Elora Nicole Ramirez's Blog, page 17

anniversaries and grief

This was originally published in Story Sessions' PDF for February. I was working on our PDF for June, and stumbled across this piece, and knew I had to post it. I am a woman who marks time. I can't help it. And this weekend marks a year since grief came and made its home in our hearts. We've found joy since then, but we still remember—and we still hope—and we still lean into the grief because sometimes, it's the only way we know to take that next step.

Stepping out of the bathtub, steam danced off my skin. Everything felt heavy. My shoulders. My eyes. My fingers. I closed my eyes and pressed my face into the towel. 

The grief would end soon, right?
It doesn’t last forever, does it?

We were two days outside us getting the phone call that changed the trajectory of our lives. We were with my parents when it happened. At home, a baby swing waited in the living room, a onesie nestled comfortably on the changing table. Everything was in its place. 

And then nothing was.

Grabbing my phone off the floor, I gathered the courage to look myself in the eyes and document  even this—the breaking. The continual motion of caving inward.

The moon’s gonna rise no matter what. 

I hummed the song rooting itself  in my heart and ears and clicked the button.

I sat there and stared at the picture and felt my throat knot itself with recognition. 

After so many years separated, there she was—my shadow self. 

Even in that moment of wild grief, the inner warrioress was roaring to life.

My shoulders look as if they’re falling down toward the ground to meet my knees.

My lips turn upward in a sardonic smirk of protection—it’s either this expression or the crumpled mess of chaotic tears.

My hair is thrown up and around and cascades every which way—one lone tendril hanging by itself. 

And my eyes? My eyes say it all. 

I am done. I am done and I am spent and I am tired and pleasedon’tmakemefaceanymoreofthispain but I’m living and breathing and dammit if I’m not gonna make it another day because there’s a strength within me that wasn’t there before. And this mama-heart is roaring and moaning and my hands are clenching my nightgown but I am inhaling this next moment. 

I filtered it in black and white that looks like grey, because that was the color of my world, and posted it with these words: 

Some days, this curious hope ignites with fresh vision. Other days it disappears, waiting for me to find my way back. 

I realized something then. Sometimes, marking time by spilling words or clicking the lens means us leaving sticks in the dirt as a way to find our path back home. And sometimes, marking time is a simple way of finding ourselves returned. Embodied. Rooted.

I went to bed that night with a deeper understanding of this heart of mine. I always knew there was a lion roaring for her freedom in between my rib cages, but I never knew she’d bust loose from grief. I never anticipated that this moment would be the moment I’d finally hear her once and for all and know that she wasn’t meant to be enslaved or hidden or kept tame. Since then, I’ve done better at listening and knowing what makes her purr. I wait for the beating of her paws against my chest when something crashes against my Spirit. And I never forget this moment captured in time, when I met her in my eyes.

A guest post :: Heather Lyons on self-publishing

It's not often I'm able to host a published author—and one of multiple books at that—on my blog. So when my friend Kelly over at InkSlinger PR mentioned Heather Lyons would be participating in a blog tour for her final book in the Fate series, I was on it. I've been intrigued with her books since the moment I saw the first one release (those covers!) and so I was thrilled when she said yes. 

Below are Heather's thoughts on self—publishing. I love what she says. 

Writing has been a life-long passion of mine, beginning when I was a little girl and stretching all the way to the present, but I’d not thought it a feasible reality until after I’d left a career to raise my children. The more and more I thought about finally finishing all those stories that had been building up in my head over the years, the more attractive the idea finally sounded. What was there to lose? I told myself. And so, I finally finished a book, and another, and another, and started others.

And I queried eight agents and got rejected.

I know, I know. Eight rejections in nothing in the literary landscape of dreams. But after those eight rejections (all form letters), I got to really thinking about the book I submitted and its overhaul. And in that time, I met a number of authors both traditionally and self-published, alongside some editors and other writers, and had some frank discussions about the pros and cons of traditional vs. indie publishing today.

