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.

Who am I? This could be a question for self-edification or self-deprecation. A question answered with set shoulders and proud confidence, or a rhetorical question asked to oneself at the depths of loneliness and despair. The best way I have determined to answer that question is I am...loved by God.

He's the guy who has clarified my boundaries with cuddling and physical touch more than any other. The guy from whom I've sought comfort in touch more than any other. The guy who has made me feel seen and warm and laugh and cry like no other. He's the first (and to this point, only) guy I've fallen in love with.

I still have that Link costume somewhere in my closet. Perhaps it's the wandering through the woods that I love, the isolation, the music; or, perhaps it's something deeper that has stuck with me after all these years. Perhaps it's that I feel like the protagonist: adrift in time, unsure whether I'm a child or a man. This is how I feel as I move back into my childhood bedroom – the place where my sexual trauma occurred.

I threw every Bible I owned into a dumpster and decided to embrace a gay life even more than I had done previously. For four years, I had sex with as many guys as I could and didn't care. In my mind, since God and the church didn't care about me, why should I?

Years ago a YOB post like this initially proved to me that this site had something new and interesting to offer the world. It made me feel seen and understood like almost nothing I had read before.

Does nice equal good? Does strong equal toxic? Commiseration is a drink that intoxicates quickly, yet we must weep with those who weep. Am I a man? Am I strong? What am I, and where is my place? What is the nature of masculine strength?

If we were gonna cuddle safely in the dark, why not just cuddle safely in the light? Open the veil, so to speak? We were lying down next to each other, my head on his chest, or his head on mine, I forget. Everything was quiet. Nobody else was in the room. But it would not stay that way.

While I have had many wonderful, supportive Christians in my life, I find many more who just do not want to meet me where I am with my sexuality. Instead of being a great cloud of witnesses encouraging me onward, some act as a voice of the enemy telling me I have no place at God's table.

Being gay has ruined large crowds for me. Something about being surrounded, seen but utterly unknown, twists my soul. And then add to that the layers of guilt I feel. All these couples I'm jealous of because they get to be here together. Or the number of attractive men I see, the number of times I don't control my lustful thoughts. Or worst of all: when I spot a gay couple somewhere out there, and I want to be them, and I wish I didn't.

Sometimes you just have to be honest with yourself about who you are. After another year and a half in Germany, I woke up one morning, walked down to my first sergeant's office, and told him I was gay – that I didn't want to be in the Army anymore. My colonel had to sign off on that paperwork; he refused. And I was arrested. The Army rushed the investigation, and I was court-martialed.

Many conservative Christians don't believe I've ever really tried to change. Those with this position assert that my goal must be to become heterosexual, that God wants nothing less than that for me – and from me. Thus, if I haven't received this orientation change yet, then my faith must not be strong enough, or I haven't ever truly wanted this change.

I had tasted all these new intense bursts of touch in recent years, perhaps some healthy and others not so much, and during one isolating season I was desperate to share the warmth of masculine flesh again. I was having trouble making friends with other men, though...so where did I turn? To an app.

Growing up, I had few friends; those I did have were not the greatest. I brought up one boy, Jack, who I'd considered my best friend from first through third grade. I hadn't talked to him since high school. "I'm not sure what's happened to him," I said to my friend. "He could be dead for all I know." On a whim I looked up my old best friend on Facebook, and...yep, sure enough, he was dead.

It seems one can find almost anything on the Internet nowadays, with the exception of a serious discussion about sexuality and disabilities; let me assure you, I have looked. It has been increasingly important to me (and certainly others in my plight) to find such information. I was born with cerebral palsy, along with the ability to ask questions apparently nobody is supposed to ask. Like most kids who grow up gay, I felt different on the inside; in my particular case, I was different on the outside too.

I'm not one to call out miraculous. And I didn't grow up thinking that miracles happen. I wondered how to handle this gift, this grace when my teammates were in the hospital and even needed surgery? The answer wasn't obvious then. The emotions and lack of understanding come back swiftly when I think back on that weekend.

Many of us with same-sex attractions have experienced that well-meaning friend or family member who feels the need to "love us well" by telling us, "God made you gay, so how could marrying someone of the same sex be wrong?" I appreciate not being cast out by said people because of my sexuality, but they also seem unwilling to believe that I've actually given my sexuality some thought.

It's now been three to four years since I've written those blogs on cuddling and nudity, and I've shared many cuddles since with guys I've met through YOB. But have any of my thoughts changed since I wrote those posts?

There is no one group that is "for" my existence as a celibate SSA Christian, nor is there a specific group "against" it. It can feel like I have no clear place to turn to in the Church, because every place is equally likely to attack some part of who I am or what I do. Meanwhile, all I strive to be is a sold out follower of Christ.

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.