You know that sigh that dogs let out when they’ve finally gotten comfortable? They’ve just found a spot to settle in, but it takes a few tries to get the energy right.

Up, down. Shift head to the left. Nope… not right.

Up again. Quarter turn clockwise.

Flop back down. Kick out a leg and… Got it.

Now a big breath in, then let it out — not too slowly now, this isn’t a mindfulness exercise. It’s just the easy, natural release of the effort it took to get here.

The den is a safe place. Now rest.

_____

I had a dream a few years ago in which I’m walking through the Minnesota State Fair. After weaving through crowds and stalls, all of them thick with fryer steam and goodwill, I round a corner into a tent full of picnic tables and lock on to my group of friends. They’re sitting around a table at the far corner, and I make my way toward them; despite my deep appreciation for the fair, I’m eager to sit for a bit and enjoy the relative quiet for a moment. We’ll go back into the sea of happy strangers soon, but not yet. I sit on the tabletop with feet resting on the bench, and we trade tales of how we got there, what we intend to devour, and the best order in which to do so. Routes are plotted on maps. At some point amid the tactics, my favorite climbs up beside me, leans over, and rests his eyes and nose in the crook of my neck and shoulder. I tip my head sideways till my jaw is resting against his forehead, and we both sigh like dogs lying down in their den. It feels as natural and essential as breathing. This will be a great day, but it will be draining. We’re both already looking forward to finding a quiet exhibit hall in which to look at vegetable art (God bless the fair) and turn inward for a spiritual breather. It’s a gift that we understand this about each other; less pretending will have to be done today.

This was the first time he had shown up in a dream in such an intimate way—and this fact in itself was as surprising as anything. It had been several years since I’d first sensed that my affection for my friend had taken a romantic turn, and following that realization, I had been worried that a dream even more visceral than this would make my strained friendship with him even more difficult to manage. He was the companion I had prayed for throughout childhood, when male camaraderie had been hard to find. And in the early years after graduation, he was a solid and empathetic companion as we both launched into professional life. I had hoped — in a cautious sort of way, acknowledging how things like friendships turn sour quickly when they aren’t allowed to develop freely and without management — that we would be the sort of pair that stuck together through adulthood, that our kids would have honorary uncles, and our wives would be just as close.

I knew I was attracted to men, but still held out hope for a conventional, “straight” life with a wife and kids. God is more than capable of making that happen, I reasoned. And even if a family wasn’t in the cards, I firmly believed that a lifelong friend would be fair consolation. It was profoundly exciting, then, to see God’s providence in giving me this friend. But, I had fallen in love with him instead.

It was strange and uncomfortable, and it threw a non-standard-sized wrench into our friendship that took real effort to work through. But despite constant worrying over hugs lasting too long or new volatility in my moods; despite knowing that these feelings would not likely be reciprocated, and that even if they were, it would be a dangerous thing to lean into them given God’s position on such things—despite all of that, I was profoundly enjoying being in love. For one thing, it made me so much better.

I’d been fighting to be a good person and imitate Jesus, and it almost always felt like swimming upstream. But now, unexpectedly, the sought-after warmth and virtue of the Teacher seemed much closer to the surface. In many ways it became effortless.

I had known couples who seemed to melt into each other and have eyes for no one else. Others seemed to feel so thoroughly outdone by the perfection of their partner that their eyes were constantly turned inward instead—on their own flaws and the inexplicability of their relationship. But this new love of mine did not discriminate; its eyes were for anyone and everyone. Love was just closer to the surface as I went about my day. But it wasn’t just little things; I started getting more compliments about my ability to listen and pick up on subtle cues, and I knew I was becoming a wiser, more supportive friend to my crew. The world was brighter—in part because I felt I wasn’t messing it up as badly as I used to—and it all came as naturally as breathing. It was clear to me, too, that this was all stemming from being in love with my friend.

We uphold that God is Love, but that had never meant anything more to me than saying “God is awesome,” or “God approves of love,” or “God loves everyone a lot.” Now, I understood that love is not just an action or an affection, or an inexplicable desire, or a duty-driven motivation, but all four at once and more — certainly something other than myself, and yet not foreign either. And I was in it, by virtue of it being in me.

I was surprised, too, to find that this other thing did not seem to demand freedom of expression. It was happy just being around my friend. It was not offended by limitations and boundaries, but rather happily filled whatever container offered it. But, more on this later.

I’m a Christian burdened with same-sex attraction. I consider it a burden to carry, not a gift to be celebrated. But I’m not going to shy away from the fact that my flawed sexuality has been a tool with which God has blessed me and others.

I’m telling you all of this because it’s absolutely crucial that, whether you’re reading this as someone who sees same-sex attraction as a burden or a gift, you understand that people like me don’t have a constrained or underdeveloped understanding of love. We don’t lack experience with it, either. We’ve felt it, been empowered by it, and would be as offended as anyone if told that our love was invalid or forbidden. We’re looking at the same thing.

So please understand what’s at stake here. Because we feel the weight of love, and the absence of it, too—possibly even more intensely. I’ve wondered sometimes if sexual minorities have it especially hard: our feelings of difference and alienation go so deep and are validated so early on that we start aching for a partner to be on our side indisputably, sympathizing with us ceaselessly. Never absent or complicated. That ache can be counterproductive, clearly. By its desperate strength, our past loneliness makes forming healthy, grounded relationships that much harder—and that much more necessary.

Having wondered for most of your life if lonely detachedness would be your fate, it is a glorious thing to feel love for someone, anyone. It’s to have your doubts and fears not just removed but replaced with something constructive and hopeful. It’s the very stuff of God; but after discovering it, our task then becomes learning how to use it. Because after being blindsided by love, the next surprise in store was finding that when I resolved nevertheless to continue following God’s design for sexuality, my life didn’t get lonelier or emptier. I hope I get to tell you the next part someday.