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.

t's cigarette-free day number two, and I am not loving life in the least. I do enjoy scratching my eye with my right-hand index finger and smelling Dial hand soap instead of dirty ashtray, as I did earlier this morning. Smoking cigarettes also has a way of leaving your mouth, no matter how often you brush your teeth, tasting strongly reminiscent of the dank bar floor (or what the bar floor might taste like should one actually take a big lick). I do not miss those things. But after deciding, and really meaning, you want to quit smoking cigarettes for good, it becomes quickly apparent how close the two of you have grown. It actually hits you like a ton of bricks. Or an extraordinarily large number of boulders plummeting en masse off the structurally compromised side of an enormous mountain.

For the last few years, every day of my life has been paced by carefully planned cigarette breaks. A break first thing in the morning, right after my starter cup of coffee and before showering. Then two on the way out the door to get me through the afternoon, since I currently work for my parents and they think I've already quit (especially after rewarding me with an all-expenses-paid trip to visit friends in Chicago for quitting the third time). And then usually at work after I convince myself my parents won't at all find it odd that I've made a habit of excusing myself, for a consistent five minutes each trip, to the loading dock at least four times every afternoon.

I lose track in the evenings.

Cigarettes have more than nicely settled into (and in between) the routine behaviors that shape my daily life and reflect who I am. Just as have, over the years, bathing regularly, eating pickled baby corn from the jar, and religiously avoiding the gas station until the console of my car flashes the "LOW FUEL" warning in bright green letters.

And I'm just now REALLY getting it. It didn't sink in the last four times I tried to quit. To be honest, I'm not quite sure a few one-week, smoke-free stints constitute quitting (or actually, one week broken into three sections by a few intermittent puffs – for old time's sake), when after a valiant effort, I would conclude that I just prefer the experience of smoking cigarettes to that of chewing Nicorette anyway.

The unequivocal truth is the cigarettes and I are deeply in love. A twisted, dysfunctional, disgusting kind of love. But in love, nevertheless. I enjoy cigarettes more than rum raisin bread pudding, the first 65 degree afternoon following a bitterly cold winter, Scrabble, and yes, even more than the fetching and endearingly vulnerable Ned the Pie Maker from ABC's Pushing Daisies.

My Marlboro Lights clearly desire more from our relationship than my recently enforced boundaries allow, and I am dealing with that. This time, I am determined as hell to end the nasty affair for good. I have learned that immediately severing all ties is the best means to effectively move past wounded, hopeless relationships.

In my last waning relationship, adhering to said principle required removing my boyfriend's ass from our apartment.

This go-around necessitates a steadfast commitment to always pay at the pump.

ver the years, I have developed a fairly healthy sense of personal identity. I've gradually grown comfortable in my own skin, gained interests and tastes that I feel are uniquely my own and have fortunately crossed paths with several amazing people with whom I've formed intimate friendships. I feel I have also, for the most part, come to terms with my limitations – in some instances even embracing them. Quirks and all, I can't complain. I am fond of the person I am becoming.

On rare occasions, however, I find myself immediately transported back to junior high. In situations that take me back to the lunch line at Haskell Middle School, while eagerly waiting for a slice of greasy cardboard pizza with one of my few friends, Erica Blakely, I overhear a group of popular, attractive future fat fraternity brothers and big-breasted, bleached blonde rich husband-chasers commenting on the small, red triangular patch on the back right pocket of my jeans. "Are those girls' Guess jeans he's wearing? Or is he a she? Oh...my...Gawwd!! It's a Red Guess Triangle!!!"

Long before the male Emo population blurred gender lines by donning tight female denim at least two sizes too small for their frames, my mother, out of genuine concern for her son but lacking an insider's knowledge of the latest adolescent fashion trends, purchased for me a pair of girls' Guess jeans, complete with tapered legs finished with shiny gold zippers at the bottom. She discovered the fancy threads at her favorite neighborhood secondhand store. My family lived on a strict budget when I was young, and during our annual back to school shopping trips to the mall, my mother would steadily guide me by the arm to the sale racks at the back of Renberg's department store while, with tears streaming down my face, I pleaded for a pair of last season's Cole Haan moccasin loafers. After thumbing through a pile of 40% off XXL Vuarnet France t-shirts, she would sigh and say, "You will just have to make due this year with what I find at the consignment shop." So, bearing the constant fear of garnering the dreaded title of "school fag," I reluctantly wore the jeans.

I wasn't anticipating one of these odd flashbacks when I stopped by the local General Nutrition Center Friday afternoon. After taking an extended vacation from swimming laps (part of my current exercise routine that also includes a few beginning Yoga classes), I decided my rekindled workout regimen could benefit from drinking the occasional protein shake. As I opened the doors, I noticed the friendly older woman who usually greets me when I drop in for multi-vitamins was absent from behind the counter. In her place stood a very handsome, extremely fit, 6'3", dark-haired twenty-something guy rummaging through some paperwork.

