Pic of the Day

Waking to the Light

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.

— John 1:5

There is something tender about the first morning of a new year. The world has not changed overnight, and yet everything feels slightly quieter—like the pause just before we open our eyes. A new year does not arrive with fanfare so much as with light: soft at first, steady, and persistent.

John’s Gospel opens not with commands or expectations, but with illumination. The light shines in the darkness, John tells us, and the darkness does not defeat it. Light does not argue with the dark; it simply appears. It reveals what is already there. As we wake to a new year, we are not asked to banish every shadow—only to notice that light is already present.

For many LGBTQ+ people of faith, waking up has not always felt safe. Some of us learned early to keep parts of ourselves hidden, to move carefully through the world, half-awake and half-guarded. And yet the Gospel insists that God meets us not in denial or fear, but in revelation. Light, in John’s telling, is not exposure meant to harm—it is truth meant to heal.

Luke’s Gospel offers a quieter image of beginning. On the road to Emmaus, two disciples walk together, confused and grieving, unsure of what comes next. Jesus joins them on the journey, though they do not recognize him at first. They walk, they talk, they tell their story—and only later do they realize they were never walking alone (Luke 24:13–16). Sometimes new beginnings do not feel like clarity. Sometimes they feel like movement—one step, then another—before understanding catches up.

The first Sunday of a new year does not demand certainty. It invites attentiveness. It invites us to notice who is walking beside us, even when we do not yet have the language for what is unfolding.

And then, in John’s Gospel again, we hear the words Jesus speaks to frightened disciples huddled behind locked doors: “Peace be with you” (John 20:19). These are not words spoken to people who have it all together. They are spoken into fear, into uncertainty, into a room full of people unsure how to go on. Peace, here, is not the absence of trouble—it is the presence of Christ.

As we wake to a new year, peace does not mean that everything will be easy or resolved. It means that we are not abandoned to face it alone.

So open your eyes slowly. Let the light reach you where you are. Take the next step on the road in front of you, even if you do not yet see the destination. And receive the quiet promise spoken at the threshold of this year: peace is already here.

May this new year find you waking—not to pressure or fear—but to light, to companionship, and to a peace that meets you exactly as you are.

Pic of the Day

Moment of Zen: Fireside

It’s been bitterly cold here lately. Last night, my apartment felt especially unforgiving—one of those nights when no number of layers quite does the trick. I found myself wishing I were curled up in front of a fireplace, mug of hot chocolate in hand, wrapped in a man’s arms. But at this moment, honestly, just the fire would be enough.

Pic of the Day

Nothing Urgent

January 2 has always felt more honest to me than January 1. Usually though, it means returning to work. Thankfully, with today being a Friday, that isn’t the case.

The first day of the year comes with noise—fireworks, declarations, promises shouted into the dark. January 2 arrives more softly. The calendar has turned, but life hasn’t quite rushed back in yet.

I’m easing into the morning with a cup of coffee, enjoying the stillness before the day really begins. Now that Isabella is fed and has settled back into her post-breakfast routine, I’m seriously considering returning to my warm bed for a little while longer. It’s currently 0 degrees outside my window, and that feels like a perfectly reasonable plan.

I’m not feeling the need for big resolutions or sweeping declarations. Right now, this moment—quiet, warm, and unhurried—feels like enough. The year is new, but there’s no rush to sprint into it.

If anything, I’m reminding myself that beginning gently is still beginning. Rest counts. Taking things one day at a time counts. Listening to what your body and mind need—especially in the depths of winter—counts.

So if today feels slow or unremarkable, that’s okay. January 2 doesn’t demand anything heroic of us. Sometimes the best way to welcome a new year is with a warm bed, a fed cat, and the knowledge that there’s time.

I hope your year is starting in whatever way you need it to.

2026: Stepping Forward, Gently

I’ve never been very good at New Year’s resolutions.

They tend to be loud promises made on tired days, full of enthusiasm and thin on mercy. By the end of January, they often feel like little failures stacked neatly on a calendar page. That’s not how I want to enter a new year.

This year, I’m thinking less about resolving and more about remembering.

I want to remember to be kind—to strangers, to colleagues, to the people who frustrate me, and especially to the people I love. Kindness doesn’t mean being passive or silent, but it does mean choosing generosity over sharpness when I have the option.

I also want to work on my temper.

That’s not easy to admit. I don’t lose it constantly, but when I do, it’s usually because I’m tired, overwhelmed, or feeling unheard. I don’t want to be someone who reacts first and reflects later. I want to pause, breathe, and respond with intention. That kind of change doesn’t happen overnight—but it does happen, moment by moment.

And yes, I want to keep moving forward with my health.

Not as punishment. Not as a resolution that demands perfection. But as an ongoing commitment to my body and my mental well-being. I’ve already made real progress, and I want to continue—not because I “should,” but because I feel better when I do. Stronger. Clearer. More at home in myself.

I’m not promising I’ll work out every day.

I’m not promising there won’t be setbacks.

I am promising to keep showing up.

Scripture says, “The path of the righteous is like the light of dawn, which shines brighter and brighter until full day” (Proverbs 4:18). Dawn doesn’t rush. It doesn’t apologize for being gradual. It simply keeps coming.

