"After a dramatic retelling of his own struggle to self acceptance, Helmuth announces to the world that he is gay, that he is proud, and that God loves him without reservation. There is no greater truth for the victims of untruth and Helmuth's autobiography proclaims that truth loud and clear." -The Rev. Dr. Mel White, Founder of Soulforce and author of Stranger at the Gate and Religion Gone Bad "Crossing the Bridge is a courageous memoir by a psychologist who has lived two lives, as a devoted husband for twenty-two years, and the father of two children, and as a gay man enjoying a stable and loving relationship with another man... Dr. James Helmuth grew up within the painfully narrow confines of the Mennonite religion and nearly took his own life in the process of discovering and living his true gay identity. Unsparingly honest, this memoir reads often like a mystery story, sometimes like a tender recreation of the past - always as a poignant, bittersweet narrative of a boy becoming a man...and a man becoming his true self." -Joseph Dispenza, author of God On Your Own and The Way of the Traveler "What distinguishes Helmuth's story and gives it universality is how Helmuth, in finding his own voice, leaves no one he loves behind....he shows in this memoir how we must all achieve freedom or our lives become impossible. I suspect you will come to love the man and his unique voice; his journey belongs to us all." Thomas Dukes, Ph.D. English Professor, The University of Akron

Crossing the Bridge

From Mennonite Boy to Gay ManBy James L. Helmuth

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2009 James L. Helmuth
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4401-8846-6

Contents

The Crossing.......................................xiBirth-Just Fine The First Time.....................1Moon Over Swallen Road.............................7Nails..............................................12I'm Just One Of You Guys...........................19Achieving Sainthood................................27Secret "Boyfriends"................................36Doubts.............................................43Nesting............................................52Getting To The Point...............................57Crossing The Bridge-Revisited......................64Valentines Day.....................................72Family Disclosures.................................78A New Beginning....................................85Finding Spirituality...............................92April Fools........................................100Another Birth......................................109

Chapter One

Birth-Just Fine The First Time

I was born in our farm home near Alliance, Ohio, on a winter morning in January, at about 9:45 a.m. I was mother's fourth surviving son and sixth child. My oldest brother had died of Spina Bifida five days after he was born.

I remember living on the "Supler" farm as we called it. We called it that because Mr. Supler had owned it before us. I remember that I slept in a crib in my parents' bedroom. I also recall exactly where the rooms were and where each of my siblings slept. I was told at times that I was too young to remember those details but that is not true. Those early memories at age two were confirmed later by my parents and siblings.

When I was two and a half years old, there was a defining moment in my life. A man came around to our house periodically to sell Raleigh products for the home. These included products like "pink medicine" for stomach upsets as well as some cooking ingredients like pure vanilla. His car was parked in our driveway. I was playing behind his car. When he backed out of the driveway to leave, he did not see me. His car backed over me but the tires did not run over me.

I was screaming, most likely more from fear than pain. The Raleigh man pulled me out from under the car, picked me up and carried me toward the house. Mother ran out of the house to meet him and clutched me to her breast. She scared me even more as she cried hysterically, clutching me in her arms and running into the house to clean my wounds.

"Why wasn't anyone watching little James? I told you to watch him! Is he ok? He could have been killed! Oh my! I can't believe it. He's not hurt much! Just some scratches and bruises. It's a miracle!" I was only bruised and scraped up by the cinders in the driveway. I was indeed ok.

"I always said, God must have been with James that day and spared his life for some reason," my mother would say when retelling this story throughout my childhood. I didn't like hearing her say that. I wondered what that meant.

I was born and raised in a Mennonite home. This religion taught that God was very involved in our day to day lives and circumstances. Events like the car backing over me were not seen to be random or happenstance. They had some meaning and often some message from God. I eventually figured out that God sparing my life must mean one of two things: I was to become a minister or a missionary. Unfortunately, I did not like either idea. Even though I had a keen sense of spiritual awareness through nature, I did not want it to be my identity or vocation.

This story, as interpreted by my mother, made me feel very special and valued, but I did not like being controlled or pressured by anyone.

Sometimes cousins or peers from my church group would say that I was going to be a minister or missionary. I defensively resisted this suggestion and would protest that I was not going to be a minister. Instead, I was going to be a school teacher or professor. I did not know what a psychologist was at that time or I likely would have chosen that.

I wondered what meaning my mother and others would have given to the car event if the tires of the Raleigh man's car had run over me and killed me or severely crippled me. Would God have been held responsible for that also? I doubt it. "He" always seemed to have a "get out of jail" card.

God, who supposedly controlled every detail of our lives, got credit for sparing my life, but He would never be held responsible if He had ended it. I was told this God was usually compassionate, loving and knew what was best for us and we should never, ever doubt Him, or be angry with him.

But, this God could also be wrathful and send us to hell if we disobeyed him. It didn't make sense to me. In my upbringing, it didn't matter if something did not make sense; I was to just accept whatever the church taught anyway because the truth was revealed in scripture and by the ministers.

Even before I could count to three, I was being defined and manipulated by religion and others intentions and ideas for me. Before I could speak a full sentence, I was told who I was and what I would likely do in life. I had the audacity to believe I should have some say in this matter. I was always on the defensive to explain why I was not going to be a "minister" as was suggested by others. This added to my difficulty in finding a boy self that I could feel good about.

From early childhood on I was told I needed to be re-born and I believed that sincerely. I "accepted Christ" at age eleven and had a sense of relief at being forgiven of my sins. Yet this experience did not magically change my whole worldview or my behaviors. It was my experience of my immediate and extended family that shaped me.

The people who gave me food, shelter and love taught me about a God in the sky who loved us but who also would judge us and punish us when we sin. I assumed these people were absolutely right. After all, they were older and bigger and seemed to be so certain about how things were. Not until later in life did I seriously question this programming.

I learned faith at suppertime. Our wooden table had four legs and was oval-shaped. There was always a pretty flowery oilcloth draped over it so food spills could be easily wiped up. Dad sat at the west end of the oval and mother was immediately to his left. My younger sister was in a high chair next to mom, then my older sister Barb usually sat next to her. My older brothers were next starting with the oldest down to me, the youngest of the boys. I liked sitting next to my father because he was always calm and kind. And, I knew my brothers would not tease me if I were sitting next to dad.

Once the salad, meat and vegetables were on the table, Mother put on her mesh prayer covering and read the Bible reading assigned for that day, plus a short reading of the meaning of the scripture. She would sometimes make a few short comments on what she read. Then each of us at the table who were old enough to speak, were asked to say a Bible verse from memory. This was not difficult because we were often asked to memorize verses for our Sunday School or Summer Bible School classes. We went around the table clockwise. And the unspoken rule was you were not supposed to repeat a verse already given. When it was my father's turn to say a verse, he would often say "all things work together for good, to those who love the Lord." (Romans 8:28 KJV) I have found...