Grace In The Grief ~ revised.

Originally written and posted in March 2024.

February 12 still echoes in my bones. Three years ago, that date marked the end of a relationship I once thought would last forever. The first anniversary tasted bitter—like something sacred had been torn away. But the second year? It was then that I saw the grace in the grief.

That morning, I lay on my bedroom floor and was transported, not physically, but soul-deep, back to a dorm room in North Carolina. Back to that night.

My body remembered before my heart did.

The ache came first. Then the flood of memories. Then finally, the tears. Not from the 20-year-old woman I was, but from the not quite 18-year-old girl I used to be. The one who had been too strong, too quiet, for far too long.

I remembered the exact moment it happened. His voice. His words. My dreams collapsing in real-time.

“I’m not arguing with myself. I’m arguing with God. He says 'you have to end this'.”

“Us?!”

“Yes.”

Just like that. Everything we had built for three years—memories, promises, plans—burned away in an instant.

And I still tried to cling to it. I still tried to convince God to let me keep what I wanted. Even after that moment, I chased what had already crumbled. I manipulated. I said “I love you” not as a gift, but as a strategy. I got on my knees and begged—not for God’s will, but for mine.

When it ended for good, I let grief harden into bitterness. I ran to someone else, someone I shouldn’t have. That relationship broke me more deeply than the first. I was still trying to self-heal, to self-direct, to take control of what only God could redeem.

But the night it ended was the night I also called out to God with no pretense, no plans. Just wreckage. Just me, shattered and unsure, finally giving Him the pieces. I let Him hold me, and in that brief window of surrender, I was exactly where I needed to be.

I didn’t stay there. I got up the next morning and went right back to chasing my own way. It would take another heartbreak, a full year later, before I finally stopped running.

But looking back now, I see it clearly: He never stopped chasing me.

God's voice didn’t leave when I ignored it. His grace didn’t withdraw when I resisted it. He kept whispering. He kept waiting.

Now on February 12, I don't just remember the breakup. I remember the mercy. The way He knelt beside me in my dorm room. The way He stayed—even when I didn’t.

I begged Him to restore the relationship. His answer was no.

But hidden in that “no” was a much better yes. A yes to healing. A yes to growth. A yes to someone new, someone who knows and cherishes me, someone who walks beside me in faith and love, someone I never saw coming. But God saw him.

He always did. Because God's "no" meant that one day I could say "yes". And soon, "I do". 

Back then, while I was sobbing on a dorm room floor, my future husband was making choices hundreds of miles away—decisions that would one day lead him to me. I didn’t know it. But God did. And now I can say it with confidence: I wouldn’t change a thing. Not for the world. If I had to go through it all again to make it here, I would do it gladly. 

Maybe February 12 will always be a little bittersweet. But it’s not just a day of heartbreak anymore. It’s a marker of God’s faithfulness. A reminder that even when I let go of Him, He never let go of me.

While it's not the outcome I wanted back then, I will forever be grateful to my ex for walking away - he gave me the freedom to find God's will for me. To find the man I was supposed to marry. To find myself. I pray he has found where he is supposed to be in life, also. 

If you're in a season of loss, I hope you know this: In case anyone told you otherwise, it's okay to grieve. What's more, Jesus doesn’t leave. Even when everything and everyone else seems to. He’s still the first one to show up, and the last one standing. He will hold and heal and put your life back together when it feels broken beyond repair. It may not be the healing you wanted or asked for, but it's healing, regardless. Deep, full healing that goes far beyond what you think you want or need. 

Years later, I can say it now without hesitation:

Jesus was there. Always has been. Always will be. And by His grace, I’m okay.

No…I’m way more than okay.

Queerness, the Church, and the Space We Don't Give: Revisiting My Story

Originally written when I was 16. Revisited, years and a lifetime later.

I went by “Emmie" back then. I was a newly baptized Christian girl terrified of her own thoughts. I had no framework, no language, and no safe place to talk about the reality I was facing. I was clinging to Jesus with all I had, but I was scared of being disqualified, judged, or shamed. I thought if anyone found out, they’d never look at me the same again. And I wasn’t ready for that.

I don't recall the exact timing, only that these events took place during my Sophomore year, somewhere between fall and winter. I later wrote and published to my former blog something that I described never in a million years guessing that I would write. It exposed one of my deepest secrets at the time, something I haven't shared much since. 

