Looking Back at Sprint: The Job That Raised Me

Every now and then, I get hit with a wave of nostalgia so strong it practically knocks me off my chair. Today’s wave? Sprint. Yes… that Sprint. The one with the pin‑drop commercials, the long‑distance plans, and the customer service reps who could troubleshoot a customer issue while eating a breakfast burrito from the daily "roach coach" food truck.

My time at Sprint was one of the most defining chapters of my life. I didn’t just work there — I grew up there.

I was 26 years old when I was hired full‑time in July of 1987 in Atlanta. Before that, I’d spent a year as a temp in telemarketing, which I absolutely hated with the fire of a thousand suns. But full‑time? That felt different. That felt like a door opening.

I started in the correspondence department, typing up customer updates and replying to questions and concerns. A few months later, they moved me to the phones — live calls, real people, real problems. It was trial by fire, but I learned fast.

And this was a wild time to join the company. When I walked in the door in 1986, we were still US Telecom. Then came the merger with GTE Sprint. Within my first year, we became US Sprint. New name, new logo, same Ray trying to figure out how to work the phone system.

I spent two years in customer service before transferring from Atlanta to Sacramento in October of 1988. Originally, I was supposed to go to Burlingame, but that center gradually shutting down, and Sacramento said, “Hey, we’ll take him.” So off I went — 27 years old, cross‑country move, new city, new life.

My job was to help set up a brand‑new shift: Saturday through Wednesday, 11 a.m. to 8 p.m. I was the team lead for a group of freshly graduated customer service reps who were still trying to remember their login passwords. It was chaotic, hilarious, and one of the best experiences of my early career.

Eight months after moving to Sacramento, I was named a winner in the annual Achiever’s Club. They flew us to Scottsdale, Arizona for a week of celebration. I learned to drink tequila poppers from one of our managers (a skill I have rarely used since, for the safety of everyone involved). I even ran into folks from Atlanta — a little reunion in the desert.

The next month, I was promoted to QA analyst. I spent two years there before moving into Billing Services in 1991. And that… that was home. I spent the next 14 years in that organization, and I loved it. I made lifelong friends. I learned how to lead, how to collaborate, how to survive office politics, and how to laugh through the chaos.

Then I made the mistake of leaving for MCI for a couple of months. Let me tell you: worst experience of my entire career. When that company went out of business, I nearly threw a kegger. I’m not proud… but I’m also not sorry.

In October of 2004, Sprint told me my job was being eliminated. I had three months to train my replacement in Kansas City. I even offered to move, but they said no. So I trained a young guy fresh out of college. He lasted less than six months after I left before he quit. January 31st, 2005 was my last day...21 years ago from the date of this post.

It was sad — but also, the company had changed so much in those last few years that I was ready to go. And the severance package? Generous. I took almost a year off. I went to Disneyland ten times for their 50th anniversary celebration. Took a cruise to Mexico. Visited my family in North Carolina. And in November of that year… I met my husband. Not a bad trade‑off.

The old adage “you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone” is painfully true. I honestly grew up at Sprint. I learned about life, friendship, responsibility, and the “real world” there. I still have relationships with those people — group texts, reunion lunches, birthday dinners, memorial services for those we’ve lost. No other job has ever come close to being as meaningful or as magical.

I miss it terribly.

And if you’re wondering, “But Ray… what about your time in Christian music?”

Ah, my friend. That’s a story for another day.

There’s Going To Be a Reckoning

We have watched too long

as sanctuaries applauded hate

and called it holy.

We have felt the tremor in the pews

when cruelty passed for courage

and the name of Christ

was spoken like a weapon.

We have mourned

for the church that sheltered a predator

and named it forgiveness.

For the church that defended a fraud

convicted of deceit

and named it discernment.

For the church that excused a man

who broke vow after vow

and named it grace.

We have grieved

for the church that baptized racism

and called it heritage.

For the church that justified the deaths

of unarmed, innocent bodies

and called it order.

For the church that looked at immigrants

and saw “less than,”

forgetting the God who wandered as a stranger.

For the church that mocked diversity

as “DEI nonsense,”

forgetting Pentecost’s wild, many‑tongued fire.

For the church that shrugged at stolen secrets

and called it loyalty.

For the church that traded the kingdom of God

for the kingdoms of men

and pretended not to notice.

