Ready for This Day to Be Over

I’m ready for today to be over with. The public program I have today has been one of the most frustrating I’ve ever done. It feels like one disaster after another.

It started with the dates. I couldn’t get anyone to settle on them soon enough for the promotional materials, so they barely got out on time. My two speakers were arranged by someone outside the museum, and they’ve hardly communicated with me. The caterers have been equally silent—though, at this point, I’ve come to expect that kind of incompetence from them.

Then the government shutdown forced one of my speakers to cancel, and my remaining speaker emailed just yesterday to ask what he should talk about. If he’d communicated like most speakers do, this would have been settled weeks ago. To make matters worse, the VIP who was supposed to introduce him backed out at the last minute because something “more important” came up.

And then there are my coworkers. Some of the laziest, most self-centered individuals I’ve ever worked with. When I ask for help, even with the smallest tasks, I’m met with bad attitudes or outright refusals. Yet they’re the ones who want to change parts of my job so I’ll end up doing parts of theirs. That’s not going to happen.

One of them even took a work-from-home day today, despite knowing there’s an event. Under my previous boss, that was never allowed—you couldn’t take a remote day on an event day. But apparently, that rule doesn’t apply anymore. I give up my own work-from-home days all the time to make things run smoothly, but when she’s asked to be flexible, she refuses.

I am tired. I am anxious. I just want this day to be over with. I’m sick and tired—literally and figuratively—of everything. I just want this disaster to end. I fear today is going to be an embarrassment.

Oh, and of course it’s raining. Bad weather always means a smaller crowd. I just hope people show up, and that we have food to serve them.

At this point, if anything goes right today, I’ll count it as a victory.

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A Decade

A Decade
By Amy Lowell

When you came, you were like red wine and honey,
And the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness.
Now you are like morning bread,
Smooth and pleasant.
I hardly taste you at all for I know your savour,
But I am completely nourished.


Amy Lowell’s short poem, "A Decade," captures the evolution of love — the way passion’s first sweetness can mellow into something sustaining, quiet, and sure. What begins as fire becomes nourishment; what once thrilled the senses becomes something that feeds the soul.

Today marks ten years since I moved to Vermont, and I can’t think of a better poem to mark the occasion. When I first arrived here, everything felt intoxicating — the crisp air, the mountains, the openness, and the sense of possibility. It was all red wine and honey to me. After years in Alabama, where life could feel restrictive and closeted, Vermont’s freedom and acceptance were a revelation. I felt like I could finally breathe. Over time, that sense of wonder has become something steadier and deeper — morning bread, as Lowell writes — familiar and sustaining, but no less meaningful.

In some ways, Vermont and Alabama are opposites — politically, culturally, even spiritually. Yet both share a rural heartbeat: farming, hard work, and community. The difference lies in what those values are used to nurture. In Vermont, I found a place that allows people to live authentically. It’s where I began to heal, to come out of my shell, and to rediscover the rhythm of a quieter, freer life.

Of course, not all of these ten years have been easy. I lost one of my closest friends not long after moving here, and the grief nearly consumed me. The depression that followed was heavy and persistent, and therapy, rather than helping, only seemed to make things worse. What truly got me through was my friendship with Susan — her kindness, her patience, her ability to listen when I couldn’t even find the words to explain the ache inside. She helped me remember that love and friendship don’t end with loss; they simply take new forms in memory and gratitude.

There have been lighter moments, too — like those early days when I was still unpacking boxes and sleeping on an air mattress, and curiosity led me to open Grindr. My bed hadn’t even arrived yet, but a stranger did. We hooked up, and oddly enough, I still see him occasionally — sometimes by chance, sometimes on purpose. It was the first of many reminders that life has a way of surprising you, even when you think you’ve planned everything out.

Ten years on, Vermont feels like home. I’ve gained friends and lost a few to distance, but I’ve grown in ways that younger me — newly arrived and slightly bewildered — could never have imagined. The sweetness of new beginnings has become the nourishment of belonging.