Before I go further, I feel like I ought to clarify I don’t think one platform is better than the other. I like both, to be honest. And I think there’s room for both in the book market. That said, when it came time to send A Matter of Fate, the first book in my Fate series, out into the wild, I decided to try the indie route. I didn’t send out any further queries—but I did research what I needed to do to give my book baby its best chance. I realized that I couldn’t skimp on my novel just because it wasn’t being put out by one of the Big 6—so I found an excellent editor. A crazy-talented cover designer. A formatter. I sent out queries to bloggers instead of agents, asking if they’d want to take a chance on my book. I booked blog tours to get the word out. I hired a publicist. I got an agent. And I have never regretted going the indie route with the Fate series, although I do wish I could go back in time and give myself a better publicity lead up to that first release.

Now that A Matter of Forever, the fourth and final book of Chloe’s arc in the Fate series is coming out, I look back on the journey I’ve made in the indie publishing world and see that I’ve continued to tweak and refine what it takes to put a book out. There is no one right way—each path is different. I look forward to putting more indie books out, and I look forward to submitting some books to publishers. I love that, in today’s book world, there are so many ways stories can reach readers . . . and that there’s room enough for all.

//

Intrigued by her words? You should check out the series, which is one of the most original I've come across in the YA/NA market. Even better news: book one and the follow up novella are only 99 cents right now. Find them on Amazon here :: 

A Matter of Fate :: book 1
Beyond Fate :: book 1.5 
A Matter of Heart :: book 2
A Matter of Truth :: book 3 
A Matter of Forever :: book 4

It all comes down to this . . .

Chloe Lilywhite has struggled for years to find her footing in a series of dangerous and demanding worlds. Creator, first tier Council member, and one of the most powerful Magicals in existence, she was little more than one of Fate’s pawns. But now, Chloe is back home and ready to call the shots. She knows what she wants and who she wants to be.

Except the Elders never got the memo.

Annar and Magical-kind are under attack. The lives of Chloe’s loved ones, and life as they know it, are at stake. Chloe's the key to taking the Elders down, but they won't go quietly into the night.

This time, neither will Chloe.

*This is a New Adult title, suitable for readers 18+.

 














About Heather Lyons:

Heather Lyons has always had a thing for words—She’s been writing stories since she was a kid. In addition to writing, she’s also been an archaeologist and a teacher. Heather is a rabid music fan, as evidenced by her (mostly) music-centric blog, and she’s married to an even larger music snob. They’re happily raising three kids who are mini music fiends who love to read and be read to.

Links:

Website
Author Goodreads 
A MATTER OF FOREVER Goodreads 
Twitter
Facebook
Pinterest

doses of encouragement.

Every Tuesday, members of Story Sessions receive a dose of encouragement in their inbox. Sometimes it's about writing. Sometimes it's a reminder to find quiet and reflection. Other times it's a real anecdote of the battle of finding words. A few months ago, a member of the community sent this following message to me in an email and asked if it would work for the weekly inspiration. I immediately said yes and knew this would be one of the things I posted here for you to have a peek into this community of women on-fire for each other and our words. I hope you enjoy it. I hope it sends you writing or creating or doing what you know in your bones you are built to do. And, if you're interested in joining us in Story Sessions, learn more here. There's always room at the table. 

There is power in knowing you're not alone.

You are not the only one. Not the only one to wrestle with that fear. Not the only one to feel that shame. Not the only one to feel that insecurity. Not the only one to walk that out. You are not alone.

There is no one on this earth exactly like you. You are unique. And there is beauty in that. No one else can fill your role and do that thing you were placed here to do. No one else has those words or that passion. 

And yet, you are not alone. You are seen and heard. You are loved as you are, for who you are. Others need to hear your voice and know your story. They need to know they are not alone either. 

What if we all walked this out? 

What if each one of us showed up, unarmed, in the arena? What if we were honest about our fears, our failures, and our mistakes? What if we let the world see us as we really are--broken, imperfect, human.

Beautiful.

I see chains falling off, armor laid down, hands held palms up. I feel the wind on my face. Freedom. Hope. Love.

You are not the only one. Show up. Be vulnerable. Be you. 

The antidote to shame is empathy. So step out of the dark and into the light. Let it expose and disarm you.

Let us love you. The real you. The perfectly imperfect you. Let us come around you and love on you. You belong. You are not only welcome, you are wanted. 

There's so very much more room at the table, and we saved this place just for you.

Welcome home.

