rest.
I can feel the
heat rise to my cheeks as I accept the book. Taking hold of it almost feels
like I’m agreeing that I’m gay, and that I’m willing to search for a way to
accept my gayness. And truthfully, at this point, I still don’t know what I’m
going to do about liking guys. Then I remember what Jesus said to me in my
dream, that I must discover my true cross before I can carry it, so I suppose that reading some guy’s theory about
how being both gay and Christian can peacefully coexist won’t hurt me in that
regard.
“Thanks.” Maybe
I’ll read this book, maybe I won’t. I make sure my tone of voice reveals my
skepticism.
“Not a prob. And
here,” he scribbles two phone numbers and a couple of names on a crumpled scrap
of paper that’s on the table. “Give this to your folks. It’s my folks’ cell
numbers. Tell them to call if they ever wanna talk
about shit.”
Again, I blush as
I reach for the paper, but I’m still careful to place it inside the cover of
the book, and then I stick them both into my backpack. No matter what, I’m not
ready to be seen carrying an “it’s OK to be gay” book around in public.
He then cracks
open his laptop and we create the conclusion to our Ride ‘ Em Cowboy rodeo power point project. We work well together, even though we are forced to whisper due to
library rules. David is what I call sarcastically funny, and I enjoy being with
a person who I know isn’t judging me for being gay. In fact, when I’m with him,
I stop judging myself harshly, at least for a little while.
Finally, we
decide to call it a day and we pick up our stuff and head for the exit. Once
we’re outside, David touches my arm with his gloved hand. I stop and look at
him. “I know what you’re going through totally sucks right now. It’s written on
your face, man.”
I don’t nod or
acknowledge his observation in any way. No reaction is the safest reaction.
“But Our Way
isn’t the only youth group in the area, and St. Mark’s isn’t the only church.”
His words hit me
hard. Like he expects me to change everything I ever was—the entire foundation
of my life—in one split second, with this single profound rejection. I don’t
say anything, but I can’t turn away from his intelligent blue eyes.
“And Tony,” I
don’t miss that he calls me the familiar form of my first name, that, for the
most part, only my father and sisters use, “there are other options. Christ is
the way, the truth, and the life, for sure, man.” The last time I heard that it
had been from Emma, speaking with a rather “I’m da bomb” attitude. “But there’s
more than one path to Him. I’ve found a path where I can serve Him, and love
Him, and worship Him with total honesty about who I am, among a congregation of
other Christians who don’t care about which sex I’m attracted to. When you’re
ready to join us, talk to me, dude.”
Every now and
then his relaxed language reminds me so much of Laz .
That simple acknowledgement feels like a knife to my heart because I’ve lost my
best friend, Lazarus, over this issue. I think I wince and I think it would
have been quite visible to David, if not for the steady breeze that blows my
hair in front of my face.
David pulls his
phone out of his back pocket, and momentarily, I’m surprised that a phone fit
inside those skinny jeans. “What’s your cell number?”
I clear my throat
and obediently recite my number, and then he dials it and calls me. My phone
buzzes in my jacket pocket.
“Now you got my
number, Tony. Call me any time.” He doesn’t smile or wink or do anything else
to engage me. He flings his long dark hair over his shoulder and heads for his
shiny black Honda Ridgeline.
Saying Goodbye
For the next few
Sundays, my family sneaks off to St. Elizabeth’s Catholic Church in Lampert , and I help Mom teach the girls their Sunday school
lessons in our kitchen between church and the time I leave to volunteer at the
Humane
I can feel the
heat rise to my cheeks as I accept the book. Taking hold of it almost feels
like I’m agreeing that I’m gay, and that I’m willing to search for a way to
accept my gayness. And truthfully, at this point, I still don’t know what I’m
going to do about liking guys. Then I remember what Jesus said to me in my
dream, that I must discover my true cross before I can carry it, so I suppose that reading some guy’s theory about
how being both gay and Christian can peacefully coexist won’t hurt me in that
regard.
“Thanks.” Maybe
I’ll read this book, maybe I won’t. I make sure my tone of voice reveals my
skepticism.
“Not a prob. And
here,” he scribbles two phone numbers and a couple of names on a crumpled scrap
of paper that’s on the table. “Give this to your folks. It’s my folks’ cell
numbers. Tell them to call if they ever wanna talk
about shit.”
Again, I blush as
I reach for the paper, but I’m still careful to place it inside the cover of
the book, and then I stick them both into my backpack. No matter what, I’m not
ready to be seen carrying an “it’s OK to be gay” book around in public.
He then cracks
open his laptop and we create the conclusion to our Ride ‘ Em Cowboy rodeo power point project. We work well together, even though we are forced to whisper due to
library rules. David is what I call sarcastically funny, and I enjoy being with
a person who I know isn’t judging me for being gay. In fact, when I’m with him,
I stop judging myself harshly, at least for a little while.
Finally, we
decide to call it a day and we pick up our stuff and head for the exit. Once
we’re outside, David touches my arm with his gloved hand. I stop and look at
him. “I know what you’re going through totally sucks right now. It’s written on
your face, man.”
I don’t nod or
acknowledge his observation in any way. No reaction is the safest reaction.
“But Our Way
isn’t the only youth group in the area, and St. Mark’s isn’t the only church.”
His words hit me
hard. Like he expects me to change everything I ever was—the entire foundation
of my life—in one split second, with this single profound rejection. I don’t
say anything, but I can’t turn away from his intelligent blue eyes.
“And Tony,” I
don’t miss that he calls me the familiar form of my first name, that, for the
most part, only my father and sisters use, “there are other options. Christ is
the way, the truth, and the life, for sure, man.” The last time I heard that it
had been from Emma, speaking with a rather “I’m da bomb” attitude. “But there’s
more than one path to Him. I’ve found a path where I can serve Him, and love
Him, and worship Him with total honesty about who I am, among a congregation of
other Christians who don’t care about which sex I’m attracted to. When you’re
ready to join us, talk to me, dude.”
Every now and
then his relaxed language reminds me so much of Laz .
That simple acknowledgement feels like a knife to my heart because I’ve lost my
best friend, Lazarus, over this issue. I think I wince and I think it would
have been quite visible to David, if not for the steady breeze that blows my
hair in front of my face.
David pulls his
phone out of his back pocket, and momentarily, I’m surprised that a phone fit
inside those skinny jeans. “What’s your cell number?”
I clear my throat
and obediently recite my number, and then he dials it and calls me. My phone
buzzes in my jacket pocket.
“Now you got my
number, Tony. Call me any time.” He doesn’t smile or wink or do anything else
to engage me. He flings his long dark hair over his shoulder and heads for his
shiny black Honda Ridgeline.
Saying Goodbye
For the next few
Sundays, my family sneaks off to St. Elizabeth’s Catholic Church in Lampert , and I help Mom teach the girls their Sunday school
lessons in our kitchen between church and the time I leave to volunteer at the
Humane
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