I refuse to join the ranks of women whose stories go untold. But my story is ugly enough that the only way I can participate at the moment is with poetry. This is for the folks who limped out of that institution. We’ll hold each other up and carry on.
For those who were abused by others at the church, then expected to forget it while that party flourishes there, I see you.
And for those of you witnessing the grief and testimony of all that has been for the first time, it’s not scary to empathetically listen. It’s not sinful to bear witness to pain and sorrow. Join us, you’re welcome here.
They came in their hipster hats with their trendy babies. They planned parties to showcase they were relevant…all by the light of the neon sign glowing “saved, changed, on mission.”
The mission got blurry. The women, expectant. For my personality to dampen, for me to fawn at Marc Driscoll advice, to meet at parks for prayer over their bunches of kids midday.
Don’t speak up. Don’t use your brain. If you behave, they’ll grace you with their presence.
“Host folks, even with crumbs in the drawers” they’d preach. This wasn’t an invitation to live raw. Rather, an expectation to never say no. Host rain or shine; Host the people who cause you anguish behind closed doors…and don’t tell your authentic story- what gossip!
“Don’t see your therapist; there’s no trauma.”
Didn’t you know Jesus is abundant in therapy rooms? Didn’t you know that he’s a balm to the wrecked?
The women never showed up to see my crumbs. I didn’t pass the test. So I shoved myself into the drawer, smaller and smaller until I was the crumb.
But it turns out, we don’t showcase the crumbs. We just needed a quip to crack the pretty veneer enough to look human.
After leaving, I got bigger. I trusted my voice again. I found the people who looked like Jesus; the ones who lost their seat at the table. Instead of engaging people who spout cute quotes on hospitality, I found the ones who opened their drawers and had abundant collections of to-go sauce packets. The ones unapologetically collecting condiments were the ones who, just by looking, could tell when an old wound had ripped wide open.
Give me the displaced seat, the sad look based on assumptions of my faith, the condescending look at how we’re rebuilding brick by brick.
Give me all of that and more.
Because my leaving gave me the sauce packet drawers. It gave me quiet rooms full of brave people sharing their own stories. It gave me holy moments in the form of a daughter unencumbered, toddler Taylor Swift dance parties, and time to notice the flashes of joy in grief. Bring me the quiet moments of a life rebuilt.
“joy, oh joy, come roll away, these temporary tears”
