An Old Emergence

There was a time When I wouldn't let my body See the light of day. It was wrong It was less than It was other. Let me introduce you To my acne scars, Reminders of adolescent breakouts That stayed around for too many years as uninvited guests. And here are my stretch marks From gaining weight And losing weight And gaining weight And losing weight And, well, you get the idea. Be careful not to go blind When the light hits my Porcelain skin And it's thick dusting of Ginger hair, but This. Is. My. Body. Those words trickle down Through liturgy and scripture And tradition and maybe They mean more than just Words of institution. Maybe it's time to stop hiding What's going on underneath And wear my scars and my marks And not let what I assume others see Influence what I see. Because my acne scars aren't written Across my face like they Could have been. This. Is. My. Body. My stretch marks tell a story Of how I have failed but

Well...not really. Over the last few years, I've written a few posts about the theology of my body and what that means in the greater context of my life and spirituality. The original post I made about the subject, funny enough, was exactly six years ago today. At the time, I tried to string together some disparate ideas on selfhood and exercise so that I could tell people I was starting P90X. Another post was about dancing in church. Another about eating organic food. I think I missed the point each time. I was going somewhere when I wrote about the dualism we often impose on conversations about physicality and spirituality, as though the spirit and the body are separate entities. As I think back over the years of my struggle with weight and body image, I am more convinced than ever that much of my spiritual and emotional well-being is rooted in how I encounter my physicality. In the past, when I've begun a journey toward physical well-being, I have done so divorced f

My bookshelves are filled with a fascinating array of texts from all across the spectrum. My paperback Harry Potter series (hardback is currently in storage) shares a shelf with my LGBT resource books and a small collection of hymnals. My "favorites" are wedged between a couple autobiographies and books about walking the labyrinth. But there is one entire shelf dedicated to books about theology. Just so I'm being transparent, about half my books are currently in storage. When I moved into my apartment in Philadelphia, I had to downsize to one bookshelf due to limited space. I had two meticulously curated piles of books upon packing my life up in DC. The books in storage don't mean any less to me, to be sure. But I knew there were some texts I wouldn't need for a year or two (and I won't go into the several tubs of books currently store in my parents' attic). I have realized, though, just how few of the books on my theology shelf have been fully read. I

A couple weeks ago, I posted on Facebook that I had made some big life decisions. Well, here we are. Today is my last day at Capital Teas. And to make things more interesting, I do not have another job lined up yet. This is terrifying. However, I have never felt more right about a job-related decision in my life.  So why did I do it? That's the real question. And it comes down to something I have never been great at: a leap of faith. I have had a great life plan multiple times in my life. I have wanted EVERYTHING planned in great detail, even if none of those plans actually panned out. When it comes to taking risks, going out on faith, I am woefully unprepared. Yet here I am. Out on faith. Let's be fair, I had a pretty good job. It paid my bills. There was potential for advancement. I knew the industry. I knew where I stood (most of the time). But I wasn't happy. I know people will say that happiness is fleeting and that job security is important. But I was

Ash Wednesday is an especially poignant moment in the liturgical year for me. Six years ago on Shrove Tuesday, I came out. It was the beginning of a long few months of inviting people into my truth. It was a mixture of terror and jubilation, but it all began with a conversation that day when I finally accepted who I was. The following day, after a beautiful Ash Wednesday service at Glendale Baptist Church (my first Ash Wednesday service), our pastor's family was in a car wreck where their youngest child was killed.  That Lenten season was difficult. Our church family grieved. In many ways, those of us who knew and love Emmie still grieve.  And every year when I receive my ashes, I feel those two emotions profoundly: joy and grief. I feel them to my very core as though I am still 21 years old. While both have faded as I've grown and healed and changed, that moment of the imposition of ashes brings them back. The rawness of those juxtaposed emotions engulfs me. I