A challenging, bridge-building weekend

By Kara Chupp

Last night we watched the Count of Monte Cristo.

My friend Anne-Marie just finished the book and throughout she noted all the ways the movie does not match, which were vaguely familiar from the last-long-time-ago that I read it.
And she said all the names with perfect French pronunciation which made her version sound way more beautiful.

But I was tired.
And kind of enjoyed that Mondego is clearly the bad guy. No redeeming qualities there.
And Dantes gets to marry Mercedes– who only marries Mondego because she is expecting Dantes’ child and thinks he is dead.
And Dantes’ sidekick feels like a character out of Princess Bride.
And at the end Dantes kills Mondego after first offering him mercy, but Mondego is clearly SO bad that you’re relieved.

But, as we were discussing afterwards, there is a depth in the book, that is lost in the movie.
There are fewer consequences.
Less realization and redemption.
A true loss that results from choosing simplicity over complexity.
Beauty and power are diminished in the attempt to, as Ashley Larkin would say, put a “pretty bow on pain.”

This was entirely missing–

“…pray now and then for a man who, like Satan, believed himself for an instant to be equal to God, but who realized in all humility that supreme power and wisdom are in the hands of God alone…Until the day when God shall deign to reveal the future to man, all human wisdom is summed up in these two words,– Wait and hope.” ~Dumas

This weekend I went to the The Faith & Culture Writers Conference. It was a place of complexity for me.

A place of realization and redemption.
An experience that was not always comfortable, but that was beautiful.

On Friday, in one writing session, Seth Haines asked us to write down several writers we admire and then to share what is it about their voice that draws us to them.
I wrote down several, but one of mine was Lore Ferguson.

And it’s because I see her as a bridge builder.
I am in a writing group with her and I know what she believes.
She doesn’t waiver on the convictions that God cements in her heart through His Word and the Holy Spirit, but she engages in dialogue and friendship and relationship with those who may be on the other side of the precipice.

And this weekend was one of bridge-building for me.

My favorite session was one with Terry Glaspey where he shared about “writing that endures” and I was struck by how many of his descriptors also depict relationships that endure…

Writing that endures:

— reveals the writer to be a fellow struggler. We are drawn to those who show that they struggle alongside us.
— takes a risk.
— has the power of empathy. It has the ability to feel what others feel.
— loves its characters as God loves them. Without that love, they will just be chess pieces. If they are loved, they will breathe.
— connects with people’s needs, both practical and perceived.
— focuses on questions that are relevant to every person of every age.
— may not be immediately recognized.
— is validated by simply obedience in responding to God’s call.

As I’ve invited other writers to the conference in the past, I’ve added the qualifier-disclaimer–

“Just know it’s a little edgy. Their faith umbrella is a big one.”

In part, those words came from a place of fear.
Fear of a diluted gospel.
Fear of fingers being pried open on issues that I want to hold tightly.

But it also came from just that “awkward middle school fear” that rises when you’re not sure which lunch table you’re going to sit at or whether or not you’re going to be invited to the slumber party.

I sat next to a fellow writer in one of the sessions who I really enjoyed. I just appreciated talking with her and felt a sense of connection. As she shared about her life and experiences, I started caring about her. And then after the conference I went and read some of her writing and found that on many issues–we very much disagree.

But instead of feeling anxious, I felt hopeful.
Because a bridge to dialogue was built and without relationship, without love, even Truth can be a clanging gong, a noisy symbol.

And as Kari Patterson shared, “We tell the truth for a redemptive purpose.”
And as Terry Glaspey mentioned, “The story is the way we argue heart to heart.”
And as Emily Freeman encouraged, “Art that leaves an impression is not the bossy kind.”
And as Seth Haines reminded, “Writing changes the hearts and minds of the people.”
Because as Ray Family proclaimed–

“The artist is the window washer…”

The window washer, in God’s grace and power, is the one who clears away the mud that mars our vision– the pre-conceived notions, the stereotypes, the misunderstandings, that block us from really seeing one another and really communicating our message– and His message.

When “In Christ Alone” echoed off the walls, filling the room with hundreds of voices, all flowing from individuals made in the likeness, and in the love, of our Heavenly Father, the words were grounding and solid.

For me, this weekend at the Faith & Culture Writer’s Conference was full of God’s kindness and His good gifts. Within the first few minutes on Friday, He brought along a kindred spirit.

