​77. The Edge of Death’s Doorway

I’m kind of a weirdo. Which is why I think I’m made to be a believer.

I like to think I’m the kind of person Jesus found solely to save me from myself. I’ve always been the type of person who never needed anyone else. I’ve also been the type of person, more specifically the type of woman, that doesn’t fit into your typical female mold.

I have to think the women sitting at the foot of the cross were similar. They were students of God willing to inch their toes absurdly close to the edge of death’s doorway.

They weren’t concerned with which shampoo gave them the most volume.

Am I the only one noticing the noise of this age? The blatantly stupid pressure put on women to be something other than themselves even though we’ve supposedly made such strides in the name of female empowerment?

But that’s the thing. Power isn’t ours to have. It belongs to God. And I think when we lay it down and nudge it back over to the God of the universe, we grow and transform in ways we barely understand.

It’s weird to discern the wool pulled over our collective eyes. It’s weird to inch up that material to lay eyes on Jesus. It’s weird to walk towards the cross while others are running away, no doubt off to find that best shade of red at Nordstrom’s.

It’s weird to be weird and finally be okay with it. And to know God braided that “against the grain” strand into our DNA and whispered, “Follow me.”

And so I will.