nostalgia knocking on my door tonight. i’ve been thinking about the church i attended during my college years. a teeny little graffiti-bathed building in the heart of the ghetto. 40 people max. i was the only white person.
and i have never been more loved in my life than in that little church.
it was a place where judgment ceased to exist, and where grace threatened to drown.
it was a place where women talked freely of forgiveness from abortions, strength to endure abusive boyfriends, and husbands in prison. where the men shared their desires to step up and be the Christ-like figures in their families.
i was known as “sister” and i never ran short of hugs.
sometimes the sermons ran 2-3 hours. and the singing. oh the singing. powerful is the only word.
i haven’t been back to that little inner city church since college. but i know i’ll be surprised to find another place like it…
i guess this isn’t really a very exciting post. not for you anyway.
it’s just i was thinking that sometimes, if you open up your eyes and your hearts, you may find belonging and acceptance in a place you’d least expect.
like a little white girl from a little white town in a little black church.