There was a whole lot of culture— honing writing skills, learning from others, learning about others, appreciating powerful words and art and music. It wasn’t the simplistic movie Monte Cristo, it was the novel, full of complexity and complication and recognized layers. Not easy for me to box up with a bow, but so very beautiful.

There was also much faith— risk taken, bridges built, trust established and Christ proclaimed as Lord and Savior.

I hadn’t planned to share this, but I want to.
The article I submitted to the conference writing contest was chosen as the Non-fiction winner. It was not something I’d expected and I sent it in watermarked with doubt. While I don’t want to need outside validation when it comes to writing, God knows me and that sometimes I do need some dew on the fleece. It was such an over and above gift from Him. I’ll tell you why…

Emily Freeman nudged us to write from our Tuesdays. Our normal days. The ones that are filled with our normal people and our humdrum dailies– the mounds of laundry, overflowing kitchen trash bags, and counters blobbed with toothpaste.

I went to the conference with a nagging sense of– I am a Tuesday.
And most of these people are Friday nights.

And my essay was a Tuesday piece.
Because I am often a Tuesday writer.

Winning the writing contest was a welcoming of my Tuesday-ness.
An encouraging hug from a community that I wasn’t sure would-could embrace who I am as a writer.
And really, it was just a reminder that we all have (and are) Tuesdays.

As it is with writing that endures, we are all revealed to be fellow strugglers, breathing characters loved by God, who wrestle with questions that are relevant to all, as we meet the needs of others and strive for empathy. Our identity and validation is in relationship with Christ and in the simple obedience of responding to God’s call.

I am so thankful.
And Lord willing, I will be there next year in all my Tuesday attire.

Thank you to all who dreamed, planned, and brought the conference to fruition and thank you for joining me in this space…

P.S. I didn’t quote one of my favorite speakers– Tony Kriz. I was so caught up in his storytelling that I didn’t take any notes. I’m not sure how to say this poetically, so I’m just going to say it. I knew Tony back in college, when he didn’t have a beard. But we never really had a friendship. In fact, to me, it felt a bit more like a– disconnectship. It has been 18 years since then and God has changed and grown us both. I didn’t know (or take the time to understand) who he is now. In fact, I made assumptions at a distance through a muddy window. But, hearing from him was one of my favorite parts of the weekend. A bridge was built. He had to leave early and suddenly because of a family emergency and I am praying (and will be) that he and his family will sense God’s deep love surrounding them. I was so thankful to hear his story and I am still picturing the Easter candles trickling down from the mountain into the little Albanian villages below.

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Kara Chupp won the non-fiction category of the Faith & Culture Writing Contest sponsored by the 2015 Faith & Culture Writers conference. Find her work at: Kara Chupp

April 12, 2015May 5, 2015

The Funeral Arranger – 2015 Writing Contest Runner Up

By Heidi Beth Sadler

The group of mourners who had gathered around the burial site that morning suspiciously eyed one another. Unlike typical mourners, these four strangers showed no signs of grief. The only sorrowful member of the party appeared to be the yellow lab. Albert—that was the dog’s given name—was casually leashed to a nearby tree. He rested his head on his paws and quietly whimpered.

It was unfortunate for Albert that Sam Prescott hated dogs. Big dogs, little dogs. He disliked all animals, for that matter. Even on this sad occasion, Sam had no sympathy for the distraught creature in front of him.

Finishing the smoldering butt of a cheap cigarette, Sam flicked it much too close to the dog for Bridget Foster. As much as Sam despised animals, Bridget loved them. With an indignant glare, she promptly extinguished the cigarette with her foot and tossed it away from Albert. Squatting down on her thick thighs, Bridget rubbed the dog’s drooping ears, and for a moment, Albert forgot his grief.

Sam rolled his eyes at Bridget and checked his watch. The invitation had said the service started at ten. By now, it was a quarter past, and with no sign of the minister, Sam was irritated. Not that he had anywhere to be, of course, but he was irritated, nonetheless.

Elsa Hernandez, who was desperately trying to quit smoking, raised an eyebrow as Sam lit another cigarette. Even in her chain-smoking days, she had enough sense to know you didn’t smoke at a grave site. Catching a whiff of the scent, she shoved another piece of nicotine gum in her mouth and ferociously chomped.