We speak this not in fury

but in sorrow ripened into truth.

Because hypocrisy always bears fruit—

bitter, heavy, impossible to hide.

Because every compromise of conscience

returns home eventually

and asks to be reckoned with.

There’s going to be a reckoning—

not thunder, not flame,

but the quiet collapse of what cannot stand,

the slow undoing of what was never rooted

in justice, mercy, or humility.

The natural consequence

of choosing power over compassion,

fear over welcome,

idols over the living God.

And still—

we believe in resurrection.

We believe the church can remember

her first love.

She can lift the wounded,

welcome the stranger,

protect the vulnerable,

and tell the truth even when it trembles.

Hope is not gone.

The Spirit still whispers in the ruins:

Begin again.

The Long Way Home: A Life Told in Key Changes

 I came into the world in 1960, in North Carolina, back when the air smelled like tobacco fields and Aqua Net, and children were raised on Jesus, casseroles, and the occasional spanking “for your own good.” My parents, Horace and Diane, were good Southern people who believed in hard work, Sunday services, and the kind of hospitality that involved feeding anyone who walked through the door whether they were hungry or not.

My brother Craig arrived two years later, and one of my earliest memories is of us watching the news the day President Kennedy was assassinated. I didn’t understand death, but I understood my parents’ faces — the way the room felt suddenly smaller, quieter, heavier. It was the first time I realized the world could break.

We lived in Weldon until I was seven, in a duplex close to where I attended a Baptist kindergarten and sang “Away in a Manger” for the Christmas pageant with the kind of sincerity only a five-year-old in a paper-plate halo can muster. Then my parents bought a ranch house on seven acres outside of Roanoke Rapids — a place with enough land to raise pigs, grow vegetables, and lose yourself in the woods for hours.

It was also the first time I learned that adults — especially church adults — could say some truly awful things with absolute confidence. When Dr. King was assassinated, I heard things no child should hear. I didn’t understand racism yet, but I understood cruelty. And I understood that sometimes the people who preached the loudest about love were the ones who practiced it the least.

Around that same time, something happened to me that I didn’t have the language for. A teenage boy sexually assaulted me for about a year. I thought it was a game. Years later, he apologized and told me he’d been abused himself. I forgave him. Pain echoes until someone decides to stop the sound. I chose to stop it.

But childhood wasn’t only shadows. I was a Southern boy through and through — climbing trees, feeding pigs, shooting guns, running barefoot, and pretending to like girls while secretly swooning over Keith Partridge. I didn’t know what it meant yet, but I knew it wasn’t something I could say out loud. Not in the 1970s. Not in the Pentecostal Holiness church. Not in my family.

Music became my refuge. I started piano lessons in second grade with Miss Mildred Oxenham, who smelled like Chanel No.5 and had the patience of a saint. By 15, I was improvising like I had something to prove, worshipping at the altars of The Carpenters, ABBA, Streisand, and eventually Barry Manilow — whose chord progressions were so complex they would make Einstein scratch his head and give up.

My baby brother, Michael, arrived in 1970 and I loved every minute of taking care of him. My mom would have to wrestle me like Jesse Ventura to pry him out of my arms.

Christmases were pure magic — cousins everywhere, food everywhere, laughter everywhere. To this day, I tear up thinking about those gatherings. If heaven doesn’t feel like my grandparents’ house at Christmas, I’m not sure I want to go.

At 15, I hit the road playing piano for Christian bands. My dad hated it because he wanted me in my home church on Sundays. My mom — a woman who could stare down a hurricane — won that argument. But one of the men I played for turned out to be a predator. When he crossed a line, I walked five miles home and never told a soul. Decades later, he was arrested on 50 counts of indecent liberties with a child. I still wonder if speaking up might have saved someone else. That’s a weight you don’t ever fully put down. He died from a heart attack before going to trial.

I graduated high school in 1979, joined The Rex Nelon Singers in 1980, and spent six years touring the country, playing the Grand Ole Opry, and collecting Dove Awards like they were commemorative spoons. But behind the curtain, I was fighting myself. The Christian music world had more closeted gay men than a Broadway cast party, and I was drowning in shame.

My first gay bar. My first gay experience. My first gay panic spiral. AIDS was emerging. Fear was everywhere.

