Blog

Healing from a lifetime of shame-soaked religious fundamentalism has transformed how I experience holidays. Once about control, they now offer freedom. Last week, I flew west—not for a special service or a brunch dripping with pretense, but to celebrate endings and the beginnings they birth.

Easter, once the season of performance and exhaustion, is now truly about renewal. This year, resurrection didn’t show up in a church pew or an over-sung hymn, but in quiet distance, and sky. I found it in a most unexpected place: the story of a misunderstood witch reclaiming her power. Rising doesn’t always look like whatever story someone decides it should.

During my flight, I stopped trying to earn the air I breathe. Headphones on, I let Wicked sing me into stillness. Chaos un-spiraled itself into calm, like a tightly wound spring finally releasing. For the first time in years, I existed. Not for anyone else, not for a purpose, but simply for me.

We all carry scripts written for us by others, about who we should be, what we should believe, and how we should fit into a world that rarely makes room for our full selves. The weight of those expectations is something so many of us know, even if the stories are different. Letting them go doesn’t mean forgetting them; it means caring for the parts of us they couldn’t erase.

In that bubble of borrowed space, surrounded by strangers who didn’t need me to be anything, I exhaled the burden of my past. It was a breath of renewal, one that carried me back to a decade ago when I accepted a call to ministry. I dove into years of education and endless “discerning,” all to figure out how to live authentically in that call. About halfway through, I realized survival meant ripping up the script. I was a shadow of myself, my feet heavy with the weight of expectations, moving through life as if I were already buried. Every choice was about trying to save the world while convinced I was beyond redemption.

Now, less than a month after being granted ordination outside the church that tried to bury me, I feel like I’m living a rewritten version of my old story.

As a kid, The Wizard of Oz terrified me. The characters felt too big, too loud, too cruel. I watched in fear, hoping for redemption that never came. I prayed for the resurrection of a girl who melted away while the world cheered her destruction.

We’ve all faced towering illusions of power—those voices telling us we’re too messy, too broken, or too much. And we’ve all wondered if maybe they’re right, even when every fiber of our being rebels against it.

Now, I see how warped those redemption arcs always were, crammed into boxes too small to hold the holy mess of reality. They were stories designed to shame and control, not heal and empower.

I’ve cried over both the original movie and its retelling. But I didn’t cry this time. Not because I’m healed or whole, or because there’s nothing left to mourn. But because now I know I don’t have to cram my pain into a praise song to make it allowable.

My life has been shaped by those who stood behind curtains, pulling levers and pretending to have power they never deserved. They pointed to the different ones, the messy ones, the ones who wouldn’t fit, and called them dangerous. They taught me to fear myself.

For so long, I let that story shape me. My whole body rebelled, but I was desperate to find a home, even if it killed me.

Somewhere around the time I got married, a new narrative started to take shape. The same story, mostly—the same players, same stages, same exhausting drama… but now told from the perspective of the ones who’d been othered.

In my life, the curtain always concealed more than one manipulator, and more than one scapegoat sacrificed for their illusion. The binary was always a lie: good vs. evil, saved vs. lost, chosen vs. cast out. All designed to control, not connect. I just had to get beyond the black and white to see it.

At the end of Wicked (a retelling of The Wizard of Oz from the perspective of the so-called Wicked Witch) when the witch is falling; hunted, haunted, blamed; the angry chorus of her past rises on the wind. In the mirror of a glass tower, she sees herself as a child also falling, reaching out.

The woman reaches back.

And then she flies.

When she rose, reclaiming what was stolen, I saw a truth many of us share: the power to rise is within us, even when the world insists it isn’t. Easter isn’t just a holiday anymore. It’s a reminder that resurrection isn’t about avoiding death but about reclaiming life. It’s about shedding all that was never meant to be ours, so we can rise with the fullness of who we truly are. This is the truth that lives in each of us—the power to embrace who we are becoming. It’s not just my story. It’s yours too.

It’s a power that doesn’t ask for permission, a rise that doesn’t seek approval. And in that rise, we challenge the very systems that sought to keep us small. It’s a resurrection that says the cross of erasure was never holy; it was a scaffold for silencing. And the hands holding the hammer never offered salvation—only a distorted picture of it.

The song that is sung at that point of the movie is my anthem, the one I sing loudly when I’m driving alone: So, if you dare to find me, look to the western sky. As someone told me lately, everyone deserves a chance to fly. And if I’m flying solo, at least I’m flying free.

It’s not about renown. It’s about reclaiming what’s mine.

The faith I once knew turned empowerment into pride, self-worth into rebellion, and grace into shame. They insist I’m flying too high. But they’ve always been terrified of people whose perspective allows them to see through the smoke and mirrors.

When I saw Wicked in theaters last fall, my son grabbed my arm as the wizard was introduced. His small fingers squeezing my arm, he whispered his fear in a trembling voice. I held his hand, he snuggled close, and I told him when it was over. It wasn’t the misunderstood witch that frightened him—it was the booming, hollow projection of power, the false face towering above, pretending to be real.

