Pic of the Day

A Busy Start to the Week

Today is shaping up to be one of those days where everything seems to land at once. I’ll spend the first half of the morning setting up for a class, and the second half actually teaching it. Then, once the students are gone, I’ll be putting away all of the materials and resetting the space.

And that’s just the morning.

This afternoon I’ll be heading up to Burlington for an ultrasound of my liver. I had bloodwork done on Friday, and tomorrow I meet with my liver specialist—so it’s going to be a medically themed start to the week whether I like it or not. On top of that, someone is coming by to replace my windshield because the crack that’s been creeping across the bottom finally decided to make itself a priority.

So yes… a great deal of juggling today, and a sincere hope that everything runs on schedule.

Before I get swept up in the chaos, I want to thank everyone for the birthday wishes yesterday. It meant a lot. I had a quiet day at home with Isabella—never a bad way to spend a birthday—and I’m grateful for all the kind messages.

I hope everyone has a wonderful week ahead. May yours be a little calmer than mine is starting out to be!

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Another Year of Becoming

All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.

— Psalm 139:16

Birthdays can stir up a whole symphony of emotions. Some years we celebrate with joy; other years, we feel the weight of who’s missing, what’s changed, or where life didn’t unfold the way we hoped. But whether the candle count excites us or unnerves us, a birthday is always—always—an invitation to grace.

One of my favorite verses for days like this comes from Psalm 139:16:

“All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.”

That verse isn’t about fate or predestination so much as it is about belonging—the reminder that our lives are not accidents, even when they feel messy, lonely, or unfinished. For LGBTQ+ Christians, a birthday can carry an extra layer of meaning: another year of surviving a world that often misunderstands us; another year of claiming our place in the world; another year of living truthfully, even when truth has cost us something.

Birthdays remind us that God’s faithfulness is not measured in milestones. It’s measured in presence.

Another year of God sitting with us in our sadness.

Another year of God celebrating with us in small victories.

Another year of God whispering, You are fearfully and wonderfully made—even when we don’t feel fearfully wonderful at all.

In John 10:10, Jesus says, “I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.”

Abundance does not mean perfection. It doesn’t mean a life without mistakes or heartbreak. It means the fullness of being truly alive: loving, learning, grieving, healing, laughing, resting, trying again.

Every birthday is a living testament that God isn’t finished with us.

For many of us, the older we get, the more complicated birthdays become. Maybe we think about people who should still be here. Maybe we reflect on choices we made or didn’t make. Maybe we hear that little voice saying we’re behind somehow, as if life is a race with a single finish line.

But God’s voice is different. God’s voice says:

You’re right on time.

You’re still growing.

You’re still becoming.

Your story is not over.

And for queer folks—for anyone who has ever had to fight for the right to live fully—each birthday is nothing short of sacred.

It’s a celebration of resilience.

A celebration of authenticity.

A celebration of the courage it took to get here.

And I’ll be honest: I wrote this devotional today because it’s my birthday. Birthdays always make me reflective—sometimes wistful, sometimes grateful, always a little contemplative. So if you’re reading this and today is your birthday too, or if yours is coming up soon, know you’re not alone in whatever mix of emotions you’re carrying.

Whether this year comes with cake and candles or simply a quiet moment with your thoughts—or a purring companion curled up next to you—may it remind you of this truth:

You are here. You are loved. And God delights in the person you are becoming, year by year, breath by breath.

Happy birthday to everyone who needs to hear this today. And a quiet “happy birthday” to myself, too—grateful for another year of life, love, and God’s gentle presence.

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Moment of Zen: Lazy Day

Some days call for ambition; others call for claiming my spot on the couch and staying there.

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Winter Lights and Birthday Traditions

A good friend of mine—also from Alabama, and though younger than me grew up not far from where I did—and I are heading out tonight for Winter Lights at Shelburne Museum. It’s one of those wonderfully over-the-top holiday displays that hits you with the full force of color, sparkle, and pure seasonal joy. The whole campus is transformed with imaginative light installations: buildings glowing in bold colors, gardens wrapped in shimmering displays, and even musical moments tucked throughout.