As the east wind cut through Elsa’s leather jacket, she pulled it tighter. Being such a thin girl, she was always cold, and yet she never quite thought to bundle up. The heels of her stilettos stuck in the wet grass, and she chided herself for wearing them. Like Sam, she, too, was watching the clock; a co-worker was covering for her, and she was anxious to get back.

Felix Carson was the final member of the little gathering. Felix faced the constant challenge of observing people without staring. He often found himself lingering for too long on a particular subject; when caught staring, he would quickly look away and feign interest in something else.

While the dog and the other three characters did intrigue him, Felix was more interested in the clandestine nature of the event in general. An invitation via courier, a red wax seal, no return address. This was the stuff of great literature and film, the kind of story he longed to write but didn’t.

When the invitation had arrived, Felix had carefully opened the envelope with a butter knife. Over the past week, he had read the hand-written contents a hundred times: “Your presence is requested at the passing of a close companion.”

This message, along with the time and location, had been the only information provided to the invitees. Like the others, Felix had debated his attendance. Curiosity, however, had worked its magic and drawn all of them there that morning.

As they waited, it was Elsa’s nervous confession that relaxed the other three. “Excuse me, but could someone tell me who died? I was told a friend was being buried here today, but I’m not sure who it is.”

“Did you get one of those strange invitations?” Felix asked. The others nodded and recounted the same story.

“If this is some kind of a joke, somebody’s in for it,” Sam threatened. He wasn’t quite sure what they were in for, but he would certainly think of something.

“Do you know how long this is going to take?” Bridget asked. She had overslept and only had enough time to gobble down a muffin. She was ready for something more substantial to eat.

A gentle yip from Albert interrupted the mourners’ conversation. The dog stood up and looked to the bottom of the hill. They noted a tall, balding man casually walking in their direction. It wasn’t that he appeared incapable of moving faster; he genuinely seemed like the type who was never in much of a hurry.

“It’s about time,” Sam muttered under his breath and assumed this was the minister. He finished off his cigarette and vowed to abstain until the service was over.

As the balding man arrived, Albert licked his lips. The man produced a dog treat and quietly unleashed him. Without hesitation, Albert faithfully moved to stand by his side, and the whimpering ceased. After caring for the dog, the man turned his attention to the group. His lips silently counted to four, and he nodded, pleased.

“It seems we’re all here,” he informed them and retrieved a tan piece of paper from his pocket. Felix noted that this was the same type of paper on which his invitation had been written. The man cleared his throat and closed his eyes. This signaled the others to follow suit. Sam, who was adamantly non-religious, expected a prayer and refused to close his eyes.

After several minutes of awkward silence, the others slowly opened their eyes. It was unclear if he was meditating or had fallen asleep standing up. They shrugged at one another and waited for some type of instruction. Eventually, the man opened his eyes and and began to read.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s not how you begin your life. It’s how you finish it.” After this proclamation, he motioned for them to move in closer, which they begrudgingly did. “That’s better. Now for the introductions.”

The strangers exchanged a confused look with one another. None of them could recall a funeral with introductions.

“Let’s start with Mr. Carson,” the balding man said and directed them to Felix. All eyes turned to the surprised man, who was suddenly uncomfortable by this scrutiny.

“Me?” Felix coughed out.

“You are Felix Carson?” the man asked and referred to his notes.

Felix nodded and kicked at the ground.

“Very well, then. Felix Carson, you are a computer programmer who sits at home in his parents’ basement. You dream up stories that you never actually write. Fear of failure keeps you from ever trying to publish anything. Last month, you were admitted to the E.R. for a panic attack. Meet the rest of the group.”

As embarrassment washed over his face, the two women gave Felix sympathetic looks. Sam, on the other hand, wasn’t so delicate.

“You live with your parents?” Sam mocked. Without retort, Felix hung his head and continued to kick at the ground.

“Thank you for volunteering to go next, Mr. Prescott,” the balding man said. “Sam Prescott, you are one of the best guitar players to have graced the world, but due to the alcoholism that pours shame down your throat, you spend your life in a filthy apartment where your music is lost on the rats. Rather than swallow your pride and ask for help, you’ve become incapable of bonding with your family and friends. Two months ago, you were taken to the hospital by a neighbor who found you passed out in the alley. Meet the group.”

At this public caricature, Sam cussed at the balding man and turned aside to light another cigarette. The rage that was growing inside prevented his shaky hand from successfully igniting the lighter, which brought forth another flood of profanity.

