The Kitchen Floor

I grew up in a predominantly Christian family. My father is a pastor for a smaller denomination, and my mother served as piano player and youth pastor for most of my life. My aunts, uncles, and cousins are involved in ministry. Some are full-time vocational ministry, others are lay pastors, pastor’s wives, non-profit ministry leaders, or volunteer staff in their local faith communities. Full-time vocational ministry wasn’t on my inspirational goals board growing up. I was very content serving the church and lay ministries while finishing my undergrad in dance and spiritual leadership. Looking back, I can see traces of what the Lord would reveal to me in where my mind would wander during my dad’s sermons. I would find myself thinking about how I would relate David and Goliath to how the church needed to be brave as the culture shifted, or how teens needed to walk in grace and humility to best impact the community.

In the 90’s, there were no YouTube evangelists, Instagram preachers, or people who had no filter posting their lives in reels. There were no keyboard warriors, but a few who braved a “Dear Nancy” and those who would complain to the board of directors and deacons about everything from carpet color choices to who sang the special in service. Women were still viewed as only capable of singing, Sunday School, and secretarial work within the structure of the church. While we all land in different areas of what women should be allowed to do in church, I am grateful we have come far enough that I am able to write about Christ and what He has done for me with freedom. The fact God has given me opportunities to speak into the lives of the next generation and women from a stage or my kitchen floor still blows my mind. What a blessing to be a conduit of the message of God’s love to those around me.

The first time I was asked to lead a women’s bible study at our home church for that season, I was so intimidated but knew that was where God was calling me. I’m so grateful I said yes to that short study over the summer. It didn’t come to pass without intense amounts of warfare and negative feedback from people I love that felt the need to tell me I was not ordained and had no business leading other women through a book of the Bible. The people-pleasing stronghold I was wrestling definitely had to be broken before I could follow in obedience to lead. From there, I got to spearhead a new women’s ministry that I lovingly labeled “Cross Fit”; there was zero physical exercise involved, we were focused on being spiritually strong. Those years of being a full time volunteer staff at our church are some of the sweetest moments I have experienced. There’s something about getting into the Word with a group of women who are desperately seeking the Lord. The community deepens beyond words as women share broken moments, hard seasons, and victories in those sacred walls. It didn’t end how I had hoped. Because I was a volunteer I got a lot of critical feedback from those who felt the ministry was growing too fast, and they didn’t have control over the Spirit moving. It was a sad reality of what many churches are facing right now. When the Spirit moves in ways only the Lord can, it can ruffle some feathers, and make those who are used to being the main vessel feel upset. God taught us a lot about transitioning with honor in that season. I had a dear mentor advise me that sometimes the most honorable thing you can do when the vision doesn’t align with what God is speaking to you personally, is step out of the way so He can show you what is next.

I have also been part of a group of women that met at 5am weekly to pray over each other and share what the Lord was sharing with each of us. That group pushed me into new levels of my spiritual walk, and I will be eternally grateful for all my sisters from that group.

After we moved from the city where we had healthy growth for our family to a place our family has labeled the mission assignment season, I grieved the loss of community like a loved one had passed away. God brought a handful of women from various avenues into my life there, and they have become some of my dearest friends. The contrast of a thriving Christian community that you can be involved in naturally, to one that needed me to work to find community was a bit of a culture shock for me. I agreed to come on staff part-time at our local church there during the pandemic. I will never forget realizing that I was alone in a staff of hundreds. No one else fostered, no one else had experienced living life according to DCS or the court system, no one had kids they were homeschooling, they all had their cliques, and everyone looked like models. All my childhood anxiety of church came flooding back. While I adored my direct reports above and below me, I knew I was called to open the eyes of the local church to how they could support foster families. An opportunity arose, and within a few months of accepting that position, I realized it was a bait and switch. After meeting with the church hired psychologist, hearing their recommendation to resign because my “yes” had been violated, and what they were asking of me was not what we had agreed to, I turned in my resignation and let the dream of foster-integration die along with my good-byes. Our family was walking through some deep, deep, deep trauma at the time as well, and the lack of community was like neon interstate signs blinding us as we tried to navigate the grief, fear, depression, and new medical crisis we were walking through. It got to the point that my kids had zero desire to go to church after I resigned from my position, mainly because they were being bullied by other executive staff children about no longer being “staff kids”. Our oldest ended up with trauma-induced Tourette’s, and we were being shunned for walking in obedience with fostering and homeschooling. It would have been hard enough individually, but once they all piled up on us, we crumbled.

It has taken multiple new church experiences, a move to a state across the country, and then very slowly opening up to community again to see my kids desire a faith-centered community again. We have been so blessed to have friends and family God has placed in our lives from all over the world who have lifted us in prayer, brought meals, folded laundry, and sat on the floor with me when I wasn’t sure how I was going to get up again. Without those dear souls who did for me what I loved doing for others, I don’t know that I could have walked in obedience and faith like I was able to in those darkest days.

Who holds your arms up when you are weary? Who sees your heart even when you can’t seem to find words? Who is willing to drop everything to help you fold the 7 loads of laundry because you didn’t text back the normal way? Who checks in on you via text even though they are miles away? Who do you know will respond with truth and hold space for you?

Sometimes, the people God places in our lives to bring the community we so desperately need don’t match what we assume they will be, either. Our closest friends where we live currently are not traditional believers, but they are some of the most amazing humans you will ever be blessed to know. They are forever friends, and I trust them with my life and the lives of my children. It has given us the opportunity to live out being people who live a life of loving like Christ by being people who live unashamed of our faith with grace and love.

There are a few ways this conversation could go on the kitchen floor, but it would all pivot based on what you needed. It might go towards church hurt and restoration. It could get really deep about callings, and the ones we saw coming to life and then had to release. Maybe it would be about fostering or trauma. You might ask more about our journey with a child who has Tourette’s. You might not ask anything because you just need to process and find words for what is swirling in your mind. All of these are welcome and wanted in this space.

My personal favorite bible story is found in the gospels. The unnamed woman. She could be any of us. She was broken, hurting, brought all she had, and ugly cried at the feet of Jesus. He didn’t tell her to get up or wash her face. He didn’t tell her she needed therapy or to read the Torah more. He didn’t give her a pep talk or sermon about her need to be grateful. He guarded her worship and protected her outpouring at his feet. Then He gives her what she really needed: forgiveness, hope, and love. She was seen, known, and loved by the greatest of all. I have lived many days ugly crying at his feet, and He has ALWAYS met me with forgiveness, hope, grace, and love. If you need to ugly cry, do it! Just make sure it’s at His feet, the feet of Jesus. He will guard you. He sees you. And most importantly, He loves you.

This floor, this messy kitchen floor, is a place where it is safe to let down your hair, ugly cry, snot everywhere, and be seen, known, and loved. Why am I so confident of this? Because it’s where He meets me, in my mess, sobbing, sliding down the wooden cabinet pressed against my back. Sometimes silent tears and sometimes deep groaning. But always in need of Emmanuel, Jehovah Nissi, and a Savior.