If you’ve found a place that lets you be yourself, cherish it. Whether it’s a physical home or a state of mind, those are the spaces where we grow into who we truly are — where life becomes less about surviving and more about being completely nourished.

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Just Let Me Get Through This Week

It’s Monday again, and I’m heading into the week already tired. I have an upcoming event at the museum, and let’s just say the required food contractor has been the bane of my existence lately. I’ve done everything I can to get them to confirm the order, but so far, nothing. They only acknowledged it after I physically went to their office to demand answers. I’m hoping that today my bosses will let me cancel the order and go elsewhere. At this point, I’d gladly take a sandwich tray from just about anyone else—especially since the two places I have in mind would likely produce far better food anyway.

As if that weren’t enough, one of my speakers had to cancel because of the government shutdown. Thankfully, there were supposed to be two speakers, so at least I still have one. Now all I need is the food to feed the audience—no small feat when bureaucracy gets involved.

All of this has been more stressful than it should be. I like to plan things well in advance and make sure everything runs smoothly (knock on wood). Usually it does, but this one has been keeping me up at night. I went to bed early last night, but woke up around midnight worrying about it all, and it was after 2 a.m. before I finally fell back asleep. Isabella decided that 4:30 a.m. was the perfect time for breakfast, so I opened my eyes to find her sitting next to me, staring at me like I’d broken some sacred promise.

I’ve got two meetings at work today, and I’m honestly not sure how long I’ll make it. When I woke up in the middle of the night, I had a migraine, and it’s still lingering this morning. If it doesn’t ease up after my first meeting, I may wave the white flag and head home. I really do need to attend that first meeting—let’s just say there are complicated reasons—but it’s one more thing to juggle on top of everything else.

At this point, I’m reminding myself that the semester will slow down after mid-November. If I can just survive the next six weeks, maybe I can finally catch my breath.

Here’s to hoping the food order gets sorted, the migraine fades, and the day goes better than expected. And if not—well, at least there’s coffee.

Wishing you all a smoother start to your week than mine.

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Sanctuary

“You are my hiding place and my shield; I hope in your word.”

— Psalm 119:114

There are times when the world feels anything but safe for LGBTQ+ Christians. Many of us know what it means to hide — to keep silent about who we are because honesty might cost us family, friendship, or even faith community. And yet, the psalmist reminds us that God Himself is our sanctuary. This is not a hiding born of fear, but of peace — the holy refuge we can return to when there is no other refuge, the quiet assurance that we are known and loved completely. “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble” (Psalm 46:1). When others turn away, God remains steadfast.

When the world’s judgment feels loud, God becomes our shield — not only against the cruelty of others, but against the doubts that creep in from within. His word offers hope, not condemnation. The same God who made us in love still stands guard over our hearts. “Do not fear, for I am with you,” God says in Isaiah 41:10, reminding us that His presence never falters, even when human acceptance does.

I was reminded of this recently when some cousins from Alabama came to visit. They asked where I attended church in Vermont, and I explained that while there are very few Churches of Christ here, I’ve found it difficult to feel at home in any of them. The ones I tried were friendly, but very different from what I knew. So I told them, truthfully, that I do my own devotionals. I didn’t mention that those reflections have reached readers across the world. I simply said that I keep my faith alive in my own way.

Because I believe that God does not require a building or a pulpit to meet us. He asks only that we carry Him in our hearts. For some, a church building is a sanctuary. For others — especially those who have been told they don’t belong — sanctuary is found in quiet prayer, in Scripture, or even in writing words of faith to share with others. Whether we find that stillness in a sanctuary of stone or in the sanctuary of solitude, God is present all the same.

Whether you are in the closet or proudly out, whether you sit in a pew every Sunday or commune with God on a mountaintop, remember this: you have a refuge. You have a shield. You have hope.

God has not forgotten you — He has made Himself your sanctuary.

May we never mistake the world’s rejection for God’s absence. His sanctuary is not limited to four walls or a congregation, but open to all who seek Him with honesty and love. When faith feels lonely, may we rest in the promise that God is both our strength and our shelter — a very present help in every moment of need.

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Moment of Zen: Pooltime

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