I serve those who are deconstructed, de-churched, or filled with doubt. Many people find their way to Stafford, Texas, into our building, up the stairs, and back into my corner office lined with bookshelves. Often, they arrive carrying the weight of church hurt, God wounds, or even spiritual abuse.

As they enter, a thought lingers in the back of their minds: Will this pastor be like the others?
They realize quickly I don’t fit the mold. “You’re so… blonde?” they might say, noticing my long eyelashes. If I had a dollar for every time an unsuspecting stranger remarked, “You don’t look like a pastor” upon learning of my vocation, I would be a wealthy woman. They also recognize that I don’t preach like the others. “You’re so… real. Like me, even. I love your stories…”

 Their feedback resonates deeply within me, echoing through the crevices of my heart. They describe my heart as soft, tender, and forward—maternal even. Motherhood has been my most profound teacher in my journey as a pastor. It is the place from which I lead. It’s a place where I nurture others while also experiencing my own wounds.

And there have been many wounds. I invite my congregants into my office to share theirs:

“Come and bring your wounds, and I’ll bring mine. Together, let’s listen.” Shhhhh… watch us heal and transform as we light the Christ candle, sit on the comfy white couch with the bright yellow pillows and take in all of those book shelves. Let’s sip our coffee and hear your story—the whole story, not just the polished, shiny parts, but also the dark and scary ones. You can bring those too, the parts you’ve never shared with another faith leader.