to occur more and more frequently now. If I wait long enough, maybe they'll be done before I need to use the bathroom. I work on some backup plans; worst case scenario, I can take my stuff to another bathroom. It’s a little more inconvenient, but I'd rather walk a little further than wade through a mob of exposed genitalia.

Picture this: a young, skinny, pale, little boy, dressed in baggy, light wash jeans and an oversized graphic t-shirt. This was the dress code of the 90s and early 2000s, and it was great for me as a kid: lots of fabric for comfort, as well as protection from scrapes and bruises, with the ability to hide much of my gangly awkwardness common to pre-pubescent boys.

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.

I've been rereading "Unwanted" for therapy, and it continues to reveal my uncomfortable reflection – all of it, all of me. It often feels like fluorescent lights buzzing overhead at midnight. And yet Stringer's premise encourages me: sexual brokenness almost paradoxically revealing paths to healing.

I was stoked to hear about the 2022 movie, "Close." After watching the trailer, I was instantly sold. Two boys are shown to be close friends, even physically affectionate with one another to the point that their classmates assume them to be gay.

It would be easy to write a few paragraphs about how virtuous all these wonderful men were; how they showed me the (gender-neutral) love of Jesus; how bravely they pursued vulnerability with one another. But I want to do something stupider. I want to write about a vibe, an aesthetic, a rumor of masculinity which I seemed to detect at my first YOBBERS Retreat.

It's easier to remain in the cage even when you can leave, because it's familiar. It's normal. It's hard to ask others for help. It's hard to just...be. Alone. In your own skin.

My time leading up to this year's YOBBERS Retreat came with mixed emotions. I knew a few familiar YOBBERS wouldn't be returning, but I also knew I'd recognize many other guys attending. Anxiety lingered. Had I really built the kind of connections that would help me feel at home this year?

Not quite finishing the bike race hurts way beyond this strain in my shoulder. And "not quite" feels like such a metaphor for my masculinity.

For this first entry on masculinity, I want to share my experiences with masculine leadership, including how the lack of positive, consistent examples of masculine leadership has affected how I interact with and think about the men who are supposed to lead me.

The other person thinks it's an accidental-turned-whimsical exchange, when in fact it's quite deliberate and nefarious. This Last Week Tonight episode details people who were scammed financially because they thought they were building a legitimate, longer-term relationship with this conversational or otherwise caring person on the other line. It's tragic how susceptible people can be to potential love. I know I am.

Do I fast because I truly desire to hear from Him more clearly, walk with Him more closely, and feel less spiritually cloudy? Or do I fast because, well, it's comfortable to be uncomfortable? Because it almost feels good to deprive, if not punish my body – particularly after I sin?

Once upon a time I wrote about five times I've felt like a man. As we wind down the theme of "Love Month" at YOB, I started thinking about some instances when my heart has swelled, or exploded, or some other symphonic verb meant to translate the depths of safety, care, and affection I've experienced with other men. This isn't a "top 5" or hardly exhaustive list, but these are five stories that come to mind...

From day one, I found my teacher attractive – not in a physical sense but in how he conducted himself. He told us, "I want you all to know that I love you. I don't care what you may think or what others tell you, but I love you."