​I Am the Church

I no longer confuse buildings with belonging. I used to think holiness lived in four walls, in sermons, in someone else’s interpretation of God. But God began speaking to me in quieter places, in my womb, in my breath, in the ache of my becoming.

I am not outside of the church. I am remembering that the temple was always within me. The body is sacred architecture. The nervous system is holy ground. The womb is a sanctuary of creation, life, ideas, rebirth. I cannot abandon that.

There was a season I tried to fit myself into structures that did not know how to hold a woman who feels deeply, who questions, who bleeds and rises and transforms. Feminine wisdom does not rush healing. It does not shame cycles. It does not demand performance. It waits. It softens. It listens.

I am healing in the timing of my own body, not in the urgency of doctrine, not in the pressure to appear whole. God meets me when I am undone, when I am angry, when I am grieving, when I am powerful.

I have met Her in the trees, in the river, in the dark nights where I thought I was alone. The church I am living now is not loud. It is the way I sit with my pain and do not numb it. The way I speak truth even when my voice shakes. The way I nurture other women back to themselves. The way I honor my boundaries as sacred lines drawn by wisdom.

I am not rejecting church. I am embodying it. I am allowing divine love to live through my actions, through compassion, integrity, embodied presence.

When I return to a building, it will not be because I am empty. It will be because I am full, full of knowing, full of discernment, full of God within.

Until then, I kneel in the grass. I light candles in my own home. I bless my food. I anoint my own forehead with oil. I am not waiting to be healed by someone else. I am becoming healed by remembering who I already am.

Holy. Whole. Held.


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