Waiting and Watching

I talked with Isabella’s veterinarian yesterday about her bloodwork results. Overall, the news was reassuring, though there are still a few things we need to investigate.

Her bloodwork showed a slightly elevated BNP, a heart enzyme that can sometimes indicate stress on the heart or other cardiac issues. It can also be elevated because of high blood pressure. Both the vet and I suspect that hypertension is the most likely explanation, but we want to be certain.

One thing that has become obvious is just how much Isabella’s asthma has been affecting her. When she has an asthma attack, I can see the fear in her eyes when she comes looking for me. On top of that, she has a pretty severe case of what we might call “white coat syndrome.” The trip to the vet was stressful for her. Strange people were handling her and taking her to unfamiliar places. Even the calmest cat would find that unsettling.

The good news is that her chest X-rays looked normal. The veterinarian reviewed them again to make sure nothing had been overlooked. I have a great deal of confidence in her judgment. She has been practicing veterinary medicine since 1983 and has decades of experience behind her. In fact, she is now semi-retired and even gave me her personal cellphone number in case Isabella’s condition worsens and I need to reach her directly.

To be thorough, we are going to schedule an echocardiogram to rule out any underlying heart disease. If there is a heart problem, we have likely caught it very early. Most cat owners do not receive that kind of warning. Often, heart disease is not discovered until it has progressed much further. The technician who performs the echocardiograms is supposed to call me today to schedule the appointment.

We have also increased Isabella’s steroid dosage because she has continued to have some coughing episodes. However, there is encouraging news on that front: this morning she did not have an asthma attack. Hopefully, that is a sign that the increased medication is already helping.

There is one other issue we are monitoring. Isabella has been licking a spot on her belly enough to create a bald patch. Excessive grooming is usually caused by either itchiness or anxiety. Since she has had no contact with other animals, fleas seem very unlikely. Both the veterinarian and I suspect that stress and anxiety related to the asthma are the more probable causes.

In other news, I am heading to Dartmouth this morning for my next round of Botox treatments for chronic migraines. I will admit that I am a little anxious because a new provider will be administering the injections this time. She is a physician rather than a physician assistant or nurse practitioner, and my past experiences with doctors giving injections have been mixed. Still, if she regularly performs Botox treatments, I am hopeful she has plenty of experience. I certainly need this treatment. I have been battling a migraine that has waxed and waned in intensity since Saturday night.

That is all I have for today. I hope everyone has a wonderful Wednesday.

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Book of Statues

Book of Statues
By Richie Hofmann

Because I am a boy, the untouchability of beauty
is my subject already, the book of statues
open in my lap, the middle of October, leaves
foiling the wet ground
in soft copper. “A statue
must be beautiful
from all sides,” Cellini wrote in 1558.
When I close the book,
the bodies touch. In the west,
they are tying a boy to a fence and leaving him to die,
his face unrecognizable behind a mask
of blood. His body, icon
of loss, growing meaningful
against his will.

About the Poem

Richie Hofmann’s Book of Statues is a poem about beauty, desire, and the terrible cost of hatred. The speaker begins by contemplating classical statues, objects created to embody an ideal of human beauty. As someone who loves museums, art, and history, I am naturally drawn to these opening lines. The image of a young man sitting with a book of statues in his lap feels familiar to me. The statues are beautiful, but they are also distant and untouchable.

The poem’s opening phrase, “the untouchability of beauty,” struck me immediately. For many queer people, beauty can feel like something just beyond reach. We grow up admiring others while often feeling that our own desires must remain hidden. The statues represent not only beauty but also longing.

Then the poem shifts abruptly from the world of art to the reality of violence. The mention of a boy being tied to a fence and left to die recalls the murder of Matthew Shepard in 1998, a crime that became a symbol of anti-gay hatred. The contrast is jarring and intentional. One moment we are considering idealized bodies preserved in marble and bronze; the next we are confronted with a real body broken by cruelty.

The final lines are the most heartbreaking. The murdered boy’s body becomes an “icon of loss,” “growing meaningful against his will.” No one chooses to become a symbol. No one chooses to become a martyr. Yet throughout LGBTQ+ history, countless people have had meaning imposed upon their suffering because of the prejudice they endured.