This dose of encouragement was written by Katie Rutledge. You can read more of her words here. 

what women want: an invitation

invited.
back patted.
hand clasped.
welcomed.
entrusted in naiveté.
loved, or sort of.
appreciated for what can be done.
pseudo authenticity.
walked the line.
mis-stepped.
delegated.
straight-laced.
watched.
discussed.
managed.
calculated.
measured.
redone.
reworked.
overhauled.
reengaged.
fizzled out.
burned out.
pigeon-holed.
misheard.
unheard.
confused.
misused.
pacified.
became a project.
voices faded.
love ran out.
overlooked.
pushed aside.
disregarded.
judged.
covered up.
noses up.
mouths aghast.
eyes widened.
pseudo family.
counterfeit grace.
not good enough.
too messy of a life.
mirage of mercy.
false fellowship revealed.
no more looking in the eye.
exchanged truth for lies.
thrown out.
passed off.
hands clean of misfit.
doors shut.
hearts closed anew.
where is real love in all of this?
where is the creator in all of this?
where is the definition of life in all this?
he is here.
he didn't leave.
he didn't disregard.
he didn't pseudo love.
he didn't mock.
he didn't cover up.
he is here.
he is outside the walls.
he is in kindness.
he is in authenticity.
he is in living life together.
he is in the messes.
he is here.
oh how he wants to be in there.
they won't let him in to stay.
but he is here.

//

Hope has written in fits and starts over the years but really began expressing herself in a new poetic form just in the last 2 months. Writing & Contemplative Photography are her main creative outlets. She loves macro nature photography and telling stories with her images and words. She believes everyone has a voice worthy to be heard. She is a SAHM of 2 and has been married to her best friend for almost 10yrs. You can find her writing and photography at her new online home:www.pursuingthebeauty.com (formerly www.hopewoodphotography.com). {update: Hope's new online space may not be up and running as soon as she had hoped. In the meantime, most of her recent writing is housed here: intothesilenceblog@wordpress.com & photos here: www.facebook.com/hopewoodphotography}

on imitation.

We were sitting in bed when he passed me his phone. 

"Take a look at this picture. I bought one for Orion. They're doing their nursery in the year of the horse theme." 

I took a closer look, immediately captivated by the art work—a watercolor of bright magenta woven within purples and lighter colors of pink. 

"Ohmigosh this is amazing. Do they have others? I want one." 

Russ looked at me in surprise. "Oh you like it? I can bid on another piece—see if we get it." 

Two days later, he told me we missed out on one of the prints. I told him not to worry. "Just send me the picture? I want to try and do something similar." 

He sent me the picture and I stood in my tiny Harry Potter closet with my phone in one hand and the paint brush in another. I was determined to make these splashes of color look like this picture that had captured me so completely. I learned new techniques and how colors mix with each other and how to use the white space to your advantage.

I played with colors I never would have even considered a year ago.

When I finished, I stepped back and considered the painting. It was good. I was impressed with how I was able to actually pull off painting something and make it look like that something. 

But I didn't love it.

I showed Russ and he expressed approval. The next day, while on a last minute trip to greet my new baby niece, I showed my mom a picture and she gushed about the detail. 

But I still didn't love it. 

Right before we moved and before I packed the canvas into a box, I covered the painting with brush strokes of golds and lavender. As soon as the painting beneath was unrecognizable, I let out a massive sigh. 

I felt free again. Playful. 

"There." I whispered. "That's better." 

.::.

There are a number of writing lessons I've learned since starting to paint. Trudging through that messy middle—the space of time between ohmigoshthisisamazing and okaygoodifinallyrememberwhereiamgoing— is by far one of the biggest. 

But the picture of me in my closet with the phone in one hand and my paint brush in another begs the reminder of writing voice.

I have my style of painting. It's layered and messy and colorful and dripping with intent and words stacked on top of reds and blues and golds and purples. When I get outside of that base, even more when I step outside in order to imitate, nothing good will come of it. 

In Every Shattered Thing, I had the opportunity to make it different. I could have wrapped everything up in a neat little package and offered readers the immediate happily ever after so many crave. But I knew that wasn't true to this story. I knew Stephanie needed time—that Kevin needed time. I knew there were tangles within their relationship that needed ironing out and arguments and a few left hooks from Stephanie before they even had a sliver of a chance in making it. 

