Living
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Every year, for as long as I can remember, I watched Meet Me in St. Louis with my mom. Every Christmas. That was our tradition. She loved that movie. I didn’t realize it at the time, but she was teaching me something. About music. About warmth. About how certain stories quietly become part of who
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Santa was never just a man in a red suit. Long before that look ever existed people were already telling stories about a winter visitor moving through the dark months. Odin riding the night sky. Father Winter. Grandfather Frost. Old spirits meant to guide people through the cold and the fear that came with it.
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A dream of my grandmother revealed a truth that lingers: we inherit more than DNA. We carry the stories, emotions, and unfinished dreams of those who came before us. It’s all in the bloodline.
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Every morning I go down to the onsen in our hotel and soak for about a half hour. It has become a ritual for me, not just relaxation but something deeper. The Japanese onsen is steeped in centuries of tradition. There is a right way and a wrong way, and before you go, you must
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My relationship with God is not a complicated one. I live on very even ground with Him. We have an understanding, a quiet agreement that I am who He made me to be. Sometimes I believe that being gay has actually made me one of His chosen. Think about it. You come into this world
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What do I believe? That question has haunted me for years. Angels. Guiding beings. Protectors. Light. Love. The word itself carries a kind of warmth, does it not? But what if we have been looking at them all wrong? During the Screaming House haunting, something strange would happen. The phone would ring, and on the
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How many places do we touch in an average day that once held meaning for the living? How many rooms have we slept in where someone took their last breath? You might think that sounds strange, but is it really? How many hotel beds, how many houses, how many quiet corners have absorbed a final
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“Try to remember the kind of September.” That line has been echoing in my head all day, and maybe it is because September once carried a very different meaning. When I was young, Labor Day was not just a holiday. It was the last day of freedom before school began again. In St. Louis, we
Steven LaChance Blog 