Looking Forward

See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?

— Isaiah 43:19

There is something sacred about the space between years. It is a quiet doorway—one foot still planted in what has been, the other hovering over what has yet to take shape. The world often treats this moment as a demand for reinvention, but Scripture invites us instead to pay attention. As the psalmist prays in Psalm 90:12, “Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom,” reminding us that reflection itself is a holy act.

As LGBTQ+ people of faith, we know that endings and beginnings are rarely tidy. This year may have held moments of joy and affirmation—or seasons of grief, fatigue, and survival. It may have asked more of you than you ever expected. And yet, here you are. Still breathing. Still standing. Still deeply loved.

When the prophet Isaiah speaks of God doing “a new thing,” it is not spoken to people who are confident or comfortable. It is spoken to a community worn thin by exile and uncertainty. God does not dismiss their past or minimize their fear. Instead, God promises presence right where they are: a way in the wilderness, streams in the wasteland (Isaiah 43:19). Renewal does not require perfect conditions—only God’s faithfulness.

The turning of the year does not erase what came before. It gathers it. Every hard-won truth, every boundary learned, every scar earned through survival becomes part of the soil from which new life grows. In the aftermath of devastation, Lamentations 3:22–23 offers this quiet assurance: “The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning.” Newness, in Scripture, is not about forgetting—it is about being met again.

For many LGBTQ+ Christians, the arrival of a new year carries both hope and caution. We have learned that trust is not naive and that faith often carries memory with it. Still, the promise remains. Writing to a community living in uncertainty, Paul reminds them in Philippians 1:6 that “the one who began a good work among you will bring it to completion.” God is not finished with you—not at year’s end, and not at the beginning of what comes next.

And in the Gospel, we are given a final, steadying word—not a command, but a promise. At the close of Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus says simply, “I am with you always, to the end of the age” (Matthew 28:20). Not only in moments of clarity. Not only in seasons of confidence. But always—across thresholds, through uncertainty, and into whatever comes next.

So as this year closes, you are not asked to become someone else. You are invited to become more fully yourself—rooted in truth, shaped by grace, and steadied by the knowledge that you have never walked alone. As the next year opens, may you step forward gently, knowing that love has already gone ahead of you.

As this year fades into memory and a new one opens before you, may you carry forward what has shaped you and release what no longer gives life. May you trust that the love which sustained you this year does not disappear with the turning of the calendar. God is already present in what comes next—quietly, faithfully, and without condition. Wherever the new year leads, may you step into it knowing that you are held, you are seen, and you belong.

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Moment of Zen: Home

Home at last. A delayed flight from Washington, DC had me walking in just before 3 a.m., but now I’m back where I belong—with Isabella, her morning wet food served, and the quiet comfort of home. A gentle Moment of Zen before I crawl back into bed. 😴🐾

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‘Twas the Day after Christmas

I seem to have survived Christmas in Alabama.

My niece gave me a “World’s Best Guncle” coffee mug—quietly, in private, so no one else saw. She didn’t say anything when she handed it to me, but I had the sense that my sister knew exactly what it was. My sister and brother-in-law fully include her partner in everything, so maybe my family is, slowly, getting better. Then again, who knows—since no one actually talks about it.

It was a somber Christmas in other ways. My great-uncle died early Christmas morning. He was 95, the last of my grandmama’s siblings—the last of that generation. I feel deeply for that branch of my family. His first wife, whom I never knew because she died before I was born, passed away two days before Christmas. His second wife died just a week after Christmas. Losing that generation makes the holidays feel different. They were the ones who held everyone together, the glue that kept us gathering year after year. Now, I rarely see those branches of the family anymore. In some ways, I wish I were staying a few extra days, just to be present with everyone who remains.

Mama’s health is also weighing heavily on me. Her dementia continues to worsen. She’s grown more frail, shuffles when she walks, has tremors, and becomes confused easily. There are still good moments—but when I woke her on Christmas Eve, she looked frightened and didn’t recognize me at first. That moment broke my heart in a way I’m not sure I can fully put into words.

I fly out today around 11 a.m. I won’t get into Burlington until close to midnight, which means—after waiting on baggage—I’ll be lucky to be home by 2 a.m. Two long layovers this year. I always try to keep it to one, but it never quite works out. There are no direct flights from Burlington to Montgomery, so travel days are always long days. Maybe one day I’ll marry a very wealthy man who can fly me straight to Montgomery on a private jet—but until then, this is just part of the deal.