For me, this poem serves as a reminder that Pride is not only a celebration. It is also an act of remembrance. We celebrate the beauty of being ourselves, but we do so knowing that others paid a price for the freedoms many of us enjoy today. Their lives matter not because of how they died, but because of who they were.

“Book of Statues” explores the intersection of beauty, art, queer identity, and violence. Hofmann begins with the contemplation of classical sculpture and the ideals of beauty that have captivated artists for centuries. The poem then moves suddenly into contemporary history, linking aesthetic admiration with the lived reality of LGBTQ+ people.

The reference to Benvenuto Cellini’s statement that a statue “must be beautiful from all sides” emphasizes the classical pursuit of perfection. Against that ideal, Hofmann places the image of a young man whose body becomes known not for its beauty but for the violence inflicted upon it. The poem asks readers to consider how societies value some bodies while devaluing others and how acts of hatred can transform ordinary lives into symbols.

About the Poet

Richie Hofmann is an American poet whose work often explores themes of beauty, history, desire, memory, and queer experience. He is the author of several acclaimed poetry collections, including A Hundred Lovers and Interpreter of Shadows. His poems frequently draw upon art, classical literature, and historical subjects while examining the emotional and social realities of contemporary life.

Hofmann’s poetry is known for its clarity, elegance, and restraint. Even when addressing painful subjects, he often writes with a quiet intensity that allows individual images to carry profound emotional weight. In Book of Statues, he brings together the worlds of classical art and modern queer history to create a poem that is both beautiful and deeply unsettling.

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Monday Decisions

The museum reopens today. The floor waxing was finished on Friday, and the floors needed the weekend to dry before we could return. After more than a week of working from home, I’ll be heading back into the office this morning.

Unfortunately, I’ve had a migraine since Saturday night. Despite taking all of my rescue medications, it seems to have gotten worse rather than better. At the moment, I’d much rather crawl back into bed than go anywhere. Still, after being away from the museum for over a week, I feel like I should be there when we reopen. I’m going to see how I feel after I’ve been up for an hour or so before deciding whether I need to call in sick.

It’s already shaping up to be a strange week. I have a doctor’s appointment this afternoon, Botox on Wednesday, an audiology appointment Thursday afternoon, and I’ll be working from home on Friday. Sometimes it feels like my calendar has a mind of its own.

One thing I’ve never gotten very good at is calling in sick. Even when I know it’s justified, I always seem to feel guilty about it. Perhaps that’s something I should work on. For now, I’ll finish my coffee, see how the migraine behaves, and make a decision from there.

Have a great Monday, everyone.

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Walking the Narrow Path

"Enter through the narrow gate, for the gate is wide and the road is easy that leads to destruction, and there are many who take it. For the gate is narrow and the road is hard that leads to life, and there are few who find it." 

— Matthew 7:13-14

For many LGBTQ+ people, living authentically can feel like walking a narrow path.

Some of us come to understand who we are at an early age. Others spend years, even decades, struggling to accept ourselves. Some never find the freedom to live openly at all. The path toward authenticity is often difficult, especially when society, family, or even the church tells us that who we are is somehow wrong.

The younger generations, fortunate as many are, may not fully understand the burdens carried by those who came before them. There was a time when loving someone of the same gender could lead to arrest. There was a time when LGBTQ+ people were classified as mentally ill. Then came the AIDS epidemic, bringing unimaginable grief and fear. Many people who were already marginalized found themselves blamed for their suffering. Rather than offering compassion, too many Christians offered condemnation.

Yet when I read the Gospels, I cannot imagine Jesus responding that way.

When I think about how Jesus would have responded during the AIDS crisis, I think of people like Ruth Coker Burks. While many turned away in fear, she chose compassion. She visited the sick, comforted the dying, buried those whose families would not claim them, and treated people with the dignity that every child of God deserves. As Christians, we believe that the Holy Spirit dwells within us, guiding us toward the love and compassion of God. In Ruth's life, that presence was evident. Filled with the Holy Spirit, she became an instrument of God's grace to people who had been abandoned by nearly everyone else. Through her hands, Christ touched those who were suffering. Through her words, Christ offered comfort. Through her presence, Christ reminded people that they were never abandoned by God.

