I waited until my late thirties to “come out” to my parents. I swore for years that I would never do it, but I finally caved. Eventually, all the filtering, editing, and compartmentalizing just grew exhausting. As difficult as it was, I knew that the time to come out to them had come. I decided to write them in lieu of a conversation. 

For decades I couldn’t even admit to myself that I was gay. I thought I was bisexual, at best, because I’d had sex with five women in my teens and early twenties. Honestly, I still can’t believe I ever did that. I was so determined to be straight that I thought having sex with women would make that a reality for me. It didn’t.

I met a dear friend at summer camp. Both of us have struggled with loneliness and despair. Neither of us was very strong or “masculine” growing up. We both took our religious faith seriously. In our adult lives, we both went to seminary. And we both like poetry. And today, whenever I struggle with stuff, his words comfort and encourage me to keep going.

We often speak of friendships in processing our attractions toward guys. How to reclaim brotherly bonds amid tides of crushes. How we learn to venerate the image of God in men, letting our attractions capture beauty without claiming it as our own. But it gets all the more complicated when one of the guys to whom you’re attracted is yourself.

I remember being particularly excited about the fact that he wasn’t just coming over for a bit — he came to stay the night! We would be able to spend so much time together, and I couldn’t imagine any version of that scenario that wouldn’t appeal to me. That is until, of course, something went wrong.

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.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about what it might look like to share my last days with another man. Sharing my life with him in a way that’s pure, platonic, and rooted in Christ — a lifelong companionship without crossing lines that my faith tells me are off-limits. This same-sex longing didn’t come out of nowhere. It started building a couple years ago, around another lonely Valentine’s Day.

When I decided to commit myself to celibacy as a gay Christian, one prayer became the focus of my personal prayer life. Not having a boyfriend or a husband? That was difficult, but it didn’t cut to the heart of how I envisaged my life. But not having children? That was the real thorn in my flesh.

As I entered adulthood, I faced pressure from my dad to get hitched. My parents thought that I “used to” struggle with same-sex attraction after a most complicated religious experience. I could likely write an entire post on that experience alone, but to put it succinctly: I encountered grace in such a way that made me know and love God more and caused lust to lie low for years.

For years, I was caught in a strange paradox. I was drawn to gay men — compelled to be around them in clubs, bars, and cruising spots where I knew I’d find a connection, even if it was fleeting; yet I also harbored a deep dislike for the men I met and even the ones I saw on screen. I was, in a way, anti-gay — primarily from the way I was raised.

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?

Another thing we can easily do is carry delight for masculine beauty into lust. There’s a sense of claiming, entitlement, and ownership in lust that’s fraudulent, a lie to myself. The moment I do so, I start to make the beauty point to me.

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.”

Leading up to this fall’s YOB retreat, I had a lot of anxiety. Who would be placed in my tribe? What if my tribe members asked me questions I couldn’t answer? What if strong disagreements between tribe members happened that I couldn’t peacefully stop? I felt unqualified for such a leadership task as this!

I realize that this labyrinth is a metaphor for how I tend to view my life back home: stuck in a place all alone that was never meant for me. A place designed by the other broken humans around me to leech off me until nothing remains. But I can’t judge. I’m just as bad of a gardener as the other broken men in this desert around me.

With straight guys at the gym, I’m witnessing a world in which I can’t partake; whereas in YOB I’m witnessing a world in which I already take part, and I’m very happy to step back and see other guys enjoying our world.

There’s a special tension for a married guy who isn’t straight hanging out with a bunch of mostly unmarried guys who also aren’t straight for an entire weekend. Questions swirl over how to demonstrate faithfulness to my wife and our kids – would it even be worth it for me to attend a YOB retreat?

The air felt thick with something heavy as I rolled up to this year’s YOB retreat – nothing like the old days when I’d show up buzzing with excitement, counting down the moments to new insights or good laughs with the crew. I'm just gonna be real with you: the start of this story might feel dark, but stick with me.