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By Another Road

“Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star at its rising, and have come to pay him homage.”

— Matthew 2:2

The story of the Magi is a story about travel—but not the easy kind.

They journey far from home, crossing borders and expectations, following a light only they seem willing to trust. They do not fully know where the road will lead. They only know that something sacred is calling them forward, and that staying where they are is no longer an option.

For many LGBTQ+ Christians, the days leading up to Christmas involve a similar kind of journey. We pack our bags and return to places we know well—homes filled with memory, affection, history, and love—but also with silence. With rules about what can be said, what must be edited, and which parts of ourselves are expected to remain unseen. We love our families, and yet the cost of that love can feel heavy when it requires us to step back into the closet, even temporarily.

The Magi understand something about that cost.

They arrive in Jerusalem first, assuming—reasonably—that a king would be found in a palace. Instead, they encounter confusion, fear, and hostility. Herod is threatened, not curious. What begins as a holy quest is suddenly shadowed by danger. Still, the Magi continue on, guided again by the star, which leads them not to power, but to vulnerability—a child, held by his mother, in an unremarkable house.

Matthew tells us that when they see the child, they are “overwhelmed with joy.” Not because everything is safe or resolved, but because they have found what they were seeking. They kneel. They offer gifts. They honor what is holy, even when it does not look the way the world expects holiness to look.

There is something deeply comforting in what happens next. Warned in a dream, the Magi return home “by another road.” They do not retrace their steps through Herod’s court. They do not place themselves back in harm’s way. Encountering Christ changes not only their destination, but their path.

For those of us traveling home this Christmas—especially to places where our fullness is not yet welcomed—this matters. Faith does not require us to be reckless with our hearts. Love does not demand that we erase ourselves entirely. Even Jesus later tells his followers to be wise as serpents and gentle as doves. There is holiness in discernment.

The Christmas story reminds us that God is present not only in moments of joyful arrival, but also in the quiet strength it takes to endure difficult visits with grace. The child the Magi worship is Emmanuel—God with us—not only in affirming spaces, but in living rooms where words are chosen carefully, and truths are held gently, sometimes painfully, in reserve.

If this season requires you to navigate family dynamics that are loving yet limiting, know this: your journey matters. Your star still shines. You are not betraying God by surviving with wisdom, nor are you failing in faith by protecting yourself. The Magi teach us that sometimes devotion looks like perseverance—and sometimes it looks like choosing a safer road home.

As you travel this Christmas, may you be guided by the quiet assurance that Christ meets you on every part of the journey. May you carry within you the knowledge that you are already seen, already known, already beloved—no matter how much or how little you are able to say aloud.

And when the time comes to return, may you do so changed, strengthened, and still following the light.

The Oxford Trinity Choir · We Three Kings

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Moment of Zen: Christmas Morning

Coffee optional. Clothes apparently not required. This is exactly what I want Christmas morning to look like—and I can’t wait to unwtap these presents. 

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays. 🎄

Peggy Lee · Happy Holiday

Mustaches aren’t usually my thing—but every rule deserves at least one very good exception. Some guys make it undeniably hot. I’m not sure it’s the mustache that’s winning me over—but I’m not complaining.

The following aren’t Christmas pics, per se. They just say Christmas in all the right ways. No ornaments, no lights needed—just something that feels unmistakably seasonal.

There’s nothing remotely Christmas about this—no red, no green, not a single decoration. But Santa… please put him under my tree anyway. I promise I’ll enjoy unwrapping him Christmas morning.

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When Dreams Drop Hints

I woke up this morning from a dream, or maybe it was two dreams, that stayed with me in a way dreams rarely do. I don’t usually remember them, and I almost never remember erotic ones—but lately? Apparently my subconscious has decided to be more generous and is saying I need to get laid. Whatever my subconscious is trying to tell me, it’s been kind of nice.

The first felt like memory filtered through imagination. I’d had a conversation the night before about first experiences and how complicated those early awakenings can be—how we often don’t yet have the language for what we’re feeling. In the dream, I was in a locker room, nearly empty, except for one other guy, quiet in that strange, echoing way such places get once everyone else has gone. Wood lockers. Warm air. That sense of being just a little out of time.

The other guy was handsome, relaxed, completely at ease in his own skin. At one point he was sitting above me, and when I looked up, I realized how close he was. I was looking at his dick sticking out of his boxers. Instead of looking away, neither of us did. The moment stretched—charged, unhurried. I remember being completely mesmerized, struck not just by how beautiful he was, but by the realization that I wanted to keep looking. As I looked, he started getting hard, until he was at full mast. Long pink perfection right in front of my eyes.

He asked, gently, if I wanted to suck him. I hesitated, that old reflex rising up—I’m not gay—the words coming out the way they once did, automatically. He just smiled and cupped my face, steady and kind, and said it was okay if I was, and it would stay between us. With hesitation, and a total lack of knowing how to do this, I took him in my mouth.