We’re starting the evening with a nice birthday dinner. Usually, we go to Waterworks in Winooski because they’re the only place that carries a wine we both love, but since alcohol is off the table for me now, we decided on a different kind of celebration. After dinner, we’ll head over to Winter Lights for the full holiday experience. I just need to decide whether I’m in the mood for steak or Italian tonight.

Holiday lights have always been a soft spot for me. I’ve been to a few of these special displays before—there was a similar event at the Montgomery Zoo I used to go to with a former girlfriend, and I’ve been to the lights at Callaway Gardens in Georgia. When I was a kid, Christmas Eve meant going to my mother’s parents’ house, and Pop would take us driving to look at all the decorated homes. It was one of my favorite traditions.

A friend of mine once lived in Thibodaux, Louisiana, and that town always went all out—bright, tacky, gaudy, and absolutely over the top. But it was fun. And on my 40th birthday, a friend took me up to Montreal, where we stayed at a hotel on the edge of the Gay Village overlooking a little park near the Berri-UQAM Metro station. They had a small winter festival happening, and it made for such a beautiful scene.

So tonight feels like a continuation of all those good memories: a nice dinner with a friend, a wander through glowing holiday lights, and maybe a cup of Lake Champlain Chocolates hot cocoa to warm things up. A pretty perfect way to celebrate another year.

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A Quiet Table, a Full Heart

This Thanksgiving will be a small one for me, but it will still be a good one. I’ll be making my own little feast: turkey, cornbread dressing, mashed potatoes, and green beans. Truth be told, I’m mostly looking forward to the dressing. It has always been one of my favorite foods of the season—comfort, tradition, and memory all in one dish.

It will just be me and my lovely Isabella at the table this year, and honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way. She has truly been a lifesaver for me in more ways than I can count. She has an uncanny way of knowing when I don’t feel well, when I’m anxious, or when I just need quiet company. I am deeply thankful for her sweet, steady presence in my life.

I’m also incredibly thankful for my friendships—especially Susan—and for the people who show up for me again and again with kindness, laughter, and support. And yes, I’m even thankful for my family, even though they do manage to drive me crazy most of the time. Love is complicated, but it is still love.

Most of all today, I want to thank you—my wonderful readers. So many of you are so encouraging in your comments, and over the years I have made real, meaningful friendships through this little corner of the internet. Some of you I still hear from often. Some I haven’t heard from in a long time. And some I know have passed on. Each of you, in your own way, has made an impact on my life, and for that I am truly grateful.

I know some of you rarely comment publicly, but every once in a while I’ll receive a quiet email instead—and I treasure those messages just as much. In fifteen years of writing this blog, I’m grateful to say that negativity has been rare. The overwhelming majority of what I receive from you is warmth, encouragement, and generosity of spirit. That is no small gift.

To my readers in the United States, I wish you a peaceful, joyful Thanksgiving. And to those of you around the world who don’t celebrate this holiday—please know how thankful I am for you being part of my life all the same.

Today, my table may be small, but my gratitude is anything but.

Happy Thanksgiving, my friends. 🦃❤️

A Rough Day, a Better Morning

It’s been a bit of a rough 24 hours. Yesterday started with a migraine and nausea, and the longer I was up, the worse it got. Eventually the vomiting joined the party, and needless to say, I did not work yesterday. Instead, I slept off and on all day with my sweet Isabella curled up beside me. She’s always been good at sensing when I’m not feeling well. Sometimes that means she snuggles close; sometimes she simply stations herself nearby like a little feline guardian. She used to wake me up when my blood sugar dropped too low—thankfully that hasn’t been an issue for quite a while—but she’s still the most empathetic cat I’ve ever known.