In 1984, I confessed everything to a pastor who then tried to seduce me. I left shaking, peeled out of the parking lot, and nearly drove off a bridge. I didn’t. I went home and cried instead. Sometimes survival looks like nothing more heroic than staying alive for one more night.

I tried dating a woman named Nancy. I broke her heart. I broke my own. I spiraled — drinking, drugs, clubs, self-loathing. Being told by the church that you’re an abomination makes you act like one if you believe them…and I did. Also, being told that you deserve to die with AIDs is something no one should say to another human being.

In 1986, I lost my music job after being seen at a gay bar. I hit bottom, then found community: a drag queen named Kathleen, chosen family like Rodney Webster, laughter, and people who saw me.

Then came Ron — brilliant, funny, 19, and eventually HIV-positive. We became like brothers. When he got sick, he moved to California to get better treatment. He met Jeff, the love of his life. Then I arrived in a U-Haul with his dog, Ross, and they welcomed me like family.

Those years were magic — Christmases, cocktails, friendship, my first real boyfriend (Tom…I loved that man and that story could be its own novel). And then Ron declined. Fast. I watched him waste away. I held him as he died. I stayed up all night with Jeff telling stories, drunk on vodka and grief. We stood on the porch and waved goodbye as the coroner drove away with his body. That moment is tattooed on my soul.

Loss piled on loss — my dad, my grandfather, my sister-in-law, my aunt. My relationship fell apart. I came out to my family. Depression swallowed me whole. On New Year’s Eve 1992, I drunkenly tried to end my life. I drank too much, took too many pills, and threw them all up. I woke up covered in vomit and regret.

But the important thing is: I woke up.

That’s when Marilyn Graham entered my life — a counselor who helped me deconstruct the shame of evangelical Christianity and rebuild myself from the inside out. My 30s became a renaissance. I worked out. I healed. I grew.

In 1997, I returned to music — opera lessons, theater, conducting, performing. I played Daddy Warbucks eight times, Sweeney Todd once (and loved being the villain), Jud Fry, Horton the Elephant, and even Oscar Madison with four days’ notice. I sang a lead role in La Boheme. Theater gave me back my confidence.

In 2005, I was laid off from Sprint after 18 years. I took a year off, taught voice, partied, took my mom and aunt on a cruise, and went to Disneyland more times than is medically advisable.

Then came James.

I was 45. He was 25. I almost didn’t go on the date. He barely spoke. I thought he hated me. Turns out he was just shy. Twenty years later, we’re still here — married, battle-tested, loyal, imperfect, and deeply in love. We’ve survived unemployment, illness, financial collapse, grief, and the occasional disagreement about whose turn it is to take out the trash. That’s marriage.

In 2012, we lost our condo in the aftermath of the financial crisis. Hard choice, no regrets. It freed us. We rented. We rebuilt.

Then — irony of ironies — after 26 years away from church, I took a job as a Methodist accompanist. I told them I was gay and married. They said, “Welcome home.” I stayed 13 years, decided to go down the path to become a lay minister, and learned that spirituality can be expansive, not suffocating.

In 2015, we bought our dream home in California. Ten years later, the world shifted, and we felt the need to find safer ground. We sold the house in three days, packed up our lives, and moved to Washington with no home lined up. We found our mid-century gem in Aberdeen — trees, rain, quiet, space to breathe. It feels like the right place for this chapter.

But here’s the truth: turning 65 hit me harder than I expected. I feel slower. I feel invisible sometimes. I feel “less than.” James jokes about my memory — not maliciously, but it stings. My mom died of dementia. The last time I saw her, she didn’t know me. That fear sits in my chest like a stone.

I’m anxious about losing friends. I’m anxious about my health. I’m anxious about becoming irrelevant in a world obsessed with 18-to-35-year-olds who think they invented everything from fashion to music. Meanwhile, I have more disposable income now than I ever did in my 20s. Come at me, tech bros.

But here’s what I know:

I’m not done.

I’m learning new systems at work. I joke about retiring “soon”, but the truth is I don’t want to. I’m diving into community. I’m exploring my spiritual path again. I’m renovating a house with the man I love. I’m grieving, growing, laughing, doubting, and reinventing — sometimes all in the same afternoon.

Life hasn’t been easy. But it’s been full. And I’m still here, still curious, still singing, still becoming.

Stay tuned. The next chapter is already humming in the background.