Naturally, that’s when Isabella chose to intervene, planting herself squarely on my chest to remind me that breakfast waits for no man.

I fed her, and when I fell back asleep, the dream shifted.

This time I was older—maybe in my 30s or early 40s—and walking hand in hand with a handsome man through Montréal’s Gay Village, down Rue Sainte-Catherine. It was clearly a date: romantic, unhurried, that delicious feeling of being chosen and choosing right back. The city buzzed around us, but we were wrapped up in our own little world.

As dreams tend to do, it skipped ahead—to a hotel room, to kissing, laughter, undressing, and then he was one top of me. I don’t think what happened next needs to be spelled out. Let’s just say it was a happy ending.

I woke again to a black cat sprawled on my chest, staring down at me with the firm belief that if I was awake, I should stay that way—preferably while she found a warm spot and went back to sleep.

Dreams are strange things. Sometimes they’re nonsense. Sometimes they’re memories rearranged. And sometimes—especially when they’ve been getting a little more frequent and a little more erotic—they might just be your subconscious tapping you on the shoulder and saying, Hey… you might want to do something about this.

I hope your weekend brings rest, good company, and maybe even a nice dream or two of your own.

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One Thing at a Time

Everything seemed to go fine yesterday. I spent most of the day sleeping, which was probably exactly what my body needed. The endoscopy showed no esophageal varices, which was a huge relief. The doctor did take a few biopsies of some discoloration in my throat, but that was purely precautionary and nothing to worry about—most likely just irritation from acid reflux. Today I’m left with a sore throat, but that’s a small price to pay for peace of mind.

This afternoon I head to the dentist to get the permanent crown for the tooth I had worked on last month. After that, I’m officially away from the office until January 5. I’ll work from home tomorrow, but otherwise things are slowing down a bit.

The weekend will be spent packing and getting ready for my trip to Alabama. My plane leaves at the painfully early hour of 5:30 a.m. Monday morning, so Sunday night will be an early one. For now, I’m just taking things one step at a time and grateful that yesterday brought mostly good news.

I hope your week is treating you gently.

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Keeping an Eye on Things

Today I’m having an endoscopy, which means I’m not working today. It’s one of those quiet, necessary pauses that comes with living with stage 4 liver disease.

The odd thing about this diagnosis is that, for now, there isn’t much to do. My liver is functioning well enough at the moment, and that may remain true for many years—ten, fifteen, maybe even twenty. If the day ever comes when it can’t do its job, the only cure currently available is a liver transplant. That’s still a long way off, and there’s hope that medical advances will offer new options before then. Doctors already know that some medications used for diabetes can slow the progression of liver disease, which is encouraging.

What is certain is that my doctors need to keep a close eye on things.

That means ultrasounds every six months and an endoscopy every year or two, depending on what they find. When the liver can’t handle blood flow as well as it should, pressure can build up elsewhere in the body, sometimes affecting the veins in the esophagus.

These are called esophageal varices. They often cause no symptoms, which is what makes them dangerous. I was told that many ruptures are fatal simply because the bleeding happens so quickly that help doesn’t arrive in time. That seriousness is exactly why monitoring matters—when varices are found early, they can often be treated with medication and careful follow-up.

So today is about prevention: checking in, staying ahead of potential problems, and taking care of myself. It’s not how I’d choose to spend my day, but it’s part of living thoughtfully and realistically with a chronic condition. For now, that’s enough.

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The Christmas Wreath

 

The Christmas Wreath

By Anna de Brémont

 

Oh! Christmas wreath upon the wall,
     Within thine ivied space
I see the years beyond recall,
     Amid thy leaves I trace
The shadows of a happy past,
     When all the world was bright,
And love its magic splendour cast
     O’er morn and noon and night.

Oh! Christmas wreath upon the wall,
     ’Neath memory’s tender spell
A wondrous charm doth o’er thee fall,
     And round thy beauty dwell.
Thine ivy hath the satiny sheen
     Of tresses I’ve caressed,
Thy holly’s crimson gleam I’ve seen
     On lips I oft have pressed.

Oh! Christmas wreath upon the wall,
     A mist steals o’er my sight.
Dear hallow’d wreath, these tears are all
     The pledge I now can plight
To those loved ones whose spirit eyes
     Shine down the flight of time;
Around God’s throne their voices rise
     To swell the Christmas Chime!

 

About the Poem

There is something quietly powerful about a Christmas wreath. We hang it almost without thinking—on a door, above a mantel, in a hallway we pass through every day. And yet, as Anna de Brémont reminds us, the wreath becomes far more than decoration. It becomes a frame for memory.