It was something I was scared to say out loud, something I felt I’d be condemned for if I even dared expose it.

Perhaps some of you remember - 2019, early 2020, sometime in that period. I came out as bisexual and exposed my struggle with attraction to the same gender. 

One afternoon while chilling in my dorm room after class, one of my best friends came bursting into my room, sat down beside me, and said she needed to talk. Her voice was different. Shaky. Honest. "I think it's time for you to know... I’m bisexual."

Shock flooded me. I froze. Not because of her, but because I saw myself.

We talked. She was vulnerable. I was silent, trying to understand, to show compassion and support. But there came a point where my heart was so exposed that I couldn’t take it anymore. I excused myself and ran to the prayer room downstairs. I locked the door, collapsed in a chair, and sobbed.

Not because she made me uncomfortable.

Because I was.

I wasn’t angry with her. I wasn’t judging her. I was just haunted by the truth I’d never spoken. Her confession unearthed mine. It pulled out the secret I had promised myself I’d never tell a soul.

I’d felt these things before. Quiet feelings I buried under spiritual busyness, moral guilt, and silence. The first time was three years earlier, when I realized I was attracted to a close friend. I panicked. I begged God to fix it. I told no one. I shoved it back down. It came again. And again. I prayed harder. I was definitely attracted to guys, and I ran with it. I distracted myself. I was even in my first serious relationship at the time this happened.

But I couldn’t outrun it.

That night, I went back to my friend, and I told her the truth. “I’m just like you.” I had no more energy for hiding.

Slowly, I started telling others, those I trusted the most. Eventually, I even opened up to my parents. It wasn’t easy, but it was the beginning of freedom.

Let me be clear: I steered clear of choices that would reflect that. I’ve never dated a woman, despite real temptations—especially in seasons of singleness and heartache before I met the man I’m now preparing to marry. I hold to what I believe is the Scriptural teaching: that God designed romantic and sexual intimacy for marriage between a man and a woman.

But I don’t believe that means those who identify as LGBTQ+ are unworthy, unloved, or beyond reach. Not even close.

Over five years after coming out, I’m not writing this from a place of “figured it all out.” I’m writing this as someone who still has to wrestle with thoughts, with flesh, with fears. I still carry this story. But I carry it differently now.

Because I’ve come to know a Savior who doesn’t flinch at my fears. A God who draws close, not away, when I whisper what I think disqualifies me. If you’re reading this and wondering if the same can be true for you, it can.

But I also need to confess something.

In the years that followed my first coming out, I’ve not always lived up to the grace I so desperately needed. There were moments I spoke out of fear and self-righteousness. Times I made comments—about people I didn’t know, about situations I didn’t understand—that came from insecurity and not love. I’ve said things that hurt, things I now regret. If you were ever on the other end of that, I am truly sorry.

Hypocrisy is easy when we’re scared. But Jesus isn’t afraid of our contradictions. He transforms them. And the more I let Him shape my heart, the more I ache not to demonize but to witness. To listen. To serve. To reflect Him.

To my LGBTQ+ friends: You are not what people have labeled you, and you are not invisible to God. I apologize on behalf of the church that has made you the centerpiece for their culture war and has used a politically charged religious bat to continually hit you over the head with. 

To those like me who fight these battles while still deeply loving Jesus, forgive us for not giving you a space to share your voice and have conversations about what it means to be LGBTQ+ and still be the church. Please don't stop trying. Please don't give up on us.

You are sought. Valuable. Loved. I cannot apologize enough for those who may have told you different. 

Even if you never change a thing. Even if you’re still figuring it all out. Even if all you have to offer is your honest ache and a whispered prayer.

And to those who, also like me, have been hypocritical or dismissive or quick to judge—there’s grace for you too. But may that grace lead us to repentance, to deeper love, and to being better mirrors of Christ’s compassion.

As I consider this topic in light of my blossoming career toward Bible teaching and chaplaincy, I find myself frozen in worry that the church once again will refuse to step up for its LGTBQ+ youth. I’ve witnessed firsthand first as a student myself and now as a teacher/minister in training how many students carry hidden wounds, silent fears, and questions they’ve never had permission to ask in church spaces. I understand - I have been one of them.

And I know this topic—same-gender attraction, identity, sexuality, faith—isn’t going away. We've kept those skeletons in our closet way too long. It’s not a "phase" our generation will outgrow, nor is it a cultural problem we can ignore into silence. These are real lives, real souls, real stories, sitting quietly in pews, attending youth groups, leading worship, and desperately wondering, Is there a place for me here?