 

Spirituality Without Religion: What Grounds Me Now

If you had told younger‑me that one day I’d be writing about “spirituality without religion,” I would’ve laughed, clutched my KJV, and asked if you needed prayer. Back then, I thought religion had all the answers because that's the way I was raised. It felt like a map someone else had already drawn for me — clear, tidy, and laminated for durability.

But somewhere along the way, the map started to feel more like a brochure. Beautiful, yes. Helpful, sometimes. But not the whole story.

These days, my spiritual life looks less like a sanctuary with pews and more like a patchwork quilt stitched together from experience, grief, nature, music, and the occasional bottle of wine I swear I didn’t mean to finish.

So here’s what grounds me now.

Nature Has Become My Sanctuary

Moving to Aberdeen has been like enrolling in a spiritual masterclass taught by trees. The moss, the rain, the quiet — they all have something to say if I slow down long enough to listen. The forest doesn’t care what I believe. It doesn’t ask me to sign a statement of faith. It just stands there, ancient and patient, whispering, “Relax, sweetheart. You’re part of something bigger.” Even Lucy seems to get it. She loves exploring and sniffing the acreage here like she's checking for messages. She feels the presence of the deer and coyotes. She's making the connections.

I Still Love the Methodist Church… But I Don’t Live There Exclusively Anymore

Here’s the thing: I genuinely love the Methodist church. I love that it values conversation, honors disagreement, and doesn’t panic when someone asks a hard question. It’s one of the few places where doubt isn’t treated like a moral failure. A far cry from my evangelical roots. And I still attend regularly.

But I also feel just as “at home” in a Pagan/Wiccan ceremony or a Buddhist Puja. There’s something beautiful about traditions that invite you to experience the sacred rather than define it. Something freeing about stepping into a space where mystery is allowed to be mysterious.

I guess you could say I’m spiritually bilingual now. Maybe even trilingual on a good day. I am a member of the United Methodist Church and I'm even going through their Lay Servant Ministries program; but that doesn't mean I'm in a monogamous relationship with it.

Humor Is Part of My Spiritual Practice

I’ve tried meditation. Truly. But sometimes my brain treats silence like an invitation to think about snacks, laundry, and whether Paul Rudd is aging or just evolving.  Self‑hypnosis works better — sometimes. Other times I just fall asleep and wake up feeling spiritually refreshed but physically confused.

And yes, I once drank an entire bottle of wine during a mediocre movie and called it “a reflective evening.” Spirituality is a journey.

Grief Walks With Me, Not Behind Me

I’ve lost a lot of people — friends to AIDs in the 80s/90s, my brother, my mother and father, grandparents, Willow and Norbu. Grief has become a quiet companion, not an intruder. It doesn’t ask permission. It just sits beside me, reminding me that love leaves marks.

Grief has softened me. It’s rearranged my priorities. It’s clarified what matters and what absolutely does not. It’s taught me that presence is sacred, and that the people we love never really leave — they just change the way they show up.

Music Is Still My Prayer

If I have a religion now, it’s music. Singing and piano have always been the way I connect to something bigger — call it God, Spirit, the Universe, or the collective sigh of everyone who’s ever lived.  Music is the one place where all my worlds meet — the hymns, the Pagan chants, the Buddhist bells, the Broadway scores. It’s all sacred to me.

Small Rituals Keep Me Grounded

• Morning coffee while the rain preaches its own sermon

• Cooking plant‑forward meals that make my body feel like it’s on speaking terms with my soul

• Caring for my Lucy like she's a furry human

• Practicing self‑hypnosis to quiet the noise

• Choosing kindness over cynicism, even when cynicism is louder

These aren’t religious rituals. They’re human ones. And they’re enough.

Love Is the Center of Everything

James grounds me more than any doctrine ever could. Our life together — the laughter, the challenges, the shared dreams — is its own spiritual practice. Love, partnership, chosen family… these are the things that keep me steady.

And honestly, the fact that we can legally be married still feels like a miracle. A hard‑won one. And the truth is: the hard-right is still trying to take that away from us. The battle is not over.

I’m Learning to Trust the Mystery

I don’t need all the answers anymore. I don’t need certainty. I don’t need a map.

What I need — and what I have — is a sense of connection. To nature. To memory. To music. To the people I love. To the people I’ve lost. To the quiet voice inside that says, “Keep going. You’re doing fine.”