What I’m most looking forward to is getting home to Isabella. I know she’s missed me. She’s been moping around the apartment while I’ve been gone, sleeping mostly in my spot on the bed instead of her usual place at the foot. She’s always incredibly chatty when I first get home, so I’m hoping she doesn’t wake the entire apartment complex loudly complaining about my disappearance while simultaneously being ecstatic that I’ve returned. Knowing her, it will be a bit of both.

For now, I’m grateful to have made it through the holidays, grateful for small signs of love and acceptance, and grateful that—after a very long day of travel—I’ll finally be home. Sometimes, that’s more than enough.

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Merry Christmas, Friends 🎄

However this day finds you—wrapped in the noise and laughter of family, sharing a quiet meal with chosen loved ones, or savoring a rare moment of stillness—I hope Christmas meets you gently. I hope it brings warmth where the year has been cold, light where things have felt heavy, and rest for souls that have been carrying more than their share.

For those of us who live at the intersections of faith, identity, and hope, Christmas can be complicated. It can hold joy and grief in the same breath. And still, the heart of this day remains: love entering the world not with spectacle, but with tenderness. With presence. With promise.

May you feel seen today. May you feel safe. May you feel loved—not as someone you’re expected to be, but exactly as you are.

From my corner of the world to yours: 

Merry Christmas!

Peace, light, and a little bit of quiet joy to you all. 🎄✨

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Better get some sleep—he’s making his list and checking it twice, and it looks like the naughty ones are getting extra attention.🎄😏

Glitzen the Glitter-Nosed Reindeer

✨ Once upon a time, there was a reindeer who sparkled a little differently… 🌈✨

This is a fairy tale about joy that refuses to be dimmed, about glitter that outshines greed, and about choosing celebration when the world insists on silence. It’s a story for anyone who has ever been told to tone it down, stand in line, or make themselves smaller—and decided instead to shine.

Glitzen the Glitter-Nosed Reindeer is a tale of hope, courage, and unapologetic fabulousness. A reminder that being yourself is an act of bravery, that joy is powerful, and that light always finds a way back.

Pull up close.

The bells are ringing.

The glitter is flying.

And Christmas—real Christmas—is about to begin.

Glitzen the Glitter-Nosed Reindeer

Early one May at the North Pole, one of Santa’s reindeer gave birth to a little reindeer. When the newborn stood for the first time, he promptly tipped forward—straight into a pile of glitter meant for Santa’s toy shop. Laughter rippled through the stable as the little fellow wobbled back onto his shaky legs, his nose completely covered in sparkle.

His mother smiled and decided then and there to name him Glitzen—a portmanteau of her father Blitzen’s name and the glitter he had tumbled into. As Glitzen grew, everyone noticed that his nose never stopped shimmering. It seemed he could never quite rid himself of that glitter from his very first encounter with the world.

The young buck reindeer laughed at him and called him names. Glitzen knew he was different. Instead of playing reindeer games with the other bucks, he preferred to prance and dance with the does. He felt far more comfortable in their company, and they never mocked him or made him feel small. Glitzen always seemed to know exactly how to make the does—and everything around them—more fabulous.

He had a natural instinct for fashion and decorating, an eye for sparkle and balance. The bucks wanted nothing to do with him. His parents loved him dearly, though his father was often a little embarrassed by his son. His mother, however, understood. She loved Glitzen’s confidence and admired how he remained true to himself, even when the other reindeer bullied him.

One year, the world beyond the North Pole grew especially dark.

Across the Earth, a cruel and crooked dictator had risen to power. He ruled by fear, lies, and greed, demanding that the world worship him and his avarice above all else. He renamed cities, buildings, and institutions after himself, insisting his name be spoken everywhere, carved into stone and stamped in gold. Vast, glittering monstrosities were built in his honor—towering, hollow things—constructed by draining money, food, and comfort from ordinary people who could scarcely afford to lose any more.

Music was silenced. Color was discouraged. Celebration was mocked as weakness. People were told to fall in line, to stop dreaming, to stop being themselves. Hope, the dictator declared, was dangerous unless it served him.

And as the world grew heavier under his shadow, Santa’s Village felt it too.

The elves lost their spark. Toys no longer shimmered. Wrapped packages looked dull and lifeless, as though joy itself had been taxed away and locked behind gilded gates. Santa was deeply troubled, but he understood—everything at the North Pole drew its energy from the world beyond. When the world was oppressed, the North Pole dimmed.

Santa himself felt blue, though he tried not to show it. Hoping to lift spirits and restore even a little cheer, he decided to walk through the Village.

As he wandered, Santa noticed the reindeer weren’t playing at all—just standing about with lowered heads. The elves worked without enthusiasm, and it showed in every toy they made. Then, suddenly, Santa heard laughter. Singing. Bells.

