I'd transition to being a woman. I'd find a man to love me for who I was, and I'd become his wife. I'd run away with him and find freedom to be the woman I was supposed to be. This is not what happened, of course. Some would call it a mercy; others, a tragedy. I call it taking ownership of my gender identity.
I couldn't be like these people. They seemed like the antithesis of everything I stood for. Finding out that the Bible forbade homosexual sex only fueled my self-righteous anger. To assert my masculinity and avoid being labeled gay at all costs, I joined my other straight male classmates in mocking gay people.
I think it's ironic, but I really believe our stories may be better received by unbelievers than some churches. Fortunately, my story is different. Most people have patiently heard me out and graciously extended loving support.
I felt comforted. Assured. Confident. My pastor's hand on my shoulder gave me a shot of strength.
I am not interested in a new machismo, finding a new way to be a man, a new way of determining what a real man is and isn’t.
If it's not permission to read our stories that my new friend needs, and the insight is still not enough to help him feel welcome, what else does he need?
Is it really acceptable for men to cry? American culture has told me and countless other boys and young men that crying is not manly.
My father's Father's Day text message sat on my phone the entire time, still waiting to be read. A message that could potentially ruin my Father's Day.
Growing up as a pastor's kid, I hid my homosexuality because I didn't want my father or my family to know that I was a "mistake."
And then my wife came up the stairs and saw me in my deplorable state. I was attempting to fix the bathtub plumbing. And losing.