Constellations of Belonging

As a kid, nothing about Christmas thrilled me more than the King Family Christmas party. My mom was the youngest of four, and after her mother died when she was just a teenager, her three older brothers became devotedly protective of her.

That dynamic grew into a family culture that prioritized support and connection. 

Each year, the siblings and their families would gather. Platters of food stretched over kitchen counters and folding tables snaked through multiple rooms. But the high point—the part we kids both dreaded and loved—was the talent show. 

Family Talent Show

All cousins were expected to perform. One year, I wrote and directed a play for us younger cousins based on Burl Ives’ version of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. We were stranded on an iceberg, but Santa ho-ho-ho’ed so deeply that he blew us safely home. It was absurd and was cheered wildly by our captive audience. Every year, we ended with an extended, inventive version of the 12 Days of Christmas, one verse for each person. My usually demure mother owned “FIVE GOLD-EN RINGS,” with such gusto, she was tapped to sing it every year.

Those times together glowed with love and support. They gave me a glimpse of what presence and oneness feel like. Together we formed a constellation of care, belonging, and unbridled joy. 

But constellations shift. These days are different. We cousins are scattered. The uncles have all passed. My mom and one sister-in-law still hold space for the wisdom of their generation, but the King Family Christmas we knew is gone. That helped me realize that true family isn’t defined by physical presence alone or even by blood. 

Families are like constellations, made of stars that are always moving. Some drift apart. Others come closer. Some die. Others are born. 

Last year, around the Fourth of July, nearly all of us remaining cousins came together again to reconnect. No gifts or skits, just stories. Each branch of the family stood to introduce its members. Some of us had never met. But that familiar spirit of oneness and belonging filled the air.

The Heart of Christmas

The heart of Christmas isn’t tied to one season, one day, or one version of family. It lives on through the intention to behold one another—whether by marriage, birth, friendship, or faith.

As a gay uncle with no kids of my own, my sense of family has taken a different shape. I treasure the families I’ve chosen: friends who show up, the community I serve, colleagues and spiritual companions who share the journey. These are also constellations—beautiful, radiant, unique.

I can’t return to the King Family Christmas of my childhood, but it lives on in me—not as a fixed memory, but as a spirit I pass on. When we create spaces of belonging—when we make the effort to come together, laugh together, tell our stories, and make new ones—we are honoring the sacred thread that runs through it all. 

This Advent, I remember that love doesn’t look the same year to year. But what never changes is the blessing of gathering—to choose one another, share ourselves, and believe that no matter what form it takes, the light of love shines through us.