Everyone is shocked when I tell them I knew that I was gay in the 4th grade, but that was the year when I had a crush on the new boy in town. His family moved into a house down the street from mine. He had a full head of auburn hair, hazel eyes, and a friendly smile. Even better: he wanted to be friends with me, too. Somehow, though, I knew that having a crush on another boy wasn’t right. Anyone who had a crush always did on the opposite sex. I already knew, somehow, that if I told everyone that I had a crush on another boy, they would think of me as a freak.

As a Roman Catholic, I learned early on that the religion I was born into was very structured. If you didn’t practice it the right way, God would be unhappy. When I realized I was gay, I also realized that God wouldn’t love me. No one taught me this. I never overheard any debates about marriage being between only one man and one woman. I don’t even remember homophobic language, either at school or at home. The lack of representation — the sheer invisibility of anyone outwardly practicing how I felt secretly — told me all that I needed to know about being gay. Because I didn’t see any other gay people, I just assumed that God either didn’t make them or didn’t want us to become them. One day in the fourth grade, I was lying in bed daydreaming about the boy I had a crush on. Thinking about him made me very happy — until I wasn’t. Suddenly, I got out of bed and sat on my knees. Even now, I still vividly remember making the sign of the cross and then asking God: “If I think about him again, please, please send me to Hell…”

I stopped believing in a God who hated me for being gay when I realized that being gay wouldn’t end anytime soon. Even though I was still closeted, I explored my sexuality even more. This was the early 1990s, and back then you had to dial into the internet. There was this big internet service called AOL that was a resource for me to explore my sexuality. There were chat rooms with people who would either send you pictures or talk dirty to you. Eventually, I would go to Sunday mass feeling less and less guilty — and worried — about being gay. I knew the feelings were never going anywhere, and that maybe God was in my life in a way that was different from everyone else. Although I was still fearfully closeted, my faith was such that I believed in a friendly God who loved me even though I was gay.

Believe it or not, as terrified as my religion made me feel about being gay, it also ended up being very helpful. One day in high school, the angst of being closeted caught up with me. A teaching priest had come from Rome and would be working at our neighborhood church for a while. He was energetic and young, someone who wasn’t that much older than I was. Somehow, I knew that if I told him what was happening to me, he would just “get it.” This was a risky gamble that paid off well. I had approached him for a conversation, and eventually I stammered the truth about myself. He responded with a speech so gentle and compassionate, for the first time in my life I felt accepted and validated. This spectacular young priest moved on from our church at the same time I moved away for college. I often wonder about him, and if he became a savior in the lives of others as he was in mine.

Those years of questioning and tension with my faith, with God, and with being gay seem as distant as they seem fresh like yesterday. Back then, I could not have imagined my life now as an out gay man in graduate theology school. The tension between my sexuality and my faith had become a footnote in my lived experience. I hesitate to say that I am now a full-grown adult, but young, closeted me and maybe even other young, closeted kids need to hear this: I have taken ownership of who I am. I am a gay man whose pulse races for other men and whose heart beats for Christ. I have a great job and a great apartment. I love my classes, classmates, and professors. I routinely meet guys on Grindr and Scruff and I am very comfortable and open about sex. Although I’m single, I know that Mr. Right is out there. I still wouldn’t call myself an adult, but I have most if not all of my affairs in order. I’d call that a win.