So I ended the book where I knew I needed to end it. I stopped listening to those who had opinions about the plot and trusted those who knew my voice. 

Most importantly: I started trusting myself. 

Know this: there is a time and a place within creativity for imitation. I'm positive of this. However, for me, the imitation is regulated to the first drafts. To the practice sessions. To the pieces I know will pass through the eyes of others who know me well enough to say, "wait—this right here? It isn't you. Scratch that out. Make it better. Make it you." 

I learned so much from imitating the painting. I learned what I was capable of with the paint brush. But I can take those skills and twist it within my own painter's voice. And that's the beauty of art. That's how so many books and movies and poems are built on just one story.

We have a million and one voices vying for their moment. Can you hear your own?

What is the story burning with you? What is the plot that even though it's been done before, you have a different angle and point of view and it keeps you up at night with dialogue and description and scenes unfolding behind your eyes? 

What would happen if you laid to rest the need to imitate every other idea and rely on the ones brimming within your own soul? 

I bet the result would be a pretty amazing masterpiece. I bet you would be surprised with what you were capable of creating.

what women want: for you to know we aren't drunk.

I wasn’t drunk. 

At the altar of spent Kleenex, streaked with the ashes of mascara, I wasn’t drunk.

Neither was Hannah, gushing out her grief at the Tabernacle.

The reaction of Eli the priest then — dismissive, condemning, wrongly conclusive — is now the reaction of the Church to emotion.

Dear Church, when I am loud, wild, shocking with my emotions,

I am not drunk.
I am not hormonal.
I am not weak (er than you).
I am emulating Jesus.

Emotions are the women’s realm, say our stereotypes. We gobble up this mindset in our Western Church: “Women are too emotional” and “Good Christians are not emotional” and therefore (shhhh, we only whisper this part), “Women aren’t good Christians."

But this perspective ignores reality. It ignores the full range of emotions God gifted to all of us. It ignores our emotional Jesus.

We the Church ignore our angry Jesus. Whipping cheaters and flipping tables aren’t peaceful actions. Rebuking unbelief and chastising corruption aren’t nice. They’re righteous actions, but they’re not polite.

The anger of people does not produce the righteousness of God, but there is a God-like anger that fights injustice and rescues the lost.

I want the Church to be angry
…when ministers misuse sacrificially given funds for personal comforts
…when leaders worry more about protecting reputations than about protecting victims of sexual abuse 
…when the absence of God’s love leads to violations against those made in God’s image

Being angry is part of being like Jesus. 

We the Church ignore our sad Jesus. A stoic tear down a cheek may be acceptably masculine in the Western Church, but I think "Jesus wept” means an ugly cry that would embarrass many manly men. 

Grief in all its stages is healthy in both men and women, and I want the church to understand this. I didn’t need to ignore a broken heart because "God had a plan," I needed to work through it with my Jesus who also knew a broken heart.

We the Church ignore our jealous Jesus. I’ve read a useful distinction between envy and jealousy: envy is wanting what belongs to someone else while jealousy is protecting what is properly ours. God’s jealousy is right; it desires our faithfulness. In the same way, our jealousy is right when it’s protective of the people who have expressed commitment to us. It’s desiring that they keep those commitments. Greedy envy isn’t an emotion we should cultivate, but we can show righteous jealousy.

We the Church ignore our nurturing Jesus. Tender love is not just for ladies. Jesus longed to gather the people of Israel like a hen gently collects her chicks. He searches for the lost lamb like a shepherd. Fluffy chicks and fuzzy lambs aren’t Easter props or nursery decorations, they’re symbols of the mothering heart of God—gentle, quiet love that both men and women of God can and should embrace.

I want the Church to learn together how to rage like Jesus raged, to sorrow like Jesus sorrowed, and to love like Jesus loved. I want the Church to celebrate my emotions rather than dismissing them. I want the Church to support me in being like our emotional Jesus.

Church, let’s open ourselves to experiencing the depth and width and height of the humanity God has given us! Let’s feel terrible, awesome, frightening emotions. Then let’s learn from Jesus how to act according to holy purposes. Let’s be angry, and sin not. This is hard, but this is what we should be teaching each other.

