"Between Scriptures and Seasons: A March of Faith and Uncertainty"

March cold from Hudson Street—where scripture lingers, and the river waits for spring.

Reconciling Faith and Understanding
Growing up Christian, the Bible was the compass of my childhood. My grandmother’s voice still echoes through the years with the one verse I never forgot — John 3:16 — a line that carried me through storms and still offers comfort when I need it most. I hold onto it not only for myself, but for the people I love, hoping it continues to guide them the way it once guided me.

Encountering the Qur’an as an adult has been both illuminating and unsettling. Islam, Allah, the Prophet Muhammad — these are not abstract ideas anymore, but living presences in the lives of people I care about. And yet, reading passages that describe Jesus not as the begotten son of God but as a messenger shakes something foundational in me. It makes me question beliefs I’ve carried since childhood, even when I try not to dwell on those questions for too long.

Questioning and Coping
There are verses in the Qur’an that make me pause, sometimes more deeply than I want to. I try not to let these doubts spiral, the same way I try not to think too much about the conflict with Iran or the other global fires burning in the background. Lately, avoidance feels like a coping mechanism — not noble, but familiar.

Experiencing Ramadan
Still, participating in Ramadan with people I care about has opened something in me. A quiet discipline. A curiosity. A willingness to sit with discomfort without demanding immediate answers. I try not to overthink where this path leads, especially with spring supposedly arriving next week.
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The Persistent Cold of March
But spring feels far away. The cold that has settled over March is the worst kind — wet, bone-deep, and joyless. Not the crisp, snowy cold that can feel almost playful, but a gray, soaking chill that makes the world feel heavier. March always tricks me: colder than January, colder than February, with bare branches that seem to hesitate before budding. In other years, I’ve flown south like a migrating bird just to escape this particular kind of cold.
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Finding Distraction
For now, distraction comes in the form of a Prime series — mostly because Nicole Kidman is in it, and Nicole Kidman has never let me down. The show, based on Patricia Cornwell’s Scarpetta, is surprisingly good. Jamie Lee Curtis brings her own spark, and together they make the wet-cold nights feel a little less bleak.

Conversation and Reflection
As I sit here in the middle of a black, wet-cold night, my thoughts drift back to a recent, meaningful conversation with my friend Salah, who is a devout Muslim. For the first time in our friendship, Salah asked me deeply personal questions, and to my surprise, I responded with honesty and without any sense of shame.

At one point, Salah asked me if I had a wife and children. It’s a question that always catches me off guard — not because I’m ashamed, but because it feels like the answer is already written on me, visible in ways I don’t bother to hide. I told him no, and he didn’t press further. I didn’t explain that I’m gay, and he didn’t ask. There was a quiet understanding in the space between us, as if the truth didn’t need to be spoken aloud to be known. And somehow, that made the moment feel even more honest.

In San Francisco, questions about marital status rarely came up in conversation. The curiosity was different there — more direct, more unapologetic. The question was never “Do you have a wife and children?” but always “Is he gay or bisexual?” And more often than not, the hope was that the answer would be yes, he’s both. That cultural difference shaped how I learned to navigate identity, making Salah’s inquiry about a wife and children stand out all the more. It reminded me how expectations shift depending on the community, the coast, the context — and how the unspoken can feel louder in some places than in others.

This exchange lingered with me, prompting further reflection — not only about our discussion, but also about relationships in my life, here and now, like the one with Joaquin — who moves through the world believing he’s straight or maybe bisexual, though I’ve always sensed he doesn’t fully see himself yet. That kind of confusion was rare in San Francisco, where people tended to name their truths out loud, sometimes before they even understood them. Here, it lingers in quieter ways, tucked behind dinners, conversations, and the familiar drama he brings with him.

Joaquin, with all his drama, is someone with whom I have shared many meals, and I often find myself torn about his presence in my life. Sometimes, I hope he is doing better, wishing good things for him.

Other times, I wonder if things might be simpler if he had never returned, but inevitably, he always finds his way back.

​These thoughts intertwine, leaving me contemplating the complexities of connection, faith, and the comfort found in honest conversation.