"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 that to be true.

To be funny, if my dad was away, my next oldest brother or I would sometimes say, "Jesus wept" which is the shortest Bible verse we knew. Just two words. We usually got a glare or stare from mom but nothing more was said. If he was present, my father would then fold his arms, we all had to close our eyes and bow our heads. Then dad began to pray.

In his prayer, he always prayed "for those less fortunate than us" and those who were "sick and afflicted." He would also remember the "bereaved and the shut-ins." Dad always expressed gratitude for what we had. Then he would lead us as we said The Lord's Prayer in unison. My father had an intrinsic faith in God that was evident by the life he lived and how he prayed.

Dad repeatedly used certain phrases in his prayers each time he prayed. I can remember many of them to this day. It was not the words dad said, but the tone and sincerity with which he said them that communicated a faith in God that was real and personal. Dad was a man of few words but his deeds spoke eloquently. He was kind and humble. He seldom spoke negatively of anyone.

I was the fifth surviving child in a family of six. When I was born, a play was already going on in my family. What would my role be in this Helmuth family? How could I help? I wanted to be the best little boy I could be.

As a boy of five, I liked helping my mother in the kitchen and with housework. I noticed how tired she often seemed. She was so busy with raising us six children I wanted to help her in any way I could. I had a clear sense that mother had wanted me to be a girl so I could help her with her work. I had three older brothers to help dad with the farm.

When I was age five and a half my younger sister Carol was born into our family. At about age six, I started to rock her in a small white rocking chair. This cute little child rocker was covered with a white vinyl material and had brown wooden rockers. I would put it near the heat register for warmth and sang and rocked my little sister to sleep. I felt proud that I could sometimes get her to sleep when she was fussy. Mother would praise me for being so helpful.

Even though she was just a baby, Carol claims she can remember these times. She recalls these times as being very nurturing to her. There has always been a close bond between she and I even to this day. We share and seem to understand each other.

I was taken to church every Sunday morning and most Sunday evenings. There was also a mid-week prayer service.

Sunday morning in my local Mennonite church typically started with two songs sung in four- part harmony without accompaniment. A prayer, announcements, scripture readings, a sermon of twenty to forty-five minutes, another song, or two, another prayer and dismissal. The church sanctuary was divided with two sets of hard wooden benches. Women sat on one side and men on the other.

During the long church services, we children could sit on either side of the sanctuary but usually sat with our mothers or aunts. The women were to all wear dresses or skirts below the knee, have their hair long, wear a prayer veiling and be quiet. The men could wear pretty much what they wanted to with no restrictions on hair. Unlike the Amish, beards were OK but not encouraged or required.

The theme of the sermons would usually be something like this: man was an awful sinner from birth. He disobeyed God and engaged in sins of pride and arrogance. Of the various sins, sexual sins got much more rap than others, or at least I remembered them more. God was very angry with man and was going to send us all to hell if we did not repent and change our ways. But he reconsidered and sent Jesus to die on the cross to appease his anger. So be glad Jesus got you off the hook.

But to stay off the hook you had better live a holy and chaste life or you could get it anyway (sent to hell). No one explained how human sacrifice pleases God or why that was necessary except that the Jewish people used to kill perfect goats and sheep to please him and they believed it would make God happy, because it showed they were sorry for their sins. That might have made sense to the Jewish people but made no sense to me as a child growing up in the 1950's.

Once we accepted Christ, usually at about age 12, we were then saved and became part of his holy church. We were to live clean and pure lives to please him. We were to look and be different from the sinful world. Yes, to be a proper Christian sister, Mary was to wear a dress below the knee and not cross her legs. She was to have long hair hanging down or rolled up on top of her head and covered with a prayer covering. She might feel proud of her modesty and gossip about the others who did not look as spiritual as she but that was not discussed much. One could easily tell who was a "true" Christian woman or not. It was much more difficult to tell true Christian men because we wore pants and shirts just like the world.