As he prepared to storm away, the bald man stopped him with, “If you leave now, you won’t know why you were invited.”

Eyes blazing, Sam whipped around and sneered. “What’s this all about, preacher? I thought we were here for a funeral, not a meet and greet.”

Ignoring Sam, the balding man turned to the skinny woman, who immediately tensed up. Noticing her stress, he smiled, and that made her feel better.

“Elsa Hernandez, your incredible gift of dance has been seen by few.”

“A dancer, eh?” Sam piped up with a sleazy smirk.

“Not that kind of dancer,” Elsa snapped at him. At least not anymore, she thought to herself. The handsome looks of the thirty-something stranger were quickly fading as the ugliness of his temperament become apparent.

“I don’t judge,” Sam shrugged,

The balding man ignored Sam and continued.

“Punishing yourself for the dark escapades of your past, you hide your talent behind menus and coffee cups. Recently, you were hospitalized for attempted suicide. Elsa, meet the group.” Elsa’s eyes quickly filled with tears, which she immediately brushed aside. She would not cry in front of these strangers.

The sound of Bridget’s growling stomach brought the balding man to the last member of the group. Before he could open his mouth, the plump girl burst into tears. Albert moved to comfort her, and Elsa fished in her pockets for a tissue. Unsuccessful, she awkwardly patted the other woman’s shoulder.

“Bridget Foster, although you possess the voice of an angel, anxiety causes you to eat your worries away. You keep your talent locked up in your townhouse where you self-medicate. Three weeks ago, you took too many sleeping pills and had to have your stomach pumped. Meet the group.”

With the formal introductions out of the way, a question emerged from the group. “Say, mister, who the hell are you, anyways?” Naturally, the question was from Sam, who was ready to retreat. Undeterred, the balding man locked eyes with Sam.

“The better question is, ‘Who are you?’ Are you all I said you are, or is there more to you than that? More than a blank page?”

Having no response, Sam cursed and took a few steps away. Bridget, on the other hand, had stopped her crying and felt strangely relieved.

“Who’s in the casket?” she nervously asked as she rummaged in her purse for a candy bar.

“Ah, the question you’ve all been wondering. Whose funeral is it? Why are you here?” The man turned around to face the wooden coffin. With loving hands, he rubbed his hands across the smooth surface; he appeared to be saying goodbye.

In a sudden movement, the man grabbed the lid of the casket and flung it open. Both women shrieked. Bridget covered her eyes, while the men peered forward.

“It’s okay,” Felix said and gently tapped her on the shoulder. “Open your eyes.”

“I’ve never seen a dead body before,” Bridget moaned behind her hands.

“It’s empty,” Felix reassured her.

Bridget peeked through her puffy fingers until she could see that the casket was, indeed, empty. With powerful steps, the balding man began to circle the coffin. Pointing at each of the mourners, he shouted, “It’s your funeral day!”

“He’s crazy,” Felix muttered to his new comrades.

“Let’s get out of here,” Sam said with authority.

“Leaving so soon, Sam?” the balding man called to him. “Are you so eager to return to your past? To the hole you live in?”

“Who do you think you are?” Sam shouted at him. “You think you know us? Think you know me? Well, you don’t. You don’t know anything about me.”

Calmly, the balding man folded his hands. “Then tell me, Sam. Who are you?” At the question, Sam cursed again, which made Albert yip. “I know you have a choice, Sam. You all have a choice.”

“What’s he talking about?” Bridget whispered to Elsa. Overhearing her, the balding man came back to stand in front of them.

“Up until now, your lives have been a series of rough drafts. Today, you have the choice to start again. To rewrite your story.”

“What do you want us to do?” Elsa ventured.

“Your fear of being known has already happened. Now everyone here knows you.”

At this point, Felix spoke up. “How do you know us? We don’t know you.”

“None of you recognize me?” the man asked, and they all shook their heads.

“Are you one of those creeps who spies on people then blackmails them?” Elsa asked. Her past sins had taught her to beware of such a thing.

“I’m a man who looks for hidden beauty. I’ve seen it in each of you.”

“Alright, mister. We give up. You got us. Great joke,” Sam said and began to clap.

“It’s not a joke, Sam. In fact, I seem to recall you talking about your dreams as you lay in that lonely hospital bed.”

“I thought you didn’t know him,” Elsa snapped at Sam.