Spirituality without religion isn’t emptiness. It’s spaciousness. It’s freedom. It’s the permission to build a life that feels honest, grounded, and deeply human.

And that, for now, is more than enough.

Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

Remembering Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. today.

On one of my last trips to Atlanta, I visited the King Center, and the experience has stayed with me. Walking through that space—seeing the history, the courage, and the cost of the movement up close—was a sobering reminder of where we’ve been as a nation. It’s one thing to learn about the Civil Rights era; it’s another to stand in the place where so much of that struggle was lived.

I’m old enough to remember the day Dr. King was assassinated. I’m also old enough to remember the painful things some adults in my sphere said in the aftermath—words that I was not intended to hear as a child—meant to diminish a man whose life was devoted to justice, compassion, and the belief that love could transform even the hardest hearts. Those memories don’t fade. They shape how I understand progress, and how fragile it can be.

And yet, visiting the King Center also stirred something hopeful in me. His voice still echoes. His dream still challenges us. His call to build a more just and compassionate world is not a relic of the past—it’s a living invitation to keep moving forward.

Today, I honor his legacy with gratitude, humility, and a renewed commitment to the work he began. May we continue to walk toward the world he imagined, not just in remembrance, but in the way we live, speak, and act.

Grief, Aging, and the Strange Tenderness of Starting Over

 

I’ve been thinking a lot about how grief doesn’t stay behind when life moves forward. It packs itself neatly into the corners of every new chapter, like a familiar shadow that refuses to be left at the old house. When we moved to Aberdeen, I thought I was leaving certain things behind—old routines, old streets, old versions of myself. But grief, as it turns out, is a loyal traveler.

I feel it most when I think about Willow and Norbu. Losing them in the span of a few years carved out a quiet space inside me that I’m still learning how to live with. They were part of the rhythm of my days, the background music of home. Even now, in this new place with its towering trees and endless rain, I catch myself expecting to hear their paws on the floor or see them curled up in their favorite spots. Grief has a way of reminding you that love doesn’t disappear—it just changes shape.

And then there’s Lucy. Sweet, stubborn, 15‑year‑old Lucy, who has somehow become the anchor in all this shifting. She trots around our new yard like she’s giving us a tour of her property, and in her quiet, steady way, she reminds me that continuity is possible. That even when life rearranges itself, some threads remain unbroken.

Grief Has Been With Me Longer Than I Realized

The truth is, grief didn’t start with the dogs. It’s been with me since the 1980s, when I lost so many friends to AIDS that I stopped trying to count. Entire constellations of people—bright, funny, complicated souls—gone before they ever had the chance to grow old. I was in my twenties then, and I didn’t understand how those losses would echo through the decades. But they do. They always do.

And then I lost my dad and my grandparents, and in more recent years, I lost my brother. I lost my mother. Each loss reshaped me in ways I didn’t see coming. Grief softens you, whether you want it to or not. It rearranges your priorities. It clarifies what matters and what absolutely does not. It teaches you to hold people a little closer, even if only in memory.

Turning 65 in a World That Looks Different Than I Expected

Reaching 65 has been its own strange experience. There’s a tenderness to it that I didn’t anticipate. A kind of quiet astonishment. I’ve lived long enough to see my beard gray, my priorities shift, my life reinvent itself more than once. And yet, so many of the people I loved never got the chance to stand where I’m standing now.

There’s gratitude in that. And there’s guilt, too. Survivor’s guilt is a real thing, even decades later. Sometimes I look around at this new life—this house in the woods, this quiet town, this unexpected chapter—and I think, Why me? Why am I still here when so many aren’t?

I don’t have an answer. But I’m learning to let the question soften me rather than haunt me.

Claiming My Life, One Note at a Time

When I turned 65 at the end of November, I didn’t know how to mark the moment. It felt too big, too strange, too full of ghosts and gratitude. So I did the only thing that felt honest: I sang.

I recorded a one‑hour virtual concert—not because I thought the world needed it, but because I needed it. I needed to claim my voice, my presence, my aliveness. I needed to say, in my own way, “I’m still here.” Music has always been my way of praying, even when I’m not sure who or what I’m praying to.