For many LGBTQ+ people, Christmas is a season layered with complexity. It holds beauty and warmth, but also silence—loves once hidden, names never spoken aloud, affections carefully guarded. Some of our most meaningful relationships lived in the margins of what was considered acceptable, even as they shaped us deeply and truthfully.

The wreath in this poem holds those memories without judgment. Its ivy and holly recall touch and intimacy—hair once caressed, lips once kissed—loves that were real, even if they could not always be visible. De Brémont does not apologize for this remembering. She sanctifies it.

As the poem moves toward its close, grief and hope meet. Those we loved, and sometimes lost too soon or too quietly, are not erased. Their presence is gathered into something eternal. Their voices, the poem tells us, now rise in the Christmas chime around God’s throne.

For those of us who have ever wondered whether our love was too much, too different, or too inconvenient to be holy, this poem offers a quiet reassurance: love remembered with tenderness is never wasted. It endures. It is held. It belongs.

This Christmas, may the wreaths we hang remind us not only of tradition, but of truth—that love, in all its forms, is worthy of remembrance, and that nothing genuine is ever outside the reach of grace.

In “The Christmas Wreath,” Anna de Brémont transforms a familiar holiday symbol into a vessel of remembrance. The evergreen wreath—traditionally a sign of eternal life—becomes a mirror through which the speaker revisits love, intimacy, and loss.

The ivy and holly are not merely decorative. They take on human qualities:

• ivy becomes the “satiny sheen / Of tresses I’ve caressed”
• holly recalls the “crimson gleam” of beloved lips

This is a deeply embodied poem. Memory is tactile. Love is remembered through touch, color, and physical closeness.

In the final stanza, the poem shifts heavenward. The wreath no longer holds only memory—it becomes a bridge between worlds. The speaker’s tears are not despairing, but devotional, offered as a sacred pledge to loved ones whose voices now join the “Christmas Chime” around God’s throne.

The poem does not deny grief; it sanctifies it.

About the Poet

Anna de Brémont (1859–1922) was an American poet, novelist, and playwright whose work often explored themes of love, longing, memory, and emotional interiority. Writing at the turn of the 20th century, she was part of a literary moment that valued lyricism and personal reflection—especially in poetry intended for quiet reading rather than public performance.

While not widely read today, de Brémont’s poetry resonates with modern readers for its emotional clarity and its willingness to hold tenderness and sorrow in the same breath. Her Christmas poetry, in particular, avoids sentimentality, instead offering a mature meditation on love that endures beyond time.

*          *          *

Perhaps that is why we hang wreaths year after year. Not just to celebrate the season—but to remember. To honor love that shaped us. To trust that nothing truly cherished is ever lost.

May this season hold space for both your joy and your longing. Both belong.

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Starting Slow

I woke up this morning with a migraine and am currently sitting here with my coffee, trying to decide whether I’m going to call in sick or if this will be one of those migraines that eventually eases up. Right now, it’s a waiting game.

I’ll admit, part of me simply doesn’t want to go to work today—but I also hate calling in sick, especially on a Monday. Mondays already feel heavy enough without adding guilt to the mix.

So for now, I’m sipping coffee, giving my head a little time, and seeing how things go. I hope your Monday is starting out better than mine, and I hope the week ahead is a good one for all of us.

☕️

Update: I did go in to work. The migraine isn’t gone, but it’s manageable for now. If it gets worse, I’ll head home.

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Good News of Great Joy

“Do not be afraid; for see—I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people.”

— Luke 2:10

The heart of the Christmas story does not begin in a sanctuary or a palace. It begins in the fields, at night, among shepherds—men who lived on the margins of society, trusted with animals but rarely with respect. When the angels appear, their first words are not instruction or correction, but reassurance: Do not be afraid.

That alone tells us something important about God.

The angels do not announce Christ’s birth to the powerful or the pious. They come to those who were accustomed to being overlooked. And the message they bring is not selective or guarded: it is “good news of great joy for all the people.” Before there is a manger, before there are wise men, before there is any theology to debate, there is this simple proclamation—joy, freely offered.

For LGBTQ+ Christians, Christmas can be complicated. Many of us carry memories of worship spaces where our presence felt conditional, or family gatherings where silence pressed harder than words. We know what it is to stand just outside the circle, listening carefully for signs of welcome. And yet, the first Christmas announcement was made to people who were already used to standing outside.

That is not accidental.

The incarnation—the Word becoming flesh—means that God chose closeness over distance. God did not shout salvation from heaven; God entered human life completely. Born into poverty. Dependent on others. Vulnerable. Luke tells us that Mary wrapped the child in bands of cloth and laid him in a feeding trough. There is no triumphal display here, only tenderness. Only presence.

