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 want to talk about rape – specifically, my childhood rape. I want to tell this difficult story for two reasons: healing for myself, and more importantly healing for anyone else reading. Please read at your own discretion.
Andrew returns to tell the tale of his cross-country move from Ohio to Southern California! What led him to leave the only home he’d ever known to find a new one? He shares about his upbringing in the Midwest, including many years of homeschooling, and a friend who prompted him to ponder the possibility of a new start. Andrew basks in the literal and existential sunshine of his new life in SoCal, talking about his new queer community and an accepting church that makes him feel at home in his faith and sexuality. But what of his masculinity? Where does and doesn't he feel quite "at home" in that arena?
I understand some people have to portray themselves in certain ways for cultural reasons, or because they don't want to hurt their families. But how many more mornings are we willing to wear this mask around people just to cry into our pillows at night?
I honestly didn't think I'd write anything else about my mom, basically feeling as if I'd said it all the first time around. But turns out I was wrong. I've had some health issues through the years, including six strokes. I had a session with a psychiatrist, telling her how my mom and sisters are the direct cause of my stress, making my catatonic episodes worse each time.
As I left, one of these guys thanked me for showing the group what a mother-son relationship should look like. That was definitely food for thought on my long drive home! So many thoughts ran through my head and heart.
I believe that if I hadn't come to this retreat, I wouldn't have found this perspective shift – especially with my brother's encouragement. Perhaps I did need to have my hope renewed. My time with my brothers that weekend would facilitate this renewal, refocusing our eyes on the source of our hope, our Lord Jesus Christ.
I had sex for the first time on May 3, 1979. Funny how you always remember your first. It was with my sister's best friend. I was 17; she was 16. Everyone in the neighborhood swore we were already having sex, but we weren't. I really wasn't interested in her or any other girl for that matter; even if I was, I wouldn't have known what to do anyway.
I'd love all straight people – straight Christians – to watch "Love, Simon" because it will show them how gut-wrenching (and also beautiful) the coming out process is for a gay person: of finally letting another human into the biggest secret of one's life.
My mom didn't start saying she loved me until she became a Christian in the early 80's. Now she says it almost every day, and I feel like she's doing it to make up for all those lost years. As far as I'm concerned, those "I love you's" are empty because she's been saying it to the straight Michael she's always preferred instead of the Michael actually in front of her. And because of that, I've learned to tolerate her acknowledged denial of my life.