He stopped in his tracks.

Following the sound, Santa entered the reindeer barn and was greeted by a truly fabulous sight. A group of young reindeer were dancing and singing, led by a buck with glitter on his nose and a string of lights woven through his antlers. Bells jingled as he moved, creating the most wondrous music, and everyone present was clearly delighted.

Laughing, Santa asked, “Everyone outside and in the toy shop is so gloomy—what happened in here to make things so festive?”

The reindeer laughed and pointed to Glitzen.

“Glitzen, my boy,” Santa said kindly, “how are you able to be so cheerful when the world feels so heavy?”

Glitzen looked up and replied,

“Santa, tyrants hate joy. They hate glitter. They hate people being themselves. They want us to worship their gold and their names instead of one another. But someone has to remind the world that they don’t get to take our light away. A little sparkle, some lights, and a few bells can help people remember who they are. I just wanted to remind everyone that we need a little Christmas right now.”

Then Glitzen began to sing:

Haul out the holly
Put up the tree before my spirit falls again
Fill up the stocking
I may be rushing things, but deck the halls again now.

For we need a little Christmas, right this very minute
Candles in the window, carols at the spinet
Yes, we need a little Christmas, right this very minute
Hasn't snowed a single flurry, but Santa dear we're in a hurry.

Santa joined in singing:

I need to climb down the chimney
Turn on the brightest string of lights I've ever seen
Slice up the fruit cake
It's time we've hung some tinsel on the evergreen bough.

Before anyone quite realized what was happening, the cheer inside the barn spilled out across the North Pole. Soon, everyone joined in:

For I've grown a little leaner, grown a little colder
Grown a little sadder, grown a little older
And I need a little angel sitting on my shoulder
Need a little Christmas now

For we need a little music, need a little laughter
Need a little singing ringing through the rafter
And we need a little snappy, happy ever after
We need a little Christmas now.

When the song finally faded, Santa smiled and said,

“Yes—we do need a little Christmas now. Glitzen, thank you for reminding us that joy is an act of courage. Now we need to share it with the world. Can you help me?”

“I’ll do anything I can, Santa,” Glitzen replied.

“First, help the elves and reindeer rediscover the Christmas spirit,” Santa said. “Then, on Christmas Eve, when I deliver presents, I need you to spread that spirit everywhere. Some people are frightened. Some are silenced. Some are told they must be less than who they are so others can feel powerful. But they need to know that joy, love, and glitter still belong to them. We can’t let cruelty win.”

Glitzen nodded eagerly. He and the does set to work at once, covering the Village in glitter and tinsel while singing Christmas songs. Soon, all the reindeer—including the bucks who had once teased him—joined in. The elves found their spark again. Toys gleamed, and the packages wrapped under Glitzen’s direction were among the most fabulous ever to leave the North Pole.

On Christmas Eve, Glitzen led Santa’s sleigh, flying proudly at the very front. As they soared across the world, glitter and light rained down upon cities and villages alike. And something remarkable happened.

As joy spread, fear loosened its grip. As people sang, the dictator’s lies rang hollow. The great golden monstrosities—symbols of greed and stolen comfort—began to crumble. Some were torn down by the people themselves. Others were melted, their gold redistributed to those who had been robbed of food, warmth, and dignity.

By morning, the dictator’s regime had collapsed. His name vanished from buildings and streets. His statues were gone. His power dissolved like frost in the sun.

People once again expressed themselves freely. Color returned. Music filled the air. Love was no longer hidden. And as a new year dawned, joy and happiness returned to the land.

The spirit of Christmas ruled the world again.

Santa and all the reindeer congratulated Glitzen—not only for being the most fabulous reindeer of all, but for reminding everyone that joy is powerful, truth is radiant, and glitter can change the world.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

May your holiday be fabulous—and if you wake up with a bit of glitter scattered about, perhaps Glitzen has visited your home this year.

Postscript

I know this is a silly story, and I first shared it several years ago. It was originally written during the gloom of Christmas 2020, when the pandemic swept across the world, creating isolation, fear, and deep sadness. That year, many of us felt cut off—from our families, our communities, and from joy itself.

But just as the pandemic eventually ended, we must believe that evil, too, will be crushed. Prosperity will be returned to the people. Cruelty will not have the final word.

This too shall pass.

In a time when LGBTQ+ identities are being crushed under the weight of fear and repression, when our glitter is mocked and our joy is treated as dangerous, we must remember Glitzen. Our fabulousness is not weakness—it is resistance. And when we let it shine, the world becomes brighter.

Christmas is proof that light returns.

Always.

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