In that moment, I saw the importance of rewriting my story, not just for me but for my son. Where I once clung to survival, he knows he can thrive. Where I feared the shadows behind the curtain, he can see them for what they are: empty projections.

This is Easter now: messy, real, powerful. A sky of freedom, not an altar of shame.

If you’ve ever been told that you’re too much, or too little, or that you don’t belong, this is your moment to rewrite your story. This is a season of resurrection.

The Lord of the Rings books have been peripheral in my life for as long as I can remember. Growing up, hobbits and elves came up in conversation just like any other friends. For many years, Tolkein and Lewis were the safe havens, escape from a life that felt anything but. I much preferred Lewis, and the wood between the worlds is a place I still often daydream to. But in hearing of Rivendell at a moment when my spirit was open, I dove into discovering all it represents. 

What came from that exploration was an hope that echoed forward from my trip to Alaska last weekend. I wrote a piece about that experience and where I found resurrection themes as I flew west that hasn’t been shared quite yet… but Rivendell was a deepening realization of how often these themes have been present in the edges of my awareness.

If you, too, are celebrating Easter differently this year… or if you are simply surviving… may you find a moment to breath as you consider resurrection in Rivendell.

it finds you.

and mercy sparkles plentiful in the morning dew.

All that was lost will be found again.

Beloved, lift your eyes.
See the King who comes in peace,
Riding humbly on a donkey.
He does not come for the perfect,
But for the weary, the broken, the seeking.

Lay down your branches, your cloaks, your burdens.
For He does not demand your striving,
But welcomes you to a safe surrender.

The crowd shouts, “Hosanna!”
And so do we, not because we are ready,
But because He is.
Because we are already enough,
Because we are enough in His love.

Come, beloved, join the presence of the hopeful.
Let the rhythm of the palms remind you:
Love is in the noise and in the stillness.
Your worth is not in your works but in His grace.

Go now into this holy week,
With Hosannas still echoing,
And your heart open to
The One who rides in peace,
To remind you: you are already enough.

We stand on the edge of this canyon,

old laughter and shared dreams
tangled in the gusts.
Your voice, faint but familiar,
echoes from a place I can no longer go.

We both have searched for a bridge

neither can build alone.

But oh, how I tried.
Stretching my hands and my heart,
I pulled at the threads of our connection
until they frayed beneath the weight
of unspoken truths.
Still the chasm grew;

rocks beneath my feet caused me to stumble.

I miss you.
I miss the rhythm of a life we once shared,
the harmony of understanding.
But this canyon is deep,
and the fall would swallow me whole.

So here I stand, grieving.
Not just for what we were,
but for the wounds that have happened in the healing,
the chains that we haven’t been strong enough to break.
I ache for the freedom in which we could flourish,
if not crushed by the weight
we’ve been told is love.

In spite of the pain,

my hope—for you, for us—remains.
Hope that one day the walls will crumble,
the canyon will shrink,
and we might meet again on level ground.
Hope that healing will find you
in the quiet moments,
when the noise fades into stillness
and truth sings its gentle song.

Until then, I’ll carry the memory of us;

of days spent weaving conversations into life,

of hours spent in waiting rooms, across tables, on phone calls.

Until then, I will carry you in my heart,

not locked in a dark corner,
not as a burden, but as a reminder:
of what love can be,
of what it might be again.
I’ll hold it lightly, with open palms,
trusting the winds to carry it where it belongs.

And if someday our paths align once more,
if the distance dissolves into understanding,
I will meet you there,
with a heart that remembers the good,
and arms willing to embrace all that is new.

But for now, I let go.
Not of love,
but of the reaching.
Not of care,
but of the climbing.
Not of you,
but of the fight to make us whole again.

I stand here, rooted and grieving even as I flourish and grow,
whispering a prayer into the canyon:
May you find healing.
May you find your way.

May you find peace.

Life has gifted me family in so many different ways. Today, I am thankful for new and old colliding. For learning and growing together even though it feels like lifetimes have already been lived and we are just now discovering them.

for my chosen brother.

The mind races like a storm with no horizon—
thoughts crashing, overlapping, a tempest of everything,
and yet somehow, nothing at all.

It’s a storm of noise and silence, all at once.

Focus?
It bounces like a child’s rubber ball,
escaping your grasp just as your fingers reach out.
Ideas slip, not because you are careless,
but because your hands are already so full.

And the weight of this life?
It’s heavy sometimes,

like the sky fell on your shoulders
and forgot to leave room for light.
The darkness doesn’t knock—it seeps,
quiet, uninvited, curling around the edges of everything.

You carry it all—what else can you do?
You carry it all, and keep moving, too.

I see the strength it takes to get out of bed
when the weight wants to anchor you there.
I see the courage in your chaos,
the beauty in your bouncing,
the poetry in a mind that refuses to sit still.