Give me my heart’s desire, Hannah prayed fervently, by the spirit, mouth moving without sound. 
“I’m not drunk,” she told Eli. He finally understood, as I want the Church to understand, and he gave her a benediction that I want the Church to give all of us in our sloppy emotions: "Go in peace, and may the God of Israel grant you what you have asked.”

Becky Castle Miller is the Managing Editor of Wyn Magazine (wynmag.com), providing resources and hope for mental and emotional healing. She and her husband, with their four kids, are American expats in the Netherlands, helping with an international church. She is part young executive and part five-year-old playing with kittens.

#amwriting

At the end of March, on a day I met a friend at the airport and had coffee and looked her in the eye as she said "just write the book, Elora. I know you have it in you," I started the next piece of Stephanie's story.

I couldn't tell you how it happened. At first I just processed verbally and worked the kinks of plot out with friends who know and love and understand these characters. I held it all loosely in my hands because who needs a deadline?

And then I realized—oh yeah. Right. Me.  

I built a playlist and rallied the women in Story Sessions to make me write—no really—make me write. And I sat down in my seat and shut my closet door and wrote the first line. 

I've heard it said once that every human is a story with skin.

I'm 30,000 words into the manuscript now, and I have beta readers and people who call me out in public to make sure I'm writing those words. I have a title (that I'm kinda sorta in love with) and a cover release date and an editor in waiting and new characters that make me giggle while writing (totally healthy). 

On September 18, a little over a year since Every Shattered Thing went live, the next chapter of the Shattered Things series will be released.

I'm learning this time around that writing doesn't have to be done in isolation. Often, the words themselves won't come to you without quiet and contemplation. It's nearly impossible for me to write fiction with music in my ears unless I know explicitly what will happen in the scene and I need it for the mood. I wrote much of the first draft of Every Shattered Thing in complete silence on the couch in my living room. No one even read it until I was almost finished and I thought why not? It's not like I'm going to publish it or anything...

But this book? It's being written in the midst of community and that's perfect, really. Because the community forming within the pages is breathtaking and redemptive. Despite the broken pieces still offering jagged edges that can break through skin and bone, these characters are learning the power of second chances and new beginnings and how the past will always come back to haunt you—it's what you do with that haunting that counts.

And sometimes, you know, that includes new friendships that remind us of the beauty of life.

blog tour: my writing process.

There's nothing that gets me going more than talking about writing. So when Alisha asked me to take part in this blog tour, I immediately said yes. You can read her post here. At the bottom of this post you'll see some artists I chose to continue the tour. 

1. What are you working on?

Currently, I'm working on book two in my Shattered Things series. I have a tentative title, but that's under wraps for a few more months. This book has completely captured me—there are a few new characters that I absolutely love. I can't wait for you to meet Jessa and Ren. 

In between writing down words and coming up with dates for cover reveal and release day (!!) I'm coaching women in the Story 201 and Finding Your Arc eCourses as well as creating new content for Story Sessions. 

2. How does your work differ from others in your genre?

Typically, my work is darker than most. And while redemption will always be available for my characters, it may work itself out in messier ways than readers are used to with other books. 

3. Why do you write what you do?

Here's what i believe :: without the darkness you will not see the light. Without messiness you will not know true beauty.

Throughout history, literature has been the one consistent reading of society. Writers are natural truth-tellers, even if they write fiction, and there's something inherently wise about listening for the themes of a story. In order for a story to be truly effective, there has to be a moment of darkness. Will the character escape? Will the character grow because of it or collapse under the pressure?

Stories are meant to be hard. This is why I write — to discover what I believe about certain situations and to remind myself how hope can weave its way through any moment.

4. What is your writing process? 

I'm just now beginning to understand what my process will be for this manuscript. I try to drop words as much as possible and whenever I can—and I'm finding that I'm editing less as I go along. Typically, I'll write about 2000 words and then send it off to my beta readers. Hearing their feedback pushes me to write more and helps me understand characters through the eyes of readers. 

The writers I chose for next week's tour are Rachel Lee Haas, Sarah Drinka and Brandy Walker. All three of these women are in the midst of projects that remind me what it's like to be inspired. You'll love them. I know it. 

