We were getting ready to cut the dog's hair and Sammy, my parents' Yorkshire terrier, went into hiding amidst piles of sorted laundry as I looked in the mudroom cupboard for the clippers my mother uses to trim his coat.

Mom was standing near the kitchen table, her five-month-old iPhone in her hand. "Your brother taught me how to use the iTunes last night," she said. "I have to show you the first song I bought." She was excited to show me the song she had purchased, Bucky Covington's song, "A Father's Love." I'd never heard of the singer, let alone the song, as I'm not much interested in listening to a wide array of country music. I was trying, unsuccessfully, to coax the dog into out of the laundry pile when the son started playing; I was in tears, dog in hand, by the second stanza.

He checked the air in my tires,
The belts and all the spark plug wires;
Said "When the hell's the last time you had this oil changed?"
And as I pulled out the drive he said, "Be sure and call your mom sometime."
And I didn't hear it then, but I hear it now:
He was saying "I love you" the only way he knew how.

I was hit by these lyrics because they describe exactly what my dad does for me every time I come home. He checks the air in my tires, opens the hood and putters around, and--word for word--asks, "When the hell's the last time you had this oil changed?" The song finished playing, I held Sammy in my lap, and Mom proceeded to share with me how she'd played the song for Dad the night before( which inspired about the same reaction in him as it did me); he asked afterward if he'd said "I love you" to his sons frequently enough when we were growing up.

I looked at a hangnail on my finger and smiled, as this brought to mind a rigorous and flaying conversation I'd had with an acquaintance concerned about my life choices about a month earlier. I said, "Well, I made sure to tell Sister So-and-So that Dad has always been very conscious about letting us know he loves us, that we've heard those words from him many times."

"What are you talking about?"

I wrestled with the anxious dog in my lap. "Oh, about a month ago she waited for me after an afternoon performance the trio gave. Said I was 'just the young man she wanted to visit with.' Corralled me into an unoccupied, 'more private' room for a discussion she wanted to have. Where she told me why being gay is the same as being 'sexually broken.' And said she could offer me help with selecting a Church-affiliated counselor and a reformative program. So I could be healed."

I wasn't sure if my mom would try to change the subject of if she'd agree with the other woman's opinion; I wasn't really certain of anything, as any mention of the word "gay" draws up tension for my mom and for me. The clippers buzzed on and Sammy whimpered. "You're kidding! I can say stuff like that to you, but no one else can! Who in the world does she--?" I was comforted by my mother's defending, angry response. "What else did she say?"

I maneuvered the dog so Mom could shear those hard-to-reach places and explained how Sister So-and-So informed me that same-gender attraction is not caused by genetics or biological functions, but that it is the result for boys who grow up without an involved father; who lack positive masculine role-models in their early lives; who seek out positive male-to-male touch in adult relationships because they don't feel completely male because their daddies didn't hug them enough when they were little boys.

I explained how I let Sister So-and-So know that my dad had never been shy about giving my brothers and me hugs; that he'd never been slack in saying, "I love you;" that both he and my mom have always been supportive of the activities in which their children participate. "Mom, I was very clear in telling her how great a father Dad was--how great a father he is. That I don't think it's Dad's fault--or your fault--that I'm gay." I laughed, "It really blew the wind out of her sails."

"That just makes me so mad," Mom spat. "What nerve!"

"I know, Mom. I was really upset about it, too," I agreed. Sammy kicked, "Be careful -- don't nick your dog!"

"Sorry, Sammy."

We kept talking as she finished up Sammy's haircut. It felt good for both of us. It had been a long time since that had happened.

I learned some things:

My parents are processing this. They may not like it, but they love me and they will defend me as they always have.

Sister So-and-So was acting out of love, even if she was sneaky and horribly misguided in the way she offered her opinions; however, Sister So-and-So was also ashamed that we were having the conversation. She waited around for everyone to leave before she said she wanted to speak with me. She looked for a quiet room, out of the way, where no one could find or interrupt us. She cowered and looked over her shoulder at every sound. "Did someone just walk by? Did anybody see us in here?"

My response to that kind of sneaky, secretive, shadow-filled "assistance" is this: I'm Mormon. I'm gay. I'm unashamed. If you want to talk about those dualities, let's have the discussion out in the open. No secrets. No shame. No judgment from you. No judgment from me.

And lastly, my parents' parenting of me did not direct or lead me to be attracted to other men. There is nothing we can blame "the gay" on. It just is. It's something I've felt since I can remember feeling, and it's something I'll feel for the rest of my life. No one should ever have to justify their feelings, or try to blame what they feel on anyone else.

I've become a man, confident and content as any, but I forget to change the oil in my car. I don't often press a gauge against the valve to see how much air is in the tire. Dad reminds me to do those things. It's just another way he keeps saying, "I love you." I'm happy he still does.