When I was younger, I really believed religion held all the answers. It felt solid, certain, like a map someone else had already drawn for me. But the older I get, the more I see how human it all is—how many hands have shaped it, how many versions exist, each claiming to be the “right” one. There are over thirty thousand Christian denominations, and somehow every single one is convinced they’ve cracked the code. Somewhere along the way, the word Christian stopped feeling like something I could claim. In this age of polarization, it’s become so tangled and heavy that I don’t recognize myself in it anymore.

Grief as a Companion, Not an Enemy

What I’m learning—slowly, imperfectly—is that grief isn’t something to overcome. It’s something to walk with. It’s the reminder that I’ve loved deeply, that I’ve lived - not as fully as I wish because I always put limitations and criticisms on myself that I didn't deserve - but I’ve survived things I once thought would break me.

And maybe that’s the quiet gift of this season of life: realizing that grief and gratitude can sit at the same table. That aging is both a privilege and a reckoning. That starting over at 65 isn’t about erasing the past—it’s about carrying it with you in a way that honors what was and makes room for what’s still possible.

I’m still learning. I’m still becoming. And if you’re walking through your own season of change, I hope you know you’re not alone. Grief may travel with us, but so does love. So does memory. So does hope.

Starting Over at 65: What I’m Learning About Change

If you had asked me twenty years ago what life would look like at 65, I probably would’ve said something about stability. Predictability. A tidy little routine. Isn’t that the script we’re handed? By this age, we’re supposed to be “settled”—whatever that means. Settled in our homes, settled in our beliefs, settled in our communities, settled in our identities.

Instead, I’m out here at 65 doing the emotional equivalent of unpacking boxes labeled “Fragile: Handle With Care,” except half of them are mislabeled and the other half contain things I don’t remember owning.

Last fall, James and I packed up our life in West Sacramento and moved to Aberdeen, Washington. New state. New home. New community. New spiritual landscape. Nothing about this season feels “settled” in the traditional sense. It feels more like God picked up the snow globe of my life, gave it a good shake, and said, “Let’s see what happens.”

Why We Really Moved

There was also a quieter, heavier reason behind the move—one that sat in the background like a low hum. We could feel the country shifting in ways that made both of us uneasy. Not in a dramatic, end‑of‑the‑world way, but in a very practical, “we need to be safe… or at least safer” kind of way. I knew my job could disappear with one corporate reorganization, and the idea of being financially exposed in California felt like standing on a cliff edge during an earthquake.

So we made a choice. We looked at the map, took a deep breath, and said, “Let’s find somewhere quieter. Somewhere we can breathe. Somewhere we can hide if we need to.” Not hide in a bunker—just hide from the noise, the pressure, the feeling that the ground was shifting under our feet.

Aberdeen became our safety valve. Our quiet corner. Our “if everything goes sideways, at least we have trees” plan. And honestly, there’s something unintentionally funny about two middle‑aged men fleeing to the woods like we’re starring in a very gentle, very gay reboot of Little House on the Prairie, minus the covered wagons...plus a senior pittie who absolutely hates to walk in the rain.

The Myth of Settling Down

The funny thing is, I thought I was settled. I had routines. I had a church community that held me for 13 years. I had favorite grocery stores (God, I miss Nugget Market) and familiar back roads and a sense of who I was in that place.

Then suddenly I was standing on a Washington hillside, staring at a mid‑century house surrounded by trees so tall they looked like they were judging me. And I remember thinking, “I’m too old to be introducing myself to new neighbors. I barely like introducing myself to myself.”

But maybe that’s the point. Maybe “settling down” isn’t about staying put. Maybe it’s about settling into yourself—into your truth, your values, your voice. Maybe the place matters less than the person you’re becoming.

A Move That Became a Pilgrimage

I thought the move would be a logistical project: boxes, movers, address changes, the usual chaos. But it turned out to be something deeper. A kind of pilgrimage. Not the kind with maps and guidebooks, but the kind where you realize halfway through that you’re not just changing your surroundings—you’re changing your life.

There was excitement, of course. There was also grief. Leaving behind friends, routines, and the familiar ache of a place that had shaped me. And there was disorientation—the kind where you walk into your new grocery store and can’t find the peanut butter, and suddenly you’re questioning every decision you’ve ever made.