I went to bed early last night but woke from a bad dream around 1:30 a.m. I’m not sure I’d call it a nightmare, but it was unpleasant enough to make getting back to sleep difficult. Eventually I drifted off again and slept until 5:15 a.m.—which is quite a bit later than Isabella usually allows. This time, at least, I was having a far more enjoyable dream. Let’s just say it involved meeting two guys at a bar and a rather delightful ménage à trois. Waking up from that was certainly nicer than waking up from yesterday’s misery.

I’m feeling much better today, thankfully. I’ll be at work for my half-day and need to get a few preparations done for the classes coming in next week. Afterward, I have a few errands to run, but I’m hoping it will be a good, calm day.

I hope all of you have a pleasant day as well. May it be migraine-free and maybe even dream-enhanced.

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Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving

by James Whitcomb Riley (1849–1916)

Let us be thankful—not only because

  Since last our universal thanks were told

We have grown greater in the world’s applause,

  And fortune’s newer smiles surpass the old—

But thankful for all things that come as alms

  From out the open hand of Providence:

The summer’s sunshine and the winter’s calms,

  And all the glad return of recompense.

For we are richer than we know, or need;

  The measure of our daily bread is more

Than we can gather in our hands, or heed,

  Because of God’s munificence and store.

And so, amid the tumult and the strife,

  Let us give thanks for an untroubled time;

For all the blessings of a quiet life,

  And peace from every care and every crime.

About the Poem

As we move into Thanksgiving week—a short one for many of us, and hopefully a peaceful one—it feels right to slow down, take a breath, and sit with a poem that understands the holiday not as perfection, but as presence. James Whitcomb Riley’s “Thanksgiving” is simple on its surface, yet gently profound in its reminder that gratitude often lives quietly in the ordinary spaces of our lives.

Riley is sometimes called the “Hoosier Poet,” known for his nostalgic portrayals of Midwestern life. But “Thanksgiving” reaches far beyond its setting. The poem invites us to be grateful not just for success or blessings that shine, but also for the quieter graces—calm days, sufficient bread, moments of peace in a noisy world.

It’s a gentle reminder that gratitude doesn’t only come wrapped in celebration. Sometimes it comes in small mercies: time off before a holiday, a quiet office, or even the chance to sit with memories of those we’ve loved and lost. For many LGBTQ+ people, Thanksgiving can be complicated, but Riley’s poem offers a form of gratitude that doesn’t require perfection—just awareness.

This week, many of us juggle traditions, emotions, travel, absence, and the bittersweet ache of remembering those who won’t sit at the table with us anymore. Gratitude can be tender, even painful. And yet, as Riley writes, we “are richer than we know,” not because everything is easy, but because blessings—large and small—still find their way into our days.

For LGBTQ+ folks especially, finding spaces where we can breathe, belong, or simply rest is a blessing worth naming.

As we enter this holiday week, may we find gratitude in whatever form it takes—joyful, quiet, complicated, or tender. May we honor the memories that still ache, the friends who steady us, the moments of peace that carry us through. And may we remember that grace often hides in the ordinary.

Wishing everyone a gentle and meaningful Thanksgiving week.

About the Poet

James Whitcomb Riley (1849–1916) was one of America’s most beloved popular poets. Sometimes sentimental, often nostalgic, he captured a vision of everyday American life rooted in kindness, simplicity, and warmth. His work was widely read in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, often recited at gatherings and printed in holiday editions of newspapers and magazines. “Thanksgiving” reflects the accessible, heartfelt tone for which he was known.

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Monday Morning Musings

After ten days away from the office, I’m heading back in this morning. Luckily, it’s a short week—just today, tomorrow, and half of Wednesday before the long Thanksgiving weekend begins. I’m definitely looking forward to the extra time off.

It should also be a pretty peaceful week at the museum. My boss is out on vacation all week, and my other coworker has her office tucked away elsewhere in the building. So for the most part, I’ll have my little corner of the museum to myself. Honestly, I’m hoping for quiet days and easy work.

