annheim Steamroller's audibly overwhelming version of “Deck the Halls” blared through the speakers of the Roberts family sedan, my father's right foot heavy on the accelerator as we sped down Highway 51. We were late for the Christmas Eve candle-lighting service at Fellowship Bible Church .

“I can't believe radio stations still play this crap!” I yelled from the backseat of the car. My words were barely detectable above the obnoxious, overly synthesized musical arrangement. “I mean, that one heinous minor note in ‘Fa la la la la, la la LA la' should be reason enough to warrant a permanent, nationwide ban of the lame remake.”

My dad reached for the radio console and selected preset station number one – “ Tulsa 's Home for Christian Music,” KXOJ.

The channel change occurred with just enough time to catch the tail end of a toddler's recorded voice stating his favorite thing about Christmas. “My favorite thing about Christmas,” he exclaimed with a slight speech impediment, “is that it's Jesus' birthday…and I get lots of presents!”

“Wow, I'm surprised that second bit made it past the KXOJ editing room,” I mumbled to myself as I stared out the window.

“What was that?” my mother asked as she peered in my direction over her left shoulder.

“Nothing,” I replied.

Years of working countless retail jobs and waiting tables during the peak of the holiday season had basically squelched any warm, fuzzy emotions I once treasured upon hearing Bing Crosby flawlessly singing “chestnuts roasting on an open fire….” But I still enjoy Christmas. Or certain aspects of Christmas, at least. I appreciate residential property festively adorned with strands of simple, clear, perfectly spaced lighted bulbs. It's always a pleasure sipping on a few cocktails with old friends who have journeyed back to their hometown to spend Christmas with their relatives. And I am also equally drawn to the concept of families setting aside their clashing personalities and differing religious and political views to congregate and feast on turkey, stuffing, and cranberry sauce. And to simply celebrate the gift of family.

But my family's version of setting aside those issues remains the fervent practice of completely dismissing their existence, in general. In topics pertaining directly to me, that means questions regarding my refusal to date females after my divorce five years ago are entirely off limits. As are any inquiries into why I have, as of December 23rd, temporarily taken to chain smoking after deciding a few months ago I would end the habit for good (if anyone were to ask about the first, I would say I just prefer the way a man feels while cuddling on the couch. In response to a question concerning the second, I would explain that continually smoking cigarettes keeps my hands busy and, therefore, free from the temptation to strangle conservative, evangelical, right-wing Christian family members who refuse to watch R-rated movies based on principles derived from a wholly literal interpretation of the Bible).

In my family, a successful holiday season is one that requires ignoring the fundamental reality of who you are. And that process is utterly exhausting.

My father quickly wheeled the car into one of the few remaining empty spaces in the church parking lot. My mother grabbed her purse and opened the passenger side car door with a determination that displayed, without saying a word, her annoyance with a knowledge that the Roberts family was late for yet another monumental liturgical ceremony.

The church sanctuary was already beyond maximum capacity, as evidenced by two large, closed doors to its main entrance and suited ushers directing unfortunate latecomers to a few rows of cushioned folding chairs lining the lobby-side threshold to the sanctuary – the dreaded overflow section reserved for losers who can't make it to church on time. Those social degenerates, I believed as a kid, whose tardiness resulted from sleeping through their alarms after a hedonistic night of drinking beer and dirty dancing at the local bars.

“We need to save a seat for your brother,” my dad said in a low voice as we inched our way toward four empty seats in one of the rows, stepping carefully as to avoid smashing the toes of a few couples already seated in the makeshift church pew.

My brother arrived just as a pair of cymbals jarringly ushered in an ambitious, modern interpretation of “Angels We Have Heard on High.” As he eased into his chair, he leaned over and whispered what I assumed was some form of apology to my mother, since her countenance immediately softened, ever so slightly.

OK, we're all here , I thought to myself. Maybe Christmas Eve is somewhat salvageable, after all .

My attempt at optimism proved futile when, as soon as the pastor instructed the congregation to collectively bow their heads in prayer, a small child somewhere around the age of 4 burst through the lobby doors yelling, “Mommy, Mommy! Look what I can do!” He then proceeded to run back and forth through the lobby with what sounded like the metal plates of tap shoes affixed to the soles of his tiny sneakers.

With eyes showing an insufficient level of disgust relative to the child's appalling behavior, a woman sitting in the row in front of us, who resembled his mother, lovingly formed a silent “Shh!” expression by touching her extended index finger to her lips.

“Seriously?” I leaned over and said to my father with a volume noticeably louder than the whisper more appropriate for Christmas Eve candle-lighting services.

My dad appeared unaffected by all the commotion, his head still bowed and his eyes still closed despite the noisy laughter and shrill screams emanating from the three-foot demon who was dressed head to toe in what was most likely an outfit plucked straight from a Gap Kids storefront window display.

