Come Sunday

Go to Him in secret, and He'll hear your every prayer.

Untitled, Shady Grove, Alabama, 1956 © courtesy of the Gordon Parks Foundation

For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.

Ephesians 6:12

My mother was the first person to teach me the gospel. So when she called me in November to tell me they were stopping chemo for her big sister, my Aunt Cil, I prayed our tears would count as prayers when we couldn’t find the words. Quickly, prayers for recovery became prayers for her peace. She began her transition. What my mother and I realized was that love wasn’t begging God to fix things so that she could stay, but love was knowing she needed release so that she could finally be free. 

Losing my aunt was not my first lesson in learning how to shift my prayers and my heart posture. A few months prior, in June of 2025, I finally said that sacred prayer.

God, if this man is not for me, please let what has been done in the dark come to light. 

I meant every word. This prayer was an act of surrender. And because I let go? God showed me what I was finally ready to see. Darkness rose, and light came. I flew into the unimaginable. It saved my life.

I knew then for sure that God was not against me. He shielded me from a broken heart and gave me peace that surpassed all understanding.

Since that summer, I have found myself at the intersection of others' awe and curiosity. Of how someone who experienced what I did could still be standing. With honey on my tongue, I find myself answering by first naming that it was God who did a new work in me. Then I speak of Toni Morrison and how she taught me all about secondhand loneliness and what it means when somebody hands that to you. What it means when someone tries to hand yourself to you. I express eloquently and with a deep knowing of the reshaping of my relationship with loss and how that’s set me free. Lonely people do lonely things, and my decisions must belong to me. I tell tales of alchemy and rebirth. I captivate my audience with a story similar to Daniel in the lion’s den. David and Goliath. That I was Noah and God sent the flood. Subsequently, I think of how beautiful all of that sounded, but that I made a commitment to tell myself the truth. So a year later, my act of surrender means letting go of the expectation of resilience that I’ve allowed to be handed to me too. 

Now I find myself thinking about how, despite what people may say, I don’t feel brave. About how some days I feel heartbroken. Not for the monster that was in my bed that made me afraid in my own home, but for the young woman who allowed him in it. About how now I know that I have nothing to prove but so much to protect. How I never asked for this armor or for this journey but that I’ll be better for it. Even though truthfully? I wonder who I would be if he had never happened. 

I have nothing poetic to say, and if I do these days, my poetry can be found in my prayers. It’s true. You can’t outrun your past. So I’ve found myself sitting with her instead. And when I do, I revisit the letter she wrote me before everything came to light.

Dear Taylor,

There’s so much you can say, but first I want you to give yourself permission to get off the tightrope. I want to give you permission to walk freely. Your work at the Frederick has surrounded justice and what that means. As you transition, I want you to know no one will give you what you deserve (justice) but you! And right now? Justice to you means to walk freely. Give yourself permission to exist fully and without fear. What a journey. Rooted in love. Protected from above.

With high hopes for you,

Taylor 

Time is not only its own miracle, but it also vindicates and redeems. 

I know that God is not against me. Love is on my side.

When the Lord restored the fortunes of  Zion, we were like those who dreamed.
Our mouths were filled with laughter, our tongues with songs of joy. Then it was said among the nations, “The Lord has done great things for them.” The Lord has done great things for us, and we are filled with joy. Restore our fortunes, Lord, like streams in the Negev. Those who sow with tears will reap with songs of joy.

Psalm 126:1-5