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.

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Mistletoe

Mistletoe
By Walter de la Mare

Sitting under the mistletoe
(Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),
One last candle burning low,
All the sleepy dancers gone,
Just one candle burning on,
Shadows lurking everywhere:
Some one came, and kissed me there.

Tired I was; my head would go
Nodding under the mistletoe
(Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),
No footsteps came, no voice, but only,
Just as I sat there, sleepy, lonely,
Stooped in the still and shadowy air
Lips unseen—and kissed me there.

I was thinking the other day about kissing—it came up in a discussion—and it made me wonder: when was the last time I was kissed passionately or romantically? Really kissed. And the truth is… I couldn’t remember. Men I’ve dated often don’t want to kiss, or there’s a “no kissing on the first date” rule. So yes, it’s been a while. And I miss it. I’ve always loved kissing. It was actually kissing the last girlfriend I ever dated that made me realize I no longer wanted to try dating women. The kiss wasn’t bad—it was fine—but I remember thinking that I’d rather be her, the one kissed, held, and cherished. That desire to be held and loved, to feel that deep sense of comfort and safety, was the first real shift in how I understood my sexuality.

Anyway, I’m already off topic. This morning was bitterly cold (it was –8° last night and still –1° when I got up), and as I searched for a poem that felt right for December—something that carried the hush of the season—I returned to Walter de la Mare’s “Mistletoe.” I’ve used this poem in the past, but it hits differently every time I read it.

About the Poem

“Mistletoe” is a winter whisper of longing, enchantment, and loneliness. De la Mare captures that in-between moment at the end of a party—when the music has stopped, the candles have burned low, and someone remains behind in the soft afterglow. It’s a scene suspended between waking and dreaming. Out of that stillness comes a kiss, quiet and unannounced, arriving like magic or memory or hope.

The kiss is tender, mysterious, and possibly imagined. That ambiguity is the poem’s heartbeat:

Is the kiss real, or is it the dream of someone wishing desperately to be kissed?

From a queer perspective, the poem resonates even more. Many LGBTQ+ people know what it means to sit on the margins of gatherings, to feel both present and unseen. Many of us have spent years longing for a kiss we didn’t yet have permission to want—or couldn’t openly ask for. The poem’s “lips unseen” carry the suggestion of a secret desire, a hidden affection, or the longing for intimacy that might not be safe to show in public.

The mistletoe itself—a plant associated with holiday traditions, romantic possibility, and the chance of a spontaneous kiss—becomes a symbol of queer yearning. It represents the hope that love might find us unexpectedly, even quietly, even when we feel most alone.

Reading it today, what struck me most was the tenderness of an unseen kiss offered to someone tired, lonely, half-asleep. It feels like a blessing of comfort. A reminder that desire doesn’t disappear simply because time has passed. A reminder that even in the coldest season, warmth can find us.

And maybe, for some of us, a reminder that we still long to be kissed—and that it’s okay to say so.

About the Poet

Walter de la Mare (1873–1956) was an English poet, novelist, and writer of children’s literature, best known for his atmospheric, dreamlike style. His work often explores the boundary between the real and the uncanny, weaving together memory, imagination, and the subtle tensions of solitude. De la Mare’s poetry is marked by musical phrasing and delicate imagery, and he remains beloved for pieces like “The Listeners” and his numerous anthology favorites. Though he lived a largely private life, his work continues to resonate with anyone drawn to mystery, introspection, and the quiet emotional spaces we tend to visit in winter.

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Heated Rivalry Scored… Repeatedly

Every now and then, a book series grabs hold of me so completely that I find myself staying up far too late because I have to read just one more chapter. That’s exactly what happened when I picked up Rachel Reid’s Game Changers series—starting with the first two books, Game Changer and Heated Rivalry. I’ll be honest: hockey romances are not usually my favorite subgenre of m/m romance. But these books completely won me over. They’re steamy, full of heart, and emotionally rich in all the best ways. They’re the kind of novels that make you sigh one moment and fan yourself the next.

If you haven’t read Rachel Reid before, she’s a Canadian author widely loved for her blend of erotic heat and emotional tenderness. Her Game Changers novels focus on professional hockey players navigating fame, pressure, identity, and love—with characters so well developed that you can’t help falling for them. Reid has become one of the standout voices in contemporary LGBTQ+ romance, and it’s easy to see why.