“I don’t know him,” Sam countered as he searched the other man’s face for recognition.

“And you, Elsa. Attempted suicide is a vulnerable time for a young woman. When people are in pain, they share their secrets with strangers. In the hospital, I spend my life with the sick and the dying. When I see the living waste their talent, it’s more than I can bear. None of you can start truly living until your old life is put to death, which brings us to why you are here today.”

“To kill us?” Bridget timidly asked.

At this, the balding man roared in amusement. “Kill you? I want to release you. That’s why I arrange funerals for people’s old lives.”

“You’re kidding,” Felix said.

“Not kidding, Felix,” the balding man responded. “On that hospital bed, I heard you admit to spending your life dreaming rather than living. I couldn’t let you go on like that, Felix.”

“How do you expect we do that, mister?” Bridget timidly asked. “Live, I mean?”

“You’ll never know what beauty you’re capable of unless you risk failure and rejection. None of you have taken that risk.”

Sticking his hand out, the man looked up to the sky and felt for rain. His work here was done. With a concluding look, he spoke out, “Singer, Dancer, Musician, Writer. Those are your new names. If you’ll receive them, that is, if you will steward them.”

“You’re just going to leave us here?” Elsa asked as the man moved to go.

“You’re not alone anymore,” the man said and motioned to the others. He tossed the paper into the empty coffin and slowly descended the hill.

In silence, the mourners lingered at the grave site, each pondering the balding man’s words. In the distance, they heard a bark and watched as Albert loyally bounded after his master in the lightly falling rain.

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Heidi Beth Sadler is the 2015 Faith & Culture Writing Contest Fiction Runner-Up Winner for her work, “The Funeral Arranger.” Find her writing at Heidi Beth Sadler website

April 12, 2015May 5, 2015

The Bus – 2015 Writing Contest Runner Up

By Carly Gelsinger

I discovered the danger of my body on a packed bus in Timisoara, Romania. I stood with fifty American teens on a mission to share Jesus, and probably another fifty Romanians trying to make it to work on time. I could smell intense body odor from people reaching up to grip the arm handles. The bus driver swerved around tiny European cars down narrow cobblestone streets.

I was out to change the world.

I wore loose-fitting denim shorts and a camouflage print Christian T-shirt that said “God’s Army Girl.” My hair was pulled into a thin French braid on the back of my head. I felt warm drops of sweat on my cheeks from my thick-lensed glasses.

I thought I was so grown up, a missionary spreading the Gospel to the ends of the Earth, but really I wasn’t more than a little girl in braids.

I landed in Romania because I went to a teen conference six months earlier and checked a box on a brochure that said I was interested in going overseas to spread God’s word. I spent the following months scooping ice cream for seven dollars an hour and selling mistletoe bouquets during the holidays to raise money for this trip. I read the entry for Romania in the “R” book from my dad’s 1964 encyclopedia set, and studied the basics of their economy and government and customs. I counted down the days and prayed for the Lord to prepare the hearts of the lost in Romania.

I was prepared to do hard things for the Lord, but I wasn’t prepared for what happened next.

I was staring out the window, daydreaming about my dog back home when I felt something rough inside my underwear. It was moving around in circles, and it took me a second to realize that I was feeling somebody’s fingers. I whipped my head back to find a skinny middle-aged man with large black pupils reaching up my loose-fitting shorts and fondling me.

“Stop. That’s gross,” I said, stunned. I didn’t know how else to respond.

“Moolt,” the man said, as he pulled away, which is Romanian for thank-you. He slunk to another part of the bus and exited at the next stop.

Woozy and faint, I was unsure of what had just transpired, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

The girls who were huddled around me on the noisy bus hadn’t noticed what happened. The bus kept speeding down narrow streets, and my hair was still in braids, and the Americans around me were still laughing and the Romanians were still trying to get to work on time. The world kept going around me, but something inside me had stopped.

The rest of the day played out like a dream. We got off the bus and passed out tracts to the peasants feeding pigeons in Timisoara’s town square. I prayed with a toothless woman in a headscarf to accept Jesus. I played tag with some street kids, who wanted their picture taken. They posed, giving each other bunny ears and flashing huge grins to show their gold teeth, as I snapped photos of them with my disposable camera.

