Ministry, for me, isn’t compliance with tradition. It’s defiance with grace. Not pity. Not anger. But rebellion that makes room for connection, growth, and the kind of unity only grace can pull off.
I live in this strange middle ground. On one hand, I want people to know the details — the constant math I do just to move through the world. The way my muscles fight me when I want them to cooperate. The energy it takes to keep balance, to form words while standing, to process sensation without getting overwhelmed. These aren’t “quirks.” They’re my reality. And they explain why I move slower sometimes, or why eye contact is hard, or why I lean on rhythm and habit just to keep going.
Those details matter. They’re not excuses — they’re the context behind the grit. They’re the reason you’ll see me pause, stumble, or shift. They’re also the reason I can show up with as much persistence as I do. Because behind my presence is a fight you don’t always see.
But on the other hand? I just want to be me. Not a diagnosis. Not a list of symptoms. Not a walking explanation. I don’t want every interaction to feel like a teaching moment about my body, my brain, or my balance. Sometimes I want to show up without having to hand you a manual first.
It’s this push and pull I carry daily. Wanting people to understand, but not wanting to have to explain. Longing to be seen fully, yet resisting being reduced.
I’ve written before about how grace lives in the gray — in those in-between spaces where nothing feels simple or certain. This tension of being known without being reduced feels like another layer of that same gray, another place where grace insists on staying.
https://makeshiftmasterpiece.com/grace-in-the-grey-no-pity-no-pedestal-just-presence/
Here’s the truth I’m learning: both can be real at once. My life is shaped by details I didn’t choose, but it isn’t defined by them. Grace gives me room to hold both — to let you know what I carry, and to insist that I’m more than what I carry.
And here’s where it collides with my calling: venturing into seminary, tackling grad school, stepping into authorship, building ministry, raising kids — it’s a lot. Some days it feels like too much. But it’s also what I am capable of, and that makes it both exhausting and fulfilling in the same breath. Every single day feels like its own one-of-a-kind rebellion against the voice that says “sit down and stay quiet.”
So yes, I’ll stumble. Yes, I’ll carry details I don’t always name. But I’ll also keep showing up in classrooms, in pulpits, in pages, and in life — because this ministry isn’t compliance. It’s defiance with grace. It’s rebellion against every system that says not you. And it’s grace — gritty, stubborn, unpolished grace — that keeps me standing there anyway.
And let me be clear: this isn’t pity and it isn’t anger. My rebellion isn’t about drawing lines between us. It’s about tearing down the ones that were already there. It’s about making space where growth and connection can happen, where presence matters more than perfection.
I don’t shout about the effort because I want applause — I shout because I want you to know it’s possible. The work is worth it. The intention matters. The sweat and exhaustion are real, but so is the joy of proving that what looks impossible can still become holy ground.
This is rebellion, yes — but it’s rebellion that invites you in. To see what grace can do. To trust that your own fight, your own details, your own persistence can matter, too.
Because in the end, grace doesn’t just hold me up. It makes room for all of us to stand. And standing together — tired, grateful, imperfect, real — is where the defiance turns into hope.
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