Your thoughts may scatter on the stormy winds,
but I know this:

There is a brilliance in the way your brain moves;
spinning storms into light,

turning shadows into vibrant hues,

bringing color to a sepia-toned world.

You are not broken.
You were never intended to be a telescope.

You are a kaleidoscope—
turning, shifting, endlessly vibrant.

Offering perspectives that could never come

from a steady gaze in one direction.

I won’t pretend storms in the darkness are easy to weather,
But dear brother, fellow traveler, we’re stronger together.

You are truly valued.
Not for what you do,
not for what you produce,
but for the simple, unshakable truth of your being.

Thank you.
Thank you for existing,
for showing up in all your messy, marvelous ways.
You are a gift my world doesn’t deserve,
but desperately needs.
Even on the hard days—especially on the hard days—
I hope you know you are more than enough.

Once, we believed together.
A faith so vast, it felt like the sky itself,
a shared promise that stretched endlessly,
wrapping around us like a safety net.
We stood side by side,
two souls tethered to the same hope,
the same truths.

But time has a way of unraveling things,
doesn’t it?
Not all at once, but thread by thread,
questions whispering like shadows in the corners
of a room we thought was full of light.
I followed those shadows,
walked into the wilderness of doubt,
letting my faith stretch, bend,
and break apart in places
so it could grow into something new.

You stayed,
but not without a cost.
I still see the weight of your questions,
the quiet unease behind your smile.
You told yourself staying was safer,
that roots were stronger than wings,
even as you wondered
if they would one day hold you back.
You stayed,
not because you never doubted,
but because you feared what you might lose
if you let go.

Now, when we speak,
there’s a quiet ache beneath the words.
Your faith appears solid, unshakeable.

But I have stood too close for too long to believe all is well.
Mine feels like the wind—
unseen, but always moving.
You look at me as if I’ve lost something,

as if I’ve drifted too far,
but I feel as though I’ve found the world.

As different as we have always been,
we used to share thoughts,
the underlying truths in perfect harmony.
Now, our words stumble,
colliding like mismatched puzzle pieces.

Your certainty feels like fragile;
my questions sound like betrayal.

And yet, I still see you,
the person who held me up
when I couldn’t stand,
the one who prayed for me
when I couldn’t find the words.

I wonder,
is it love that keeps us here,
or just the echoes of what we were?
Can a shared history bridge
two hearts that now beat
to different rhythms?

I want to believe it can.
But every time I reach back
for the faith we once shared,
I feel the weight of it pulling me
into a version of myself
that no longer exists.

So here we are,
standing on opposite sides of a divide
neither of us meant to create.
I see you.
I honor the depth of your belief,
the way you have stayed steady
even under the weight of the questions you carry.
And I hope you can honor who you know me to be—
even if I’m walking a different path.

I carry our shared faith tenderly,
like a pressed flower tucked away in my heart,
a reminder of what is beautiful
and true and good…
a memento of who we were together.

But I can’t live there anymore.
I’ve traded the comfort of roots
for the risk of wings,
the promise of the unknown
over the certainty of staying the same.

It hurts;
this letting go, this holding on,
this love stretched across the gap
between who we were
and who we’ve become.
And maybe, just maybe,
there’s grace enough for both of us,
even here.

When laughter ripples like a quiet stream

and dreams begin to echo yours,

you know.

Not in the way you know a fact,

but in the way you know a song—

Because it’s familiar,

like it’s always been there;

softly being hummed in the background,

waiting to be sung in harmony.

At first, it seems like all breathing stops,

waiting to see if the air in this space is safe.

Quick, shallow breaths reveal

the fear of all that has been,

soon changing to a collective gasp

of surprised joy.

Tension exhales itself in a rush,

peace settling in its place,

like the whole universe sighed and said,

“Yes, this is right.”

Hearts meet

at the crossroads of laughter and hope,

of dreams unfolding side by side.

It feels like finding home in a stranger’s smile,

like you’ve always been walking toward this moment—

toward these people

even when you didn’t know the way.

This isn’t chance.

It’s alignment.

It’s rhythm.

It’s the kind of connection

that makes you believe in something bigger,

something beautiful,

something undeniably real.

And now, we journey;

together, as far as life allows.

We hold this connection with reverence,

with gratitude for each shared mile,

each shared breath.

We cherish the music our hearts make together.

Whether the road stretches endlessly

or curves into parting paths,

we walk with intention,

knowing this bond is a gift,

a moment of grace in an uncertain time.

For however long we are given,

we are here.

And for however long it lasts,

it is enough.

It felt like we lived a whole life this last weekend. From highest highs to lowest lows, we survived but I’m honestly not totally sure how. Well… I do know how. It is one of the greatest gifts of my life to have people around to throw out a life preserver when drowning seems inevitable.

I love you, friends.

And I am oh so thankful to see you here on this side of the trip.

For reference because I didn’t think about the questions people would have, information about this group that has accepted me and affirmed my call to ministry through the process of ordination can be found at opentable.network

 

It’s late. Cold. Dark.

I love you.