All in Love Letters

Three years and a new chapter.

My dear girls,

This month marks three whole years of getting to love each other. A thousand days of crazy and imperfection, much of which was my own. No one else has seen my weakness quite the way that you have. No one has seen me more confused, more impatient, more angry, more fearful. I’ve known for awhile now that this chapter of us was winding down, and I have been searching everywhere for the just right words to say.

Dear Mother Church: an open letter on guns and going home again.

Dear you, dear me, dear us, 

I've lived in a three-hour radius nestled in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains for my entire life. Growing up, my friends and I stayed out past dark playing in our neighborhood's lazy loops and stealing crabapples from an elderly neighbor's front yard, only breaking up the party when someone's mama whistled that it was time to come in.

Manifest destiny: a love letter to my white Christian neighbors

We owe it to our neighbors and our children's children to educate ourselves: to listen to our black neighbors and believe them when they share their experiences. We owe it to them to not make excuses or turn their narratives into partisan debates. We owe them our eyes, unafraid to look at the scars and the pain and the centuries their souls have traveled barefoot. We owe it to them to not just say that black lives matter, but to show it. Because we cannot love what we are unwilling to see.

A love letter to the weary watchers this Advent.

When I was growing up, I didn't know anything about the Liturgical Year. We attended a small Pentecostal church with rusty red carpet and green pews and a hefty pastor and my parents were not well versed in the church calendar. I knew about Daniel and the lion's den, Esther becoming queen, the prodigal son, and how one time Jesus made a cocktail of spit and dirt and rubbed it in the eyes of a blind man to give him back his sight.