The narrow path Jesus describes is not a path of exclusion. It is not a path of self-righteousness or judgment. It is the path of love, mercy, truth, and courage. For many LGBTQ+ Christians, walking that path means refusing to live in shame. It means trusting that God's love is greater than the voices that tell us we do not belong. It means following Christ even when doing so requires us to stand apart from popular opinion, religious prejudice, or political pressure.

For some LGBTQ+ people, the wider road would be easier. It would be easier to hide who we are. It would be easier to deny ourselves in order to gain acceptance from those who reject us. It would be easier to remain silent in the face of prejudice or to abandon our faith altogether after being wounded by the church. Yet the narrow path calls us to something greater. It calls us to live truthfully, to love courageously, and to trust that God walks beside us even when the journey is difficult.

But the narrow path is not meant to keep us hidden.

After teaching his followers about the way of God's kingdom, Jesus told them, "You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hid" (Matthew 5:14).

For generations, LGBTQ+ people were told to remain invisible. We were told to hide our relationships, hide our identities, and hide our stories. Growing up in the South, that often meant becoming the family member no one talked about directly. You were the uncle who never married, a "confirmed bachelor," or perhaps you had a "roommate" to whom you seemed unusually devoted. Maybe you moved away to New Orleans, Atlanta, New York City, or somewhere like Vermont, where life felt a little safer and a little freer. The family might acknowledge your existence, but not your truth. You were welcome, so long as certain things remained unsaid.

Pride Month stands in direct opposition to that demand for silence. Visibility is not about seeking attention. It is about refusing to return to the shadows.

When critics ask, "Why do LGBTQ+ people have to be so visible?" they often fail to understand the history behind that visibility. Pride is not a declaration that we are better than anyone else. It is a declaration that we will no longer be ashamed of who God created us to be.

When we live openly and honestly, we become a light for others who are still struggling. We show young people that they are not alone. We show those living in fear that there is hope on the other side of shame. Like the city on a hill, our lives become visible reminders that authenticity and faith can coexist. Every time we choose truth over fear, compassion over judgment, and love over hatred, our light shines a little brighter.

And when we finally step into that light, we discover something remarkable.

The Apostle Paul writes, "So then you are no longer strangers and aliens, but you are citizens with the saints and also members of the household of God" (Ephesians 2:19).

Many LGBTQ+ Christians have spent years feeling like strangers in the church. We have sat in pews wondering whether there was truly a place for us. We have listened to sermons that made us feel unwelcome. We have questioned whether God could really love us as we are.

Paul's words answer those fears.

In Christ, we are not outsiders looking in through the window. We are not guests who are merely tolerated. We are citizens of God's kingdom and members of God's household. We belong.

The journey of faith for many LGBTQ+ Christians begins on a narrow path. It leads us out of fear and shame and into the light of authenticity. And there, standing openly in that light, we discover that we were never strangers to God at all. We were beloved members of God's family from the very beginning.

As you reflect on this passage, consider how you can walk the narrow path in your own life this week. Where are you being called to choose compassion over judgment, truth over fear, or love over silence? How can you be a light for someone who feels alone, rejected, or unseen?

Perhaps it is offering encouragement to someone who is struggling. Perhaps it is speaking up when others are treated unfairly. Perhaps it is simply living authentically and faithfully, allowing others to see that being LGBTQ+ and following Christ are not contradictory.

The example of Ruth Coker Burks reminds us that extraordinary acts of faith often begin with simple acts of kindness. The same Holy Spirit that guided her life dwells within all who seek to follow Christ. We may not all be called to do what she did, but we are all called to see the humanity in others, to offer compassion where there is suffering, and to remind people—through our words and actions—that they are loved.

This Pride Month, walk the narrow path with courage. Let your light shine. And remember that in Christ, you are no stranger. You are a beloved member of the household of God.

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Moment of Zen: Cooking

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