The assumption in all of this theology was that we were bad, sinners, shameful people and we were born that way. We needed to be saved from our condition. This is easy to believe and seems to make sense because there is ample evidence of evil all around us. If something bad happened to someone, that was evidence that they were sinful and being punished by God. And God allowed the bad to happen to get them to repent and come to him.

It was occasionally said we were "born in the image of God." But that was seldom explored or considered very seriously. Even as a very young child I had a sense that I was a spirit, a being from somewhere else. I had a sense that I was born ok. My many walks in nature led me to feel a natural closeness to my Source of life. Before I joined the Mennonite religion, I sensed I was a spiritual being and precious.

But as my mind here on earth was imprinted with the agenda of people around me and the struggles of life, I forgot this being I was and began to fear. This beautiful consciousness I had known slowly faded into beliefs of being bad, sinful, shameful and inadequate.

Chapter Two

Moon Over Swallen Road

Between the paved roads of Route 153 and Georgetown Road, three and a half miles east of Louisville in northeast Ohio, is a three-mile dirt and gravel road named for a Mr. Swallen, who owned the farm at the corner. When there was a dry spell in the summertime, our traveling down this dirt road in a car would stir up so much dust that one could barely see the person next to you in the car. My family lived on a farm two and one half miles down this dirt road. In winter, snow often drifted Swallen Road shut by the west to east winter winds that piled the snow up to four feet high.

It was a very cold Sunday in January of 1953. I was nine years old. My parents, three brothers and two sisters had been to morning church services. The night before, I had invited a second cousin to bring his train set over after church that Sunday and put it together with mine to make a nice layout. After lunch we played with the trains most of the afternoon. Then it was time to milk the cow, gather the eggs and feed the thousands of chickens we had on our farm. After dinner some of the family and myself went back to church for the evening service.

After church services and visiting with friends for forty-five minutes, it was time to go home. Dad drove our 1949 four-door Dodge car home from our Mennonite church meeting. Mom was in the front seat holding my younger sister. One of my three brothers and my older sister were beside me in the back seat. I was by the window. I always liked sitting by the car window at night so I could look out and see the stars and the moon.

At church that night, everyone met in the sanctuary for a hymn and a prayer. The adults stayed upstairs to hear their second sermon of the day, usually by whichever of our two ministers did not preach that morning, while children my age were hustled to the basement for our own classes. This evening we were told stories of our Mennonite missionaries in Africa and their work there to help the people dig wells for water but also to win them to Christ. In learning about far away lands and different cultures, I was impressed by how big and diverse our world was.

But that cold night coming home from church in our car, I was not thinking about how big our world was. I was thinking how very small our world was. I looked up and saw the full winter moon high in the sky. I looked to see if there might be a man in the moon. I wondered if the moon was perhaps the face of Jesus. Maybe Jesus wasn't in heaven and instead lived on the moon, if so he would be closer than heaven. I heard some joking that the moon might be made of green cheese. I was quite sure there was no man, cheeses, or Jesus on that beautiful sphere. But I was very curious about what might actually be there.

As our car traveled down Swallen Road toward our farm home that night, I remember a strange sense that I could, for a brief time, leave the car to see our beautiful earth as the tiny speck it is from the perspective of someone standing on the moon. I was in absolute awe that our planet was so small and seemingly insignificant. I had learned in science class that our earth was a planet circling the sun. It is one of billions of stars in the universe and the universe was billions of years old. I had learned that there were many other galaxies out there and that our earth was certainly not the center of the universe.

That winter night I began to question more what I was being taught in church: If God were a man-like being out there or up there in heaven some place, how could he keep track of all our thoughts, feelings, and behaviors? Why did He (male, of course) want to judge and punish us? How could any one of us specks on this small speck of earth know the truth for all? And to claim to know absolute truth seemed to me to be the epitome of arrogance.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Crossing the Bridgeby James L. Helmuth Copyright © 2009 by James L. Helmuth. Excerpted by permission.
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