That’s how I want to move into this year—not with grand declarations, but with small, steady steps. Choosing kindness when I can. Choosing calm when I remember. Choosing health as an act of care, not control.

A new year doesn’t require a new version of me.

It just invites me to keep becoming—one ordinary, honest day at a time.

And that feels not only attainable, but hopeful.

🍾Happy New Year!🥂

Pic of the Day

2025: Looking Back with Gratitude

As 2025 comes to a close, I find myself doing what I so often do here — pausing, reflecting, and trying to make sense of the year not as a list of accomplishments or failures, but as a lived experience. This was not an easy year. It was not a simple one either. It was a year of trials and triumphs, of weariness and growth, of quiet joy and hard-earned grace.

Beginnings and Intentions 

I began 2025 with hope — not the loud, fireworks kind of hope, but a quieter one. The kind that says let’s keep going. I didn’t make grand resolutions. Instead, I carried forward an intention to keep writing honestly, to keep noticing beauty, and to keep showing up — even on days when that felt difficult. Looking back now, that intention mattered more than any checklist ever could.

The Daily Practice of Seeing

One of the anchors of this year was the simple, steady rhythm of posting — especially the Pic of the Day and Moment of Zen posts. They may seem small, but they were acts of attention. They reminded me — and hopefully some of you — that beauty still exists even on days when the world feels heavy or exhausting. Sometimes the most faithful thing we can do is simply notice what is right in front of us.

Some of those images invited stillness. Others invited contemplation. A few invited appreciative glances and thoughtful pauses. All of them were reminders that paying attention is never wasted time.

Health, Fatigue, and Hard Days

This year asked me to be honest about my limits. There were migraines, exhaustion, medication changes, and days when my body simply refused to cooperate. Writing about those moments wasn’t always easy, but it felt important. Too often we treat productivity as a moral virtue and rest as a failure. 2025 reminded me — sometimes forcefully — that listening to my body is not weakness. It is wisdom.

There were days when I had little to give, days when I skipped poems or kept posts short, days when getting through the workday felt like an accomplishment in itself. Those days count too.

Curiosity, Candor, and a Raised Eyebrow

I’d be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge another side of this blog — the one that surfaces apropos of nothing, usually with a raised eyebrow and a glint of something a bit more daring.

Every now and then, I let myself write something knowingly suggestive: a charged observation, a half-remembered erotic dream, a moment of attraction that refused to stay politely theoretical. I don’t do it often, and when I do, it’s never crude — but it is deliberate. Those posts are reminders that desire is not something to be edited out of a thoughtful life. It’s a signal, a pulse, a way of noticing that I am still very much alive in my body.

Posts like “Apropos of Nothing” or dream reflections such as “When Dreams Drop Hints” allow me to name that sensual undercurrent without apology. They exist alongside poems, devotionals, and reflections not as distractions from the spiritual, but as quiet provocations within it. I’ve come to believe that any faith worth keeping should be able to survive a knowing glance — and perhaps even enjoy it.

Memory, Loss, and Reflection

Some of the most meaningful posts this year came from looking backward — honoring friendships, remembering those who are no longer here, and acknowledging how grief never fully disappears but changes shape over time. Writing reflections like “In Memoriam: Ring Out, Wild Bells” reminded me that memory is not about being stuck in the past, but about carrying forward what still matters.

Another reflection, “A Quiet Table, a Full Heart,” became unexpectedly communal. It reminded me that gratitude, when shared, has a way of multiplying.

Everyday Joys and Connections 

If there is one thing I want to name clearly as I look back on 2025, it is gratitude.

I am grateful for my friends — for conversations that made me laugh, for support that arrived exactly when I needed it, and for the steady presence of people who show up not just for the highlights, but for the ordinary days too. Friendship, I’ve learned again this year, is one of life’s quiet miracles.

And I am endlessly grateful for my faithful companion, Isabella. She has been there for the early mornings, the long evenings, the days when I felt worn down, and the moments when a warm presence and a demanding meow were exactly what I needed. Her constancy, her personality, and yes — her diva tendencies — have been a daily reminder that love often shows up in small, furry, persistent ways.

A Word About Faith

Among this year’s Sunday devotionals, the one that most fully embodies the heart of The Closet Professor is “Sanctuary.” It returned to a message I hold close: that God is not confined to institutions, fear, or exclusion, but found in refuge, presence, and quiet faithfulness. That LGBTQ+ people do not need to leave parts of themselves behind to be welcomed by grace.

It’s a faith that makes room — for questions, for bodies, for desire, for rest.

And as I’ve realized again this year:

Paying attention — whether to beauty, grief, friendship, or the occasional knowing glance — is itself a kind of reverence.

What 2025 Taught Me

This year taught me that growth doesn’t always look like progress.

That strength can look like rest.

That honesty creates connection.

And that showing up — imperfectly, quietly, faithfully — is sometimes the bravest thing we can do.

Looking Ahead to 2026

As I step into 2026, I do so with gratitude rather than grand expectations. I carry forward what this year has given me: perspective, resilience, deeper appreciation for community, and a renewed commitment to writing truthfully — about faith, queerness, beauty, struggle, and joy.

Thank you for reading, for commenting, for being part of this space. You make this blog more than words on a screen. You make it a shared journey.

Here’s to whatever comes next — with grace, honesty, curiosity, and hope.

Pic of the Day