It was actually the new television adaptation, Heated Rivalry, that convinced me to pick up the books. I checked out the series when it premiered and immediately fell for its production quality—and let’s be honest, the steaminess. The adaptation stays remarkably close to the novels, even lifting some dialogue straight from the page. Episode three, which adapts Game Changer, deviates more (condensing an entire book into 50 minutes will do that), but it still captures the heart of the story. And yes, the sex scenes absolutely live up to the hype.

After devouring the first two books, I’m now reading Tough Guy, book three. I’m enjoying it, even if it isn’t hooking me quite as deeply as the first two. I’m looking forward to continuing the series, especially books four and five (Common Goal and Role Model). But the book I’m especially eager to reach is the sixth, The Long Game, which returns to the couple from Heated Rivalry and continues their story. I’ve heard nothing but glowing praise.

One of the joys of the TV adaptation is its casting. Shane Hollander is played by Hudson William, and Ilya Rozanov is portrayed by Connor Storrie. Their chemistry is electric, and the show gives them the time and space to build a believable, aching, deeply sensual connection. François Arnaud, who plays Scott Hunter, is openly bisexual and has long been a visible voice for LGBTQ+ representation. And Robbie G.K., who plays the impossibly cute Kip Grady, steals nearly every scene he’s in. There isn’t much publicly available about his personal life aside from the fact that he appears to be single, but he brings a joyful, queer-coded energy to the role that fans immediately latch onto.

The show is also notable for its broader LGBTQ+ representation behind the scenes. Reporting from Out highlights that multiple queer actors and creators are involved in the project, helping shape a series that treats queer romance with sincerity, playfulness, respect, and heat. It’s refreshing to see a production that doesn’t shy away from the eroticism of the source material while still leaning into its emotional beats.

If you enjoy sports romances, queer love stories, or simply beautifully crafted television, I highly recommend picking up Game Changer, Heated Rivalry, and the rest of the Game Changers series—and definitely give the TV adaptation a try. Even if hockey isn’t normally your thing, this series might just charm you the way it did me.

And honestly? It’s just a whole lot of fun.

The series debuted on Crave with a two-episode premiere on November 28, 2025, followed by weekly episodes, with the finale airing on December 26. In advance of the program's television premiere, the first episode received a preview screening at the 2025 Image+Nation festival on November 23, 2025. The series was released by HBO Max in the United States and Australia, Sky in New Zealand, and Movistar Plus+ in Spain.

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Walk in the Light

“I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness but will have the light of life.”

— John 8:12

Jesus’ declaration that He is the light of the world is more than a statement of identity—it is an invitation. His light is not harsh or exposing, but comforting and revealing, helping us see the truth of who we are in God’s love. When Christ shines into our lives, He illuminates not only the path before us but the very goodness God has planted within us.

As LGBTQ+ Christians, many of us know intimately what darkness feels like. We’ve endured seasons when rejection or silence made the world seem shadowed. Yet even there, we can echo the assurance of Psalm 23:4: “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me.” Darkness may surround us at times, but it never defines the journey. God walks with us, and Christ’s light guides us through valleys that once felt unending.

What makes Jesus’ words even more extraordinary is that He shares this light with us. In the Sermon on the Mount, He tells His followers, “You are the light of the world,” affirming that we bear His radiance in our lives. He goes on to say that “a city set on a hill cannot be hidden,” reminding us that God never intended for us to shrink or conceal our true selves. Our gifts, our love, our queerness—these are not shadows to hide but reflections of the beauty God has woven into us.

When Jesus urges us to let our light shine before others, He invites us into authenticity rather than performance. Our compassion, courage, honesty, and resilience become expressions of the divine light entrusted to us. Even in difficult moments, when we choose hope over despair or gentleness over anger, we shine in ways that help others glimpse God’s presence.

And the Gospel of John offers a sustaining promise: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” Whatever shadows we face—whether from others or within ourselves—Christ’s light remains steady and untouchable. Because it lives within us, we, too, cannot be extinguished.

As we move through this Advent season, we remember that God has always used light to guide people toward hope. Just as the Star of Bethlehem led the magi to the Christ child, that same divine light still beckons us today—shining in our lives, shining through our love, and leading us ever closer to the heart of God. May you walk in that light with confidence, knowing it has already claimed you, warmed you, and made you radiant.

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Moment of Zen: White Briefs

There’s something timeless and undeniably sexy about a man in just a pair of white briefs.