And then there was the stretch I jokingly call our “boutique homelessness phase.” We sold our house in West Sacramento before we had anything lined up in Washington, which meant we spent weeks living out of Airbnbs while we hunted for a place to land. It was equal parts adventure and exhaustion. One week we were in a cozy lake house with only one bathroom and ceilings I kept bumping my head on, and the next we were in a rental where the décor looked like my grandmother decorated it in 1955. Still, we were lucky. We found these genuinely lovely spots along the way—little pockets of calm while we tried to figure out where, exactly, our new life was supposed to begin.

But there was possibility, too. A quiet whisper that said, “You’re not done becoming.”

Lessons From the Land

What I didn’t expect was how much the environment here would become a teacher. The trees here are ancient and patient. They don’t rush. They don’t apologize. They just stand there, rooted and unapologetically themselves. I’m trying to learn from that.

The rain falls with a kind of steady insistence, like it’s reminding me that growth often happens in the quiet, unseen places. And the stillness—something I used to resist—has started to feel like an invitation.

One morning, I stepped outside and realized I could hear… nothing. No traffic. No leaf blowers. No neighbors arguing about recycling bins. Just quiet. An occasional crow called out breaking the silence. It was beautiful and unsettling, like the universe had muted itself so I could hear my own thoughts. I’m still deciding whether that was a blessing or a curse.

Becoming at Any Age

So here I am, learning to start over. Learning that change doesn’t stop just because you hit a certain birthday. Learning that “settling down” might actually mean settling into a deeper version of yourself. Learning that moving across states can be a spiritual practice if you let it be.

And maybe that’s the real gift of this season: realizing that it’s never too late to begin again, to reimagine your life, to follow the pull of something new—even when it surprises you.

If you’re in a season of change—whether chosen or forced—I hope you know this: you’re not behind. You’re not late. You’re not off‑script. You’re simply becoming, just like the rest of us.

Life Update from the Rainy Side of Life - 2026

It feels like forever since I last sat down to write, and a lot has happened. Back in September of 2025, James and I packed up our life in West Sacramento and made the big move to Aberdeen, Washington. We landed in this quirky mid‑century house on the outskirts of town—lots of trees, lots of green, lots of space—and we’ve been slowly renovating it into something that feels like “us.” There’s something really grounding about having acreage to wander, even if half the time we’re just staring at the trees trying to figure out what we’re supposed to do with them.

The move has stirred up a lot of emotions, especially around the dogs. Over the last four and a half years, we lost two of our three pups—Willow and Norbu. Their absence still hits hard. But our sweet Lucy, now 15, is still going strong. She absolutely loves the new place. Watching her trot around the yard like she owns the forest has been one of the best parts of this transition.

One of the hardest parts, though, has been leaving my Loomis FUMC family. Thirteen years is a long time to be rooted somewhere, and those folks held me with so much love and compassion. I miss them deeply. I’ve been attending Montesano United Methodist for about a month now, and as of today, I’m officially singing in their choir. It feels good to be making music again, even though I’ll be honest—given the political climate right now, I’ve wrestled with whether I even want to be in church. My heart just isn’t in it the way it used to be. There’s so much hate and violence in the air, and if we had the means, I think we’d seriously consider leaving the country until things calm down.

On the practical side of life, I’m grateful I can keep working remotely. It’s been a blessing, even if it means I haven’t met many people yet. I’m keeping my eyes open for new musical opportunities, hoping something will click.

James, meanwhile, has adapted beautifully. We spent Christmas with his stepmom and family, and it was honestly one of the warmest, most joyful holidays we’ve had in a long time.

And somewhere in the middle of all this chaos, I released my very first solo album—a tribute to the one and only Barry Manilow. It’s called Forever Fanilow, and it’s out on Spotify if you want to give it a listen. Creating it was such a labor of love.

I miss my dear friends Ashley and Anne‑Marie. I miss our walks, our diva outings, our spontaneous day trips. I’m really hoping they’ll make their way up here soon so we can pick up right where we left off.

Turning 65 at the end of November was its own kind of surreal. I honestly have no idea how to be this age. It feels strange, especially knowing how many dear friends didn’t get to make it this far with me. I wasn’t sure how to mark the milestone, so I did the only thing that felt right in the moment: I recorded a one‑hour virtual concert. If you want to check it out, you can find it here:

Life in Aberdeen is still new, still unfolding, still finding its rhythm. But I’m here, I’m trying, and I’m grateful for the people who continue to walk with me—near or far.