That afternoon, we ate at McDonald’s. I ordered a Filet O’ Fish sandwich, which was crispier and more flavorful than McDonald’s fish sandwiches at home. I sat with outside with my teammates, eating my sandwich and Orange Fanta, shooing the pigeons away and watching Romanian teenagers sniff something from a paper bag.

It was a regular day for us in Romania, just like the last twenty before. Except for this day, I couldn’t shake the feeling of that man’s touch on my body. The scratchiness of the fingers, the roughness of his movements kept playing in my mind over and over again.

I had to tell someone.

I approached my female team leader Whitney in our dorm hallway that evening about the man who assaulted me, only I didn’t use those words. I told her someone made a move on me, and I explained that he put his hand inside my private part, careful not to be too graphic or inappropriate with my language. She fiddled with her lanyard necklace that held the whistle she blew at the group during the day. Although my voice quaked, I didn’t cry. It felt strange to hear myself talk about it, almost like I was telling someone else’s story.

“He came from nowhere, and then he was in my under pants,” I said.

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” Whitney said, but she didn’t look very sorry. She yawned and tossed her long brown hair behind her shoulders. At twenty-one, she was in charge of all the day-to-day operations of our trip, along with her 22-year-old male counterpart. They both seemed worn out all the time.

“I can’t stop thinking about what happened,” I said. Now I was starting to tear up. “He said moolt.”

“Well let’s not get too emotional about this. What were you wearing?” she asked.

“Khaki shorts,” I said.

“Shorts? Honey, you know you’re only allowed to wear shorts on non-ministry days,” she said.

“I know,” I said, feeling embarrassed. I realized I put myself in a tough spot by admitting I had broken the organization’s dress code. According to our handbook, repeated dress code violations could warrant getting sent home.

“So that man was wrong to touch you, but instead of dwelling on it, maybe we can use this as a good lesson on modesty. As sisters in Christ, we have to help our brothers to not stumble,” she said.

“OK,” I said. “You’re right.”

“If I had noticed you were wearing shorts earlier, I would have asked you to change. I take responsibility for that. But isn’t it amazing how God can use bad situations to teach us things? He is so good.”

“Yeah, very amazing,” I said, without feeling amazed at all.

“If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to talk to me. I’m here for you,” she said. She patted my knee, stood up, and said goodnight.

I lay in bed that night, trying to pray myself to sleep. I apologized to God for disobeying the dress code my leaders laid out for me, and asked God to help me forget what happened to me earlier that day. I fell asleep peacefully, but woke up in a sweat a few hours later from a dream where I was stuck on a bus in my khaki shorts, a legion of skinny men with dark pupils closing in on me.

The remainder of the trip, I glanced behind me often when on a bus. I crossed my legs, even when standing. And I never wore shorts.

I didn’t tell my parents or anyone back home about the incident on the Romanian bus. I showed them pictures of the cute street kids and talked about the people who accepted Jesus, and how good McDonald’s is in Europe, and all the things God taught me. The following year, I signed up to go to Romania again.

I buried the incident deep in the recesses of my mind in a dusty box marked failure because I never wanted to think about it again.

###

Ten years later, I sat by the window at my kitchen table on a snowy day in Boston. I flipped through the Boston Globe and my eyes landed on a story about a man who was arrested for groping high school girls. It all came back—the sweaty bus, the rough hand, the fish sandwich, Whitney’s reaction, and the nightmares that followed.

“I think I was sexually assaulted as a teen,” I blurted to my husband Joe, who was reading the sports section next to me.

“You think you were assaulted?” he asked.

I told the whole story for the first time, for him, but also for myself.

“They blamed you for wearing shorts?” he said, curling his lip.

“Well, they didn’t really blame me,” I said, but paused as the weight of his words hit me. I buried my head in my hands over our wobbly unfinished pine IKEA table.

“Wow,” I said without lifting my head. “They did blame me.”

I punched the table and screamed. All these years I spent in misplaced shame for something that should have made me mad. But as I bucked beneath my overwhelming rage, I recognized it like family. The anger had always been there, I realized, deferred to rot and stink under the surface. Now it was released.

I didn’t get better instantly or magically after that day. But I learned to hush the voices that want to keep me bound to shame and silence. I began to dare to believe the Other Voice who whispers grace and hope into a fragile heart.

I am not done healing, but I am released to begin.

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Carly Gelsinger is the 2015 Faith & Culture Writing Contest Runner-Up in the non-fiction category. Find her writing at Carly Gelsinger website