All language is metaphor. Any attempt to describe the richest parts of life- like love, friendship, nature, and faith- all fall short. Language only scratches the surface of meaning.
I started this journey over 10 years ago. In that time I have fought for a faith I can claim as my own. I wrestled with God and misogyny, and often I couldn’t tell the two apart. And I have the deep wounds to prove it. I have clawed my way through patronizing institutional patriarchy. I’ve lost friends, lost my mind, and lost my way more than once. This dance- it’s hard, and brutal, and beautiful, and exhausting.
I’ve been in church for as long as I can remember. Sunday School, Missionettes, youth group, summer camp, bible study, and even tent revivals (if you are unfamiliar with tent revivals it is exactly what you are picturing in your head)- I’ve been to it all. I grew up in a small evangelical church, in a small town where women raised small kids while their husbands worked in the larger (but still pretty small) city. A minivans and bake sales kind of town.
And for the most part, I liked being a part of that community. I have beautiful memories of my home.I can look back and say that I loved my church, loved my community. Loved the people there, loved the pastor.