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.