Rachel Haas is a Story-writing, caffeine-consuming, paint-flinging, wild-at-heart sojourner. She is married to Jonathon, as she has been for the past four years, momma to Marian, and wrangler of an oversized Great Dane and two cats who are relatively bonkers. She dwells in between Midwestern cornfields where she pours her heart out in lowercase abandon.

Sarah Drinka is obsessed with beauty. She is a homeschooling, fairy princess kind of mom who got swept off her feet 15 years ago by a computer nerd. She teaches her kids lots of things, but most of all, that it's okay to believe in magic and that words have the power to heal, if only we'll let them. She writes to find beauty in the mess at www.sarahdrinka.com.

Brandy a preacher, a poet, and a prophet. It’s the only thing she  know how to do. Most of the time she does a shoddy job of the whole thing, but she suspects that’s why God trusts her. She's honest.

what women want: to shed their masks

On Fridays, I have opened my space to feature short essays by women about what they want from the Church. The guidelines are wide, purposefully, inviting either an answer to the question itself or to argue for a better question altogether. These essays have been curated for quality, not for content, and not all views expressed are necessarily my own. It is my hope that these posts are beginning places, that you will be sent on to spend time with the words of these women in their own spaces and houses of expression, and they have been asked to interact with you in the comments. (I'll be less active there, accordingly.) Many thanks to my good friend Preston Yancey for beginning this series.

Women want to shed their masks. 

You know what I’m talking about, right? 

When you nod and smile but actually you disagree and want to scream. 

When you apologize for your kids acting up in church when you really want to say, “We had a rough morning and the fact that we even made it to church is a huge success.” 

When you agree to serve on a committee even though you really feel like your life is too full and too exhausting as it is. 

When you continue to sing every hymn, pray ever prayer, and show up at church every time the door is open even when your faith is parched, uncertain, or borderline non-existent. 

When you wear a smile and pretend like you have it together while privately you struggle day after day with depression. 

I could go on. My point is that I think women often feel the pressure to be perfect. We are expected to put forth a perfect image. I realize that we usually talk about boys being told to be strong, but girls are expected to be strong, too. We have to be good at nurturing and organizing and cooking and sex. We have to be able to handle difficult situations without upsetting the balance of the family. We have to be constant multi-taskers, remembering every folder that has to be signed, bill that has to be paid, and errand that has to be run.  On top of all that, our culture tells us we have to be beautiful and cool to be accepted. It’s exhausting to wear all those masks. 

It’s also suffocating. For years I have been afraid to say what I really think. Instead, I have said whatever makes everyone happy and have done whatever was expected of me. I used to long to find my authentic self, because I’d almost lost track of who that was. My spirit was shriveling. 

I am sure I’m not alone when I say that the song “Let it Go” from the kids’ movie Frozen is my new theme song. 

Couldn't keep it in, Heaven knows I tried.
Don't let them in, don't let them see.
Be the good girl you always have to be.
Conceal don't feel, don't let them know.
Well, now they know!

Let it go, let it go.
And I'll rise like the break of dawn.
Let it go, let it go
That perfect girl is gone
Here I stand, in the light of day.

It’s sad that Disney gets me more than the church does. 

I listen to women a lot. They tell me their stories. But they rarely say them out loud in the church. Instead, they tell me their stories late at night on the phone or over margaritas at Chuy’s. They tell me how hard it is to make it to church because of an illness that nobody really knows they have. They tell me how stressful their jobs are. They tell me how hard it is to balance everything they are trying to be. They tell me how lonely they feel.

What do we want? We want to be able to tell these stories out loud. We want to let go of the need to hide. We want the freedom to peel off those masks and show you our real, scarred, beautiful skin.  

Let us be authentic. Let us be real. Let us cry if we are hurting and for goodness’ sake, don’t call us emotional! (Newsflash: Every human on this planet is emotional. Some people show their emotions more readily than others. But everyone feels.) Let us scream if we are frustrated. Let us disagree if our opinion is different. Let us say no to the extras because we feel the need to protect our family time. Let us admit that we don’t have the answers and we don’t have it together and we don’t like to fake happiness. 

I am convinced that if you take off your mask and I take off mine, we will be better able to love each other and to love Jesus. You only have to read the gospels to realize that Jesus reached out to people who were imperfect and who didn’t have it all together. In fact, the people who were the strictest rule-followers often angered Jesus the most. Jesus loves and values our raw, scarred, authentic selves. We should love and value them, too.

