finding words for the wounds, the faith of my heart, and a little light along the way
I have loved the church. It is has been the steady constant and common thread in my story.
And yet its members have deeply broken my heart. Sadly, I am certain I have broken hearts as well.
The state of the church is such that breaking hearts is about all that can be done inside its walls.
I have loved Jesus. I still do. My earliest memories are of Sunday School teachers telling me lovely stories
of this Jesus who healed the sick and fed the hungry and touched the untouchable.
They said he was good and kind and loved me, and they urged me to love him in return.
I did. I do.
If Jesus were here, his heart would be broken too.
In January of 2020, I became incredibly sick. In mid-February, when the fever left me and my strength returned, the words began to flow and flow and flow. It does not go unnoticed by me that some of those words are now finding their way into a more public setting nine months after I found my voice in this way.
Death and rebirth. Endings and beginnings. New Life.
A dear friend says, again and again,
Resurrection. It is the Law.