My Dad, My Hero
Life lessons of a loving gay Christian
My Dad was my hero. And that is not supposed to happen for gay boys.
My Hero
I looked up to my Dad — literally. He stood 6 feet, 2 inches. But he was the type of man who looked even more massive than his actual height. His stature was imposing — to me as a child and to all of the men who served under his leadership.
My Dad was John Wayne. Well, not actually. However, until I was 6-years old, I truly thought my Dad was indeed John Wayne. My family watched John Wayne movies throughout our lives. When I saw Mr. Wayne onscreen, I was convinced that he was my actual Dad. The two men physically looked alike; they had the same dark hair and stoic impression. As John Wayne persevered and overcame all obstacles by the movie’s end, I was certain that my Dad could win against any threat to our nation or our family.
World War II began with the surprise attack upon Pearl Harbor. My Dad entered the Air Force two days later. His ascent within the officer ranks was the stuff that legends are made of. He was assigned to be a co-pilot (then rose to become the primary pilot) of literally the most dangerous mission in the Air Force. He was ordered to fly his bomber plane just inches above the waves in the Pacific ocean. And he flew directly toward Japanese ships — which were blazing their arsenal toward his face. Precious seconds before he would crash into the vessel, my Dad would release his bombs as improvised torpedoes. My dad would then pull his aircraft above the Japanese ship — only milliseconds after unleashing his bombs and imploding himself into the naval ship.
It was a suicide mission.
Day after day after day. As airplanes on every side of my Dad exploded into pieces, he would miraculously return to his airbase alive. And since he could stay alive under such terminal conditions, he ascended in rank and responsibility nearly every month. When WWII ended, my Dad had received one of the highest Air Force medals — and he became an exemplary leader among all Air Force personnel.
In my family of origin, I was the second of three sons. I was the introvert, content with playing by myself. I recall being somewhat pudgy. I was also sensitive. In the John Wayne movies, the actor aggressively taunts the weaker character to “toughen him up” and “make a man of him.” My Dad was above all of that nonsense — he treated me like a winner, and I eventually became one.
At age 10, my Dad enrolled me in playing sports (football, basketball, and baseball). True enough, all of my pudginess became muscle. My shyness was replaced by leadership talent. And I excelled in becoming an award-winning football player. Early in my sports career, my Dad gave me a nickname: the “bull.” He told me that bulls are tough and leaders of the pack — and other animals regarded their stature.
As a “bull,” I would go on to graduate in the top 10 (in leadership) of my all-male Air Force Academy. Next, I would become a “top gun” type of fighter pilot. I would eventually be ranked in the top five percent of my Air Force peers. I, too, became an Air Force commander. And I credit it all to the patient, loving, strong parenting of my Dad.
When my Dad retired from the Air Force, he continued his John Wayne impersonation. My Dad became a cattle rancher — and the best horseback rider I knew. He could lift heavy bales of hay — a feat he was capable of doing even in his eighties. He was a natural cowboy; no brag, just fact.
At age 87, my Dad underwent esophageal surgery. As we sons expected, our Dad survived. But there was a major, shocking aftereffect: my Dad entered into a coma for six months. As the various doctors implored us sons to “pull the plug,” we believed that our John Wayne would eventually, courageous, overcome even this horrible coma. And guess what? He succeeded! One day, he unexpectedly opened his eyes and began talking — as though he had just awakened from a long sleep. We sons were overjoyed — and we cherished every second of his rebirth.
Knowing how fragile his condition was, I repeatedly told him how much I loved him. And how proud I was of him. And he would smile.
Sadly, one day my Dad unpredictably returned to his coma. At this point, all of his “vital organs” were shutting down: his lungs, kidneys, and strength. It was horrific for me to watch “John Wayne” digress. One night I visited my Dad alone. I placed my head upon his chest, my ear upon his heart. Sobbingly, I told my Dad that he was the best man I ever knew — a “man’s man.” I told him over and over how much I loved him.
And soon after that, he died.
My Gayness
In my early thirties, I sought out the best psychiatrist in my area for converting gay men into becoming straight. I had already “accepted Jesus into my life” and was confidently masculine. I also was certain that, with my psychiatrist’s help, I would lose all of my same-sex attraction.
In one of our first sessions, the mental health doctor asked me about my Dad. I told him that I admired him immensely and that he was the strongest man I knew. I also confided to the conversion therapist that I always considered my dad to be “John Wayne.” The psychiatrist was feverously writing notes.
Session after session after session, we kept talking about my Dad.
I eventually learned that conversion therapy is based upon a presumption that the gay man’s relationship with his dad was insufficient. As the theory goes, the gay boy then retreats from the dad and adopts masculine boys as his aim of attraction (instead of females). According to the unproven theory, the gay male has a poor relationship with his dad. Such a condition must be “repaired.”
Consequently, the gay male needs to chummy-up with his dad plus acquire masculine friends. If both are achieved, the gay man’s attraction to men will supposedly evaporate.
Such was bull shit.
I had already had a positive relationship with my hero Dad. I already had a plethora of uber-masculine friends. My “deficiency” was not my relationship with males. Rather, I simply had the hots for attractive men. And that innate attraction refused to yield.
Flummoxed, my psychiatrist had used all of his “conversion tricks,” and we ceased counseling. I then knew that reparative therapy (and all sexual orientation change efforts) was bunk.
As fate would have it, I became a therapist for gay Christian men later in life. While I was presuming that some of my clients would magically lose their same-sex attraction, none did. In fact, I have currently mentored thousands of gay Christian men. I have yet to meet even one man who could tell me that his same-sex attraction had completely and permanently disappeared!
Thus, near the beginning of my mentoring career, I adamantly refused to follow the failed theory of conversion efforts. Instead, I focused on helping the gay Christian embrace the reality that Jesus loves the man exactly as he is. And that his same-sex attraction is a gift, no doubt approved of by God. And many of my mentees lost their sense of shame about being gay — and acquired a peaceful acceptance that they are a gift to the world. They receive dignity from Jesus — not because of any of their works, but simply because Jesus regards them as perfectly valuable.
Armed with such a premise, gay Christian men can throw out the false theories of sexual conversion. They can stop attempting to become adequately masculine.
And they can thrive.
My Dad never knew of my gayness. And if he had, I am sure he would have been proud of me.
Father’s Day
Every year, we males get the commercialized opportunity to reflect upon our dad. And this year, as always, I will gratefully thank God that I had “John Wayne” as my Dad.
My Dad was, and will always be, my hero.
Dr. Mike Rosebush is the founder/author of GAYoda and writer for Backyard Church. He has a Ph.D. in Counseling Psychology and is a retired Licensed Professional Counselor with nine years of counseling and mentoring thousands of gay Christian men. A short synopsis of Dr. Rosebush’s life can be found at I Lived the Most Unusual Gay Christian Life Ever. Please read the complete set of his articles here. You may contact Dr. Rosebush at mikerosebush75@gmail.com.