As the pastor continued his earnest supplication, the lobby doors opened once again to at least five more children barreling into the church foyer, their squeals echoing like the howls of a hundred coyotes marking their territorial claims.

Maybe these kid's parents felt that focusing on their children's disruptive antics needlessly diverted their own attention away from worshipping Jehovah. Or maybe this nondenominational religious establishment had adopted some churchwide “anything goes” policy when it came to rambunctious youngsters.

For whatever reason, the latest trend among upper-middle class, conservative evangelicals was apparently to concern themselves as little as possible with the details of controlling their unruly offspring.

And even the worshipers in the church sanctuary had become visibly annoyed.

After what seemed a record-breaking long prayer worthy of Guinness Book recognition, the church pianist played the first few familiar measures of “Silent Night,” and the pastor requested the congregation rise to their feet.

“We will now begin the lighting of the candles,” he explained with a deep sincerity in his voice. “The candlelight represents Jesus as He is The Light of the World. We will start in the front row and work our way toward the back of the sanctuary.”

Thank God , I silently said to myself, let's get this show on the road, already.

The worship leader raised and lowered his right hand in a musical conduction motion, signaling the congregation to join the choir in singing the first verse of the popular Christmas hymn.

My mouth remained tightly closed as I stood staring down at my feet.

I was tired. Tired of Christian pleasantries. Tired of trite holiday cheer. Tired of feigning asexuality while around my parents as not to offend them with the reality that I deeply desire an intimate relationship with another man. And I was tired of pretending it didn't bother me that my parents believe such desires demand the punishment of suffering the fiery flames of hell. I was tired of pain pills, of escaping to the numbing freedom of the bar, and of religious couples with questionable parenting skills toting their children to church just so they can scream in my ears. And I was tired of Christmas, because it was the sole reason I was here in the first place.

In a sign of protest against organized religion and all its symbolic Christmas rituals, I reached my hand into the pocket of my trousers, removed my cigarette lighter, and moved it close to the wick of my father's candle.

“Need a light?” I asked my dad. I said this in a voice clearly distinguishable from the last pew in the main auditorium, as several churchgoers turned around to inspect the source of the bothersome comment.

With a surprisingly playful grin on his face, my father turned to me and uttered the words, “That is NOT a holy light.” He then winked at me and continued smiling as he turned again to face the church pulpit, rejoining the chorus of people singing:

Round yon Virgin Mother and child
Holy Infant so tender and mild...

And, at that moment, a sturdy wall deep within myself – one that I was rarely even aware existed as it had become such a permanent fixture – suffered a small, but definite, crack.

I turned my head to face the worship leader and gave my best impression of a stoic, masculine gaze. But I was suddenly aware of a multitude of emotions welling up on my insides. I perceived what I feared to be a small teardrop crawl down the right side of my face, and I hurriedly wiped it away with my finger, desperately hoping no one had noticed the true intent of the gesture disguised as a fingernail scratching a sudden facial itch.

I stole another glance at my father's face. His smile was still evident, but his eyes were now closed as he continued singing.

My dad had just attempted to connect with me in a way he knew I could understand. Through his wry, six-word comment, he had acknowledged me. Not for whom he desired me to be. But for who I was. An even if only for a few brief moments on this particular night, he appeared content. Content to be standing between his two sons and his wife of 33 years. Content with our lives just as they were. Content in his appreciation of the gift of family.

Dammit, Devin! I told myself. Not now. Not here. My ardent efforts to remain emotionally unmoved suddenly crumbled, and heavy tears began to fill my eyes.

I opened my mouth and let out a timid, feeble sound as I began softly singing the lyrics of the hymn's third verse:

Silent night, holy night
Son of God, loves pure light …

Unaware my tears had dampened both sides of my beard before making their way to the lowermost part of my chin, I sang the next two verses of “Silent Night.” And then all the verses of the following two hymns. I sang for my father's subtle display of openness. I sang for the possibility of agreeing to disagree. I sang, because it felt good to finally feel something other than nothing at all.

The candles were all lit.

After the orchestra's final note of “O Little Town of Bethlehem” faded from unison to silent, the church congregation stood completely still for a few seconds. No words were exchanged. No one excused themselves to visit the restroom. The rowdy kids had magically disappeared. The earlier chaos of the service had given way to a peaceful conclusion – a reflective silence and the soft, serene glow of candlelight.

It was a Christmas miracle of the grandest kind.

And then the pastor spoiled my own private Kodak moment by leading the choir and the congregation in singing happy birthday to Jesus. Yes, they sang happy birthday to the Savior of the World. As in, “Happy birthday, dear Jesus, happy birthday to you!”

But I carried with me that unfamiliar feeling of connectedness with my father. It stayed with me through dinner with my family and then continued on later that night while having drinks with friends. And I sensed its presence when I eventually crawled into bed, just as I remembered feeling many years ago when I was a kid.

And on Christmas Eve night of 2007, I slept in my own imperfect, cautiously hopeful version of heavenly peace.