When you turn into that happy, clappy Jesus girl, the one you swore you’d never be, the one you might have known in passing growing up, and pitied for her perceived lack of freedom, for her submission to the patriarchy, the one you secretly envied…when you turn into her, you cry a lot.
Most often for joy, because each new day brings you just a little bit closer to God as you discover the ways He has been ever present in your life. Sometimes you might cry a bit from guilt (those previously uncharitable thoughts regarding those churchy girls you knew sit heavy in your heart) or from wishing you’d made this discovery sooner. But you soon remind yourself that though your path to Christ wasn’t direct, it was the right one for you, the one that He needed you to take. And you cry again as you remember this, again from joy.
The more time passes and I sit with God and we talk about what I believe and what I love and what I should be doing in this life, the more I realize how much I wanted this, but how much I thought it was for me. I thought Jesus and passionate love for him was relegated to a different sort of folk, not someone like me, someone who swears and sometimes (often times) says inappropriate things, who believes passionately in social justice, that Black Lives Matter, that love is love is love… I somehow had convinced myself that Jesus was not meant for me, though he is the ultimate social justice warrior (a title of which no one should be ashamed). I let other people’s perceptions of Christianity cloud my vision, let my own arrogance prevent me from seeing something that I had known in my heart from the time that I was a little girl: Jesus loves me, and I love him, too.