You may notice that my posts this week might have a slightly maudlin tone. It’s not because I’m spending Thanksgiving in Vermont or because my birthday is coming up. It’s because this time of year always brings a familiar sadness: a friend of mine won’t be celebrating another birthday. It’s been ten years, and I still miss him. Grief has a way of slipping into the rhythm of the holidays.

Every year, for my birthday, I go out to dinner with a close friend. We always share a bottle of wine at our favorite restaurant—at least, we used to. This year will be different. My liver no longer allows alcohol, but that’s alright. We’ll still have dinner on Friday, and afterward we’re planning to visit a holiday lights festival at a big outdoor museum near Burlington. It should be beautiful, and I think a little beauty will do my heart some good.

People always ask if I’m going home for Thanksgiving, and the answer is always no. I can’t afford two plane trips a month apart, and even if I could, I’m not especially eager to spend my birthday week in Alabama—or worse, fly back to Vermont on my actual birthday. I’d rather spend the day with Isabella, curled up in the quiet warmth of my Vermont home. Yes, home. My parents hate when I say that, but I’ve been here ten years now. Unless something tragic forces me back, Alabama will never be home again. It’s where my family lives, but Vermont is where I live.

Have a wonderful week, everyone. May it be gentle.

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Grateful Peace

And let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, to which indeed you were called in the one body. And be thankful.

—Colossians 3:15

Thanksgiving is one of those seasons that invites us to slow down, breathe deeply, and take stock of what really matters. For many LGBTQ+ Christians, gratitude can be complicated—we know what it feels like to be excluded, misunderstood, or overlooked. And yet we also know the beauty of finding chosen family, affirming community, and sacred spaces where we can finally breathe.

Colossians 3:15 reminds us that peace is not a passive feeling—it is something we allow, something we make room for. “Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts.” It’s an invitation to unclench our fists, release the narratives that harmed us, and allow the gentler voice of Christ to guide us. And then, Paul says, “be thankful.” Not thankful instead of honest, or thankful to cover up pain, but thankful because Christ’s peace is already stirring and healing us from within.

Paul expresses a similar spirit of gratitude in 1 Corinthians 1:4–5, where he says, “I give thanks to my God always for you… because in every way you have been enriched in him.” What a powerful reminder that our gifts, our stories, and our existence enrich the body of Christ. We aren’t mistakes. We aren’t outsiders begging to be let in. We are—with all our queerness, our resilience, our creativity, our compassion—part of the richness God has woven into the world.

And then there’s the joyful call of Psalm 95:1–2: “Come, let us sing to the Lord… Let us come into his presence with thanksgiving.” This is not the quiet gratitude we whisper in private moments—this is gratitude that sings, that resonates, that shakes loose the old shame we were taught to carry. It’s a reminder that worship can be joyful and embodied, not timid or apologetic. We come into God’s presence with thanksgiving because we know that presence is safe, loving, and already welcoming us home.

This week, as many gather around tables—or navigate them carefully—we can choose to center gratitude that feels real:

• gratitude for the people who love us as we are
• gratitude for communities that celebrate rather than tolerate
• gratitude for the peace Christ offers when we stop trying to justify our worth
• gratitude for the ways God enriches our lives through connection, resilience, and grace

We don’t pretend everything is perfect. But we do acknowledge that God is present in the imperfect places, working peace into the cracks and creases of our hearts.

May the peace of Christ find space in your spirit this Thanksgiving.

May gratitude rise gently but firmly, like a hymn in the morning light.

And may you know—deeply, unwaveringly—that your life enriches the world and the heart of God.

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Moment of Zen: Morning Joe

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Apropos of Nothing

Every now and then a picture pops up online that sends your mind wandering down the oddest memory lane. I came across this picture earlier—just a very handsome, very naked man lining up a pool shot—and for whatever reason, it sent my mind spinning backward about twenty years to the first time someone ever taught me how to play pool.