//

Karissa Knox Sorrell is an educator, writer, and blogger from Nashville, Tennessee. She is almost finished writing a memoir about her childhood as an evangelical PK/MK and later converting to Eastern Orthodoxy. At 4 AM, you will find her writing. At 1 PM, she's training ESL teachers. At 6 PM she's wrangling her two adorable children. At 9 PM she's asleep. Follow Karissa on twitter @kksorrell or read her blog at http://karissaknoxsorrell.com 

what women want: to know your box stifles me.

On Fridays, I have opened my space to feature short essays by women about what they want from the Church. The guidelines are wide, purposefully, inviting either an answer to the question itself or to argue for a better question altogether. These essays have been curated for quality, not for content, and not all views expressed are necessarily my own. It is my hope that these posts are beginning places, that you will be sent on to spend time with the words of these women in their own spaces and houses of expression, and they have been asked to interact with you in the comments. (I'll be less active there, accordingly.) Many thanks to my good friend Preston Yancey for beginning this series.

I want you to know that I fit into your traditional box.

I am a traditionally feminine woman, a fact of which I am proud. I like dresses and pearl necklaces and “girly” things. I love to bake and be in the kitchen. I love small children and many other things generally related to motherhood and traditional femininity. I want to be a wife and I want to be a mother more than I want a career and I have no problem letting men do most of the leading. Not much about my natural personality breaks the traditional gender roles.

So I want you to know that I fit into your traditional box, but I am so much more than that.

I love the kitchen, but that is not my only place. That is not the only place you will see me come alive with my gifts and talents. 

You will see me come alive at the screen of a computer or a desk with paper in hand, as I pour out words that share the heart of our Father with this broken world. You will see me come alive at the front of a congregation, as I lead them in worship through song or dance. You will see me come alive at the table of a coffee shop, as I dig deep into the nitty gritty of real life in real relationships. You will see me come alive on a sandy beach, as I dig my toes in the sand and behold the splendor of our majestic God. You will see me come alive in broken places with broken people, as I wrestle with the tension between the goodness of God and the pain of our present circumstance. You will see me come alive in places you think I should be and in places you don’t want me to go.

We like to compartmentalize things. It makes them easier to deal with -- less complicated, less unruly. 

You want to find the box I fit in and keep me there, because life with boxes isn’t as messy. You want to put me into a traditionally feminine box and tie me up with a bow, because much of my personality fits your idea of a “good Christian woman.” You want to put some of my sisters into another box, labeled “defiant” or “different” or “dangerous.” You want to put some of my brothers into a box like mine, one where you keep the men who fit your idea of “Biblical masculinity.” You want to put some of my other brothers into another box, pushed back on a shelf with my “different” sisters, hidden away because they don’t fit the mold you made for them and different is uncomfortable and intimidating.

I want you to know that part of me will fit into your box, but when you put me in that box, another part of me feels stifled. The part of me that is loud, boisterous, and opinionated, that is stubborn and sometimes defiant, that is passionate and exuberant, that refuses to only stand behind you, that wants to stand with you -- the part of me that isn’t a “gentle and quiet spirit” will not fit in the box you wanted to put me in.

You can put me in a box if you want, but know that I’ll be there by myself, because no one else fits into my box unless you stifle part of them.

I want you to let me breathe and let my sisters breathe, too.

Do not put us into a box, no matter how well you think we fit. Do not resign us to one place, because that’s where we’re “supposed” to be. Do not ignore our opinion or our contribution or our heart because it doesn’t fit your prescription for what women should do in the Church.

Let me be me as I let you be you. Let me be who I am outside of your box, for any box will stifle me, no matter how well you think it’s tailored to who I am. Let me love and serve and teach and preach and share and worship and be exactly who God has called me to be, whether it fits into a box or not.    

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Sarah is a storyteller and bookworm with a deep affection for classic literature, big sunglasses, and Coke slurpees. She is passionate about digging deep and living life in community. She smiles big, laughs loud, and loves having dance parties in the middle of the kitchen. She hails from the DC metro area and writes about faith, life, and relationships over at sarahannehayes.com. You can also find her on Twitter @sarahannehayes.