I want to be a voice that says yes. Yes, there’s space. Yes, you’re seen. Yes, you matter. Not because I have all the answers, but because I believe in a God who does. I believe in a gospel big enough to hold our hardest questions. I believe in a God who meets us with both truth and tenderness. 

And I believe the church has to learn how to do the same. Lord, have mercy. How long will we ignore this call?

I pray that the next generation doesn’t have to choose between being honest and being welcome.

We can have these conversations.
We must have these conversations.

Jesus isn’t afraid of them.

And quite frankly, we should not be, either.

Wardrobe Theology

Author’s note: First published on my previous blog in February 2020, with a revision in July 2022. This final version was updated again in June 2025 for this blog. Blessings. :) ~ ML

During my sophomore year of high school, I was enrolled in a puppet ministry organizational class with my then-boyfriend. One evening after class, we attended the first of a series of evangelistic meetings our church was hosting. Though the day had been mild, the temperature had dropped significantly by nightfall, and a biting wind had picked up. I had worn a sweater, but it wasn’t enough. I was shivering.

He noticed. And without hesitation, he offered his jacket. I was slightly mortified. After all, I’d spent two weeks in Fairbanks, Alaska the winter before with no issue. But my pride wasn't going to warm me up, so I gave in. I let him drape the oversized jacket over my shoulders. That jacket stayed with me for the rest of our relationship...and honestly, for several months after.

At the academy we attended, a girl wearing a guy’s jacket—especially one with his name embroidered on it like the guys from the gymnastics team had—wasn’t just a fashion statement. It was a quiet declaration: I belong to someone. Even now, long after we've gone our separate ways, I smile when I remember that night. Because that jacket has become part of what I suppose you could call wardrobe theology—a lesson on righteousness that God has been slowly tailoring into my life all these years later.

Wearing that jacket was a symbol of intimacy, of mutual understanding. I was proud to wear it. And somehow, over time, years and a lifetime later, that image has stuck with me. Why? Because Christ invites me to do the same thing with His righteousness.

Jesus offers me His robe. Not a literal coat, but something far more meaningful: His perfect character, His blameless covering. He invites me to wear it with confidence, not because I’m worthy of it, but because I belong to Him.

But let’s be honest. Sometimes it’s easier to take the jacket off.

It’s hard to be associated with Jesus when it isn’t socially convenient. In a world where Christianity is often misunderstood or misrepresented, publicly wearing His righteousness can feel risky. Peter knew that. Peter loved Jesus—he swore he’d die for Him—but when the moment of pressure came, when being identified with Christ meant possible arrest or humiliation, Peter threw off the jacket. He denied Him.

I’ve done the same. Maybe not with my words, but with my silence. Heck, y'all, I'm worse than a denier! I've tried to keep the look of Christianity without the weight of commitment. As though compromise could operate here. 

There was a whole season of my life I've done this, notably senior year of high school to through most of my first year of college. I wanted the appearance of a godly life without the discomfort of conviction. I threw off the jacket. I tried to be enough on my own. I failed. Actually, failed doesn't capture the extent. People, I fell flat on my face. 

But here's the beautiful thing about God’s wardrobe policy: grace doesn’t expire. Jesus holds out His righteousness again, gently, patiently. And this time, I’m wearing it not as a showpiece, but as a lifeline.

Yes, I’ve had people call me a “Jesus freak.” Some meant it playfully, others didn’t. Whatever. I’ve decided I’d rather be fully clothed in Christ than fashionably neutral.

That red jacket eventually lost its meaning. The relationship ended, and I moved on - glaringly obvious as I'm constantly mentally stuck on the man I'll call my husband in about five months. But the robe Christ offers me? It never fades. It never loses meaning. It's not stitched with thread, it’s woven with mercy and sealed by blood.

So, here’s to wardrobe theology: to the jacket I once wore as a girl in love, and the righteousness I now wear as a woman learning how to love Him back. But most of all to the God who has put up with the mistakes and the tantrums and the "not-yets" that build my life. To the Spirit who pushes me to keep pursuing public faith, even when it’s uncomfortable. To belonging boldly. To being unashamed.

Because when it comes to Jesus, quite frankly, I’d rather be wrapped in His truth than dressed up in anyone else’s approval.