Back in grad school, I had one of those unexpected friendships that just sort of ignite out of nowhere. He was a very straight, very frat-bro guy from Illinois. We met at the annual graduate welcome party at a professor’s lake house—the kind of event that involved a keg, mismatched lawn chairs, and a lot of awkward introductions. Somehow he and I started talking, and before I knew it, we were back at his apartment drinking on his balcony until dawn.

Too bad he was so straight—genuinely, hopelessly straight—because we could have had a great deal of fun together. And yes, I’m speaking from evidence. He was the kind of guy who talked a big game about his 9.5” dick and then casually proved it, not out of flirtation, but because frat boys operate on a completely different plane of shameless bravado. It was, I must admit, an impressive sight.

We became inseparable. Friday nights were for bar-hopping, poker with other grad students, or just whatever chaos the week produced. He technically had a girlfriend back in Illinois, but that didn’t stop him from sleeping with half the women he came across. She found it hilarious that her straight-as-an-arrow frat bro boyfriend’s best friend in Mississippi was gay. She always said he’d come home to her in the end, and she was right. They eventually got married, and to my knowledge, he never strayed again once they were living in the same city. But those Mississippi years? He was a horny little bastard. Weren’t we all when we were in our twenties.

One night in 2005—my birthday, I think—we ended up at a bar we almost never went to, one of those places with an almost perfect half-and-half mix of straights and gays. I can’t remember the name, but I could still drive you to it.

That night, he decided he was going to teach me to play pool.

Now, I was terrible at pool. Abysmal. So he stepped behind me, pressed his body against mine, and guided me into the proper position—very much like the pose in the picture above, though in our version everyone kept their clothes on. For him, there was absolutely nothing sexual about it. For me…well, it was one of the more pleasant lessons I’ve ever received. And honestly, I did get better at pool after that night.

Somewhere in the mix, we ended up playing pool with two girls who I’m pretty sure were on the university’s softball team — definitely not the stereotypical “lesbian softball players” people love to joke about. One of them came back to his apartment with us and was very clearly hoping for a threesome. To my eternal regret, I figured it out a little too late, mostly because I had drunk way too much. I got sick, passed out on the couch, and fell asleep to the soundtrack of the two of them having sex. I woke up to round two the next morning before she cheerfully said goodbye to me on her way out.

Those were my “wilder days,” though in truth I was never that wild. I was still a very serious student. It was simply the first time in my life I’d had real freedom—living three hours from my family, coming out, navigating grad school, rebuilding life after Hurricane Katrina destroyed the house I’d been living in, and having to move into the dorms for a semester because my town was overrun by Katrina refugees and housing was at a premium and in short supply.

Another morning, I woke up in his bed with a female professor lying between us. Nothing had happened; none of us had hooked up. But the way she woke—going from dead asleep to standing at the foot of the bed in one swift, acrobatic motion—is a sight I’ll never forget.

A lot of people didn’t like him. He could be an intellectual snob, and he was proud of it. For some reason, he thought I was the only person in our grad program smarter than he was. That’s not true, there were other people smarter than him. But he was a loyal friend to me during a very chaotic time in my life, when a lot of people I thought were friends turned out not to be such good friends. After his two years in Mississippi, he went back to Illinois, got a master’s in library science, followed his girlfriend to Texas for a job at a major oil company—she was a biochemist, and he eventually became the oil company’s corporate librarian—something I didn’t even know existed. Last I checked, he’d gone on to law school and was working as an attorney for the same big oil company.

We eventually drifted apart, as people do. But him teaching me to play pool—pressed behind me, bending me over just right, guiding my hands—remains one of my fondest and most vivid memories.

Funny how a single picture can open a door you didn’t even realize was still there. If this sparks a memory of your own — a friend, a night out, or a moment that caught you off guard — don’t be shy. Share in the comments. I always love reading your stories, and I know other readers will enjoy them too.