Isaiah speaks of a child born for us, a son given—not as a threat, but as a gift. This child is called Wonderful Counselor, Prince of Peace. Peace, not conformity. Nearness, not exclusion. The Christmas story insists that God’s love is not abstract or theoretical; it arrives embodied, specific, and astonishingly ordinary.

And when the shepherds hear the angels’ song, they do not stay put. They go. They seek. They trust that the message is truly meant for them. When they find the child, Scripture says they return glorifying and praising God—not because their lives have suddenly become easier, but because they have been seen.

That matters.

This season, you may feel joyful—or weary, or guarded, or unsure how much of yourself you can safely bring into sacred spaces. Wherever you are, hear this clearly: the Christmas story does not require you to earn your place. God has already come looking for you. Emmanuel—God with us—means God with us in our real lives, not our edited ones.

As we draw closer to Christmas, may we remember that the good news was first spoken to those least likely to expect it. And may that same message still echo for us today:

Do not be afraid. This joy is for you, too.

Nat King Cole · Hark! The Herald Angels Sing (Remastered 1999)

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Moment of Zen: Gray Sweatpants Season

It’s that time of year when the weather cools, comfort becomes essential, and gray sweatpants give us more than one reason to appreciate the view. As Mother Nature turns the skies gray, gray sweatpants quietly put nature’s handiwork on display.

Paris Music · It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year (Originally Performed By Andy Williams)

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Friday Reflection

Yesterday’s meeting went well, and now I’m in that familiar in-between space: the waiting. There’s nothing to do at this point except let it unfold as it will. I feel good about the conversation, and for now, that’s enough.

Today I’m working from home, though it’s one of those days where there isn’t much on the agenda beyond a few emails and tying up loose ends. I’m not complaining. Sometimes a lighter day is exactly what’s needed after a week that carried a bit of nervous energy.

I don’t have any real plans for the weekend, and honestly, that feels just fine. I’m looking forward to the next episode of Heated Rivalry, and beyond that it’ll be the usual small, grounding things: a few chores around the apartment, some reading, and plenty of time to just relax and recharge.

I hope everyone has a wonderful weekend—whether it’s full and busy or slow and quiet in all the best ways.

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A Short Thursday Update

I’m off work today, and tomorrow I’ll be working from home, which means I don’t have to step foot back in the office until Monday. Honestly, that small buffer feels like a gift. I have an appointment this morning that I’m anxious about, even though I’ve been preparing myself for it for over a week now. I keep reminding myself to breathe, stay calm, and trust that I’ve done what I can.

If the appointment goes well—and if I’m feeling motivated enough afterward—I want to go to Planet Fitness today. My goal is simple: don’t let myself talk my way out of going. I know that once I get back into a routine, I’ll feel better for it, but breaking the inertia is always the hardest part.

Short post today, I know, but my mind is on other things. I hope everyone has a peaceful Thursday and an even more peaceful weekend ahead.

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Getting Back to the Gym… Eventually

I really need to start going back to the gym. I haven’t been since those back problems started in July—other than two very short, half-hearted attempts—and every time I tell myself I’ll go after work, it somehow never happens. My orthopedist has encouraged me to ease back into it, but good intentions and actual follow-through don’t always line up, especially when your couch keeps whispering sweet nothings.

I had enjoyed working out… though I’ll admit that might have had a little something to do with my very cute trainer at the time. He showed me what to do, corrected my posture, kept me motivated—and now he’s no longer a trainer, which leaves me feeling a bit intimidated. Without someone there to guide me, I’m suddenly aware of how little I really know about what to do at the gym.

Planet Fitness’s app has videos and instructions for all their machines—upper body, core, lower body, plus whatever I choose for cardio (let’s be honest, it will be the treadmill). I could absolutely follow a routine from that. The problem is less about knowledge and more about confidence, or maybe inertia. I keep telling myself that if I could get into a rhythm again, I’d probably enjoy it. But step one is, annoyingly, simply making myself go.

And let’s be honest: the eye candy is definitely a motivator. Gyms always have eye candy. Unfortunately, it’s also the eye candy that makes me feel intimidated—like everyone else knows exactly what they’re doing while I’m still figuring out which way to face on a machine. It’s hard to look confident when your inner monologue is, “Does this adjust up? Down? Am I about to embarrass myself?”

I need to check whether they’ve hired a new trainer and, if so, get on their schedule. I think having someone there who actually knows what they’re doing would help me feel a lot less lost.

I’m off work tomorrow. I have a meeting—one I’m both excited about and nervous about. For once, it’s something I don’t want to talk about yet. Depending on how it goes, I may share more later. What I am hoping, though, is that after the meeting I’ll be able to ride that momentum straight to the gym. Optimism versus intimidation… we’ll see who wins.

Here’s hoping tomorrow brings clarity—and maybe the spark to get me back on the treadmill too.