"Wassup, bro?" he said, without glancing up at me. As I walked to the back of the store toward the "enhancement supplement" section, I casually scanned the room.

Shortly after moving to Tulsa , I was surprised to discover the GNC of Broken Arrow, Oklahoma (a suburb of Tulsa ) attracts a relatively diverse customer base – a far cry from the store location in Chicago 's Boystown, where gym rats gather outside the doors with their equally in-shape friends and sip soymilk lattes while exchanging the latest Bally's gossip.

But the store atmosphere was a bit different on this particular afternoon.

Along with myself in the shop were no fewer than ten other male customers - each and every one the picture perfect embodiment of culturally admired masculinity. The Men's Health magazine cover variety with perfectly chiseled faces and biceps to match (and I'm fairly certain one of the kids recently landed a national television commercial advertising the Gillette "Mach III" razor and I presumed must be in town taking a short break, after his latest successful booking, to visit family).

After choosing a powdered meal supplement with a nice balance of protein, aminogens and carbogens (the last two of the three I had never heard of but enjoyed reading about on the back of the container), I hoisted my barrel-like selection under my arm and made my way to the checkout counter.

I filed in line behind five guys who were already waiting and listened as the attractive employee talked fitness shop with his customers while he scanned the UPC codes on their purchases.

"For best results, make sure you take these anabolic amplifiers 30 minutes before working out," he said.

I don't remember the content of the following informational exchanges, since they might as well have been speaking Hebrew, but after what seemed 45 minutes or so, I finally took my place at the register.

"Did you find everything ok, bro?" the attractive guy asked.

"Yeah, I did. Thanks," I replied.

As I reached for my wallet, the attractive guy then said, "Are you from around here?"

I looked up as I pulled out my credit card, "Yes, from Broken Arrow , originally. Why?" 

"Well, I'm from Portland , Oregon ," he said, "and you kind of look like someone from the street. No offense or anything. It's just you're skinny and with the shaggy facial hair and all."

"Oh, well…it's…uhmm…been a while since I've trimmed my beard," I said as I attempted a chuckle and turned a slight shade of red. "Thanks, and have a good night."

I grabbed my bag and quickly exited the store.

Do I really look that bad? I thought to myself on the way to the car. I had seen a few Discovery Channel documentaries exposing the troubled lives of hundreds of kids who flock to Portland each year to take up permanent residence on the city's downtown sidewalks. Really? I asked myself, I mean, I've let myself go a bit over the last few weeks and could also stand to gain a few pounds, but The Portland Homeless???

As I opened my car door, I began talking myself down (as I often do when catching myself in a silly, irrational string of thoughts) with familiar reminders that there's much more to life (and my identity) than my outward appearance and that it really doesn't matter anyway what a stranger thinks of me - even a very handsome stranger - and how a comparison to a homeless Portland teenager might even be considered a compliment in that "maybe I'm pulling off a hip, heroine-chic look" sort of way.

Then I peered into the rearview mirror at the two weeks' worth of untrimmed growth on my face and greasy, unwashed hair and then down at my faded, ratty t-shirt and realized that I did, in fact, look like hell warmed over.

As I pulled out of the parking lot and up to a red stoplight, I remembered something I heard a pop psychologist say years ago on a random television talk show. As sensational as the episode on child bullying was, for some reason the statement resonated with me:

We as adults harbor many of the same insecurities we had as children. We have only learned to better mask them.

On most any other day, perhaps when I wasn't already feeling a little too pensive before suddenly finding myself standing shoulder to shoulder with all that physical perfection, I wouldn't have given the employee's comment a second thought. Did I still secretly long, on some subconscious level, to have wowed Big 10 school talent scouts as the hunky star quarterback on my high school football team or to have graced runways as the new Calvin Klein underwear model "IT" boy during New York's Fashion Week? Sure, those scenarios would have shaped me into a completely different person with his own array of challenges and issues. But would life have gone a bit more smoothly? Might I be more content?

For whatever reasons, his comment affected me. And I felt as if I had once again just been shoved into the locker by that asshole, Shane Ingram.

When I arrived back home, I walked into my bedroom and glanced at a picture taken of me and some good friends in Chicago during my going away party. As I smiled remembering the funny conversation that unfolded shortly after a stranger snapped the picture, I noticed a copy of my grandmother's funeral program from her service held a few weeks ago resting beside the photo. I thought briefly about spending with her the last few minutes of her life and the impact of those uninterrupted moments. No sentimental musical score erupted in the background. I didn't weep and join the Peace Corps. But I did quietly whisper, "Thanks, Granny."

And I waited a few more days before taking the clippers to my shaggy beard.

Here's to perspective.