I took a minute.
Jesus was okay with it, the church not so much.
I had A LOT to say, but I took a minute. I had a lot to process, so I took a minute. I was asked many times to help, heal, speak, and write but I needed a minute. Christians around me panicked “are you okay?!” but I just needed a minute. A minute to gather my thoughts, find my footing, adjust my inner convictions and embrace my new identity. It’s been 2 years since I took that minute and I’m still taking a minute, but at least now in this moment, I have the courage to write and let you know that I just needed a minute.
Early in my writing career, I was struggling with writer’s block. After months of trying to emulate the best of the best, trying to find “my voice” I specifically remember Jesus telling me to “just go back to doing what you do”. That meant raw, unfiltered vulnerable writing. Out of that came Fearless in 21 Days.
As a writer, I believe in vulnerability and truth, that’s what connects with people living real lives looking for real answers. But I also believe in responsibility and caution. I believe that my vulnerability must be vetted and processed first. My platform as a writer is to bring healing with words, to challenge norms with thoughts, and to bring change, not to open a gaping wound and have you diagnose it. I have a lot to say about the minute I’ve been taking and I’m not sure it’s time yet, but I want to bring you in on this journey.
2.5 years ago our world came to a terrifying halt as the pandemic swooped in and so did an intense jolt in our lives, churches, mindsets, and faith. Some thrived and others retreated. Some dug in their heals and others chose to obey. As the lockdowns and fears began to increase a riot broke out across the nation and one famous Christian man stood up.
His long curly hair, freshly washed and glowing from a sunkissed life, stood in front of a beautiful church with the light of the moon cooperating with the perfection of the moment. He stood with a smile, a triumphant glow, his hands in his pockets and the Instagram filter carefully adjusted. In the background of the photo were protesters, running behind this magnificent moment. Grieved, afraid, trying to find a way to make people listen, to make them see the hate they have been oppressed under for so many years. A pandemic killing thousands of people, a violent protest burning down buildings, millions unemployed, a world in torment… The caption read “This is the church’s finest hour” (which was shortly thereafter edited). Hundreds of comments flooded in, worshipping his courage and enthusiasm in such a dark time.
I stepped back… I pondered…I cried and I pictured Jesus weeping over Lazurus’s death, crying over the lost and broken, sitting with sinners, with no place to call home. “He was despised and rejected by mankind, a man of suffering, and familiar with pain. Like one from whom people hide their faces he was despised, and we held him in low esteem.”
So I took a minute…