Who needs another white lady writing about her feelings on the internet?
That’s the question that hobbles every attempt I’ve made these last few years to write anything other than a Facebook status or sermon manuscript. Why are y’all reading THESE words? What gives me the right to take up this space, here, instead of pointing you to testimonies from the ones who are blowing my mind?
Over the course of the last few years, everything I thought I knew has been dismantled. Demolished. Disproven. I am still scared to write about it, honestly, because what happened was that nothing made sense anymore. And I am, at root, a Maker of Sense. I don’t know how to tell you that I don’t understand anything anymore. It is terrifying.
And it is also a deep, holy, mysterious grace. Thank God that I am not what I once was. Thank God that the world doesn’t work the way I thought it should. Thank God that my middle-class white preacher lady righteousness is, in fact, NOT the best way to run a universe.
I don’t know what I will write about in this space, where I am returning with intention after years of on-again, off-again neglect. I don’t know who you are, why you’re reading, whether or not you’ll stick around. Who even BLOGS anymore?
Still: here I am. Words make worlds, and even when the current world has gone head-first into absurdity, I am drawn to the words that might draw us toward a new, more sensical, less cruel, merciful existence.