oh that won't do

I had quietly snuck into the sanctuary after the service had started. This particular morning I was a greeter at the welcome table. I came in late, thinking nothing of it. Until we passed the peace.

An older gentleman, who I had never seen before, came to shake my hand and pass the peace. 

“You’re sitting alone? Oh, that won’t do.” 

Then he walked away. Leaving me a bit stunned as I sat down. Alone. 

I think this encounter demonstrates so well what Christians often think of us singles. We are seen as a problem. Something to be avoided. Something to comment on but not someone you would actually be willing to sit with. 

Now, I am quite used to sitting alone at this point in my life. It doesn’t bother me like it once did, though every now and again I certainly feel the sting of singleness. What might always sting though, is the way I often feel like a second-class citizen in this world, and at times, in the church. 

I can hear now those that will gasp and say it isn’t true, that they wouldn’t treat someone that way. But the reality is we live in a culture, especially within the church, that prioritizes (and dare I even say idolizes) marriage. Singleness is often seen as that unfortunate period of waiting before marriage, as if your life doesn’t truly begin until you are married. 

But my life is not unfortunate. My life is full and beautiful. It is simply lived without a spouse. 

And this makes things harder. On a practical level I am living on a single income (and feeling very grateful that I get to live with a stellar roommate). I am responsible for my life and all my belongings. I have to make all decisions alone. At the end of the day it is just me. 

I am untethered. 

I am unconnected. 

There is no one who is just for me.

It’s a feeling hard to describe. Those who have lived and are living it understand. 

This is not to say I am not loved or cared for. I am, deeply. But at the end of the day it is still just me. And it’s hard. There is an ache within me that runs deep. Different seasons find that ache dull or sharp. 

I am deeply grateful for those who make space for me and my singleness. Those who quite literally weep with me when the ache is almost too sharp to bear. Those who let me complain. Those who let me be angry. Those who let me be sad. Those who let me be. Those who actually hear and bear witness to what I have to say. Those who do not try and set me up without my clear permission. 

My singleness seems to have pushed itself to the front of my thoughts recently. Singleness is clearly an aspect of my life, but that doesn’t mean it always gets a great deal of thinking time or focus. Recently I have been asked to speak on singleness and the life I lead as a single woman in the Church. And my singleness was nudged from the back of my brain forward. Then I helped a friend look at questions regarding singleness and dating in the Kingdom of God. Another nudge forward. 

Now it’s there just floating at the front of my brain, vying for time and space in the myriad of thoughts I am consistently rolling through my brain. I want to give these thoughts the time and space that they deserve. I know that I am not the only person in their late twenties trying to figure out what it means to be single, trying to navigate my place in this world and in the Church. 

The reality is that there are not a lot of answers or resources for people like me. I have found that most individuals do not want to look into the face of singleness. It is painful and uncomfortable. So they look away as they say, “it will happen when you least expect it.” Or “I bet God just has someone really special for you.” Or even “Well, do you have something in your life that you need to fix in order to be ready for a spouse?” None of that is helpful and none of it is wanted. There is simply a push to be quiet and try to get married quickly. That is the solution that is presented to me as a single 29 year old woman. And it is not fair and it is not right. 

But I am not exactly a “stay quiet” kind of woman. You can ask those that love me most. I have a thought or opinion on everything and will happily give it if given the opportunity. (So be wary if you say that you genuinely want to know what I think, I am a fan of honesty and openness.) At this point, I have plenty of thoughts and plenty to say in regards to singleness. I have taken note of the many interactions I, and my friends, have had as single people in the Church. I can see what people think beneath the surface and sometimes not so beneath the surface about what it means to be single. 

I am not a second-class citizen. Yet often I am treated as such. As my friend and I looked at the questions asked for her Dating and the Kingdom of God speaking event, someone asked how they could not feel second-class. I think the questions should really be about why we are treated as second-class and how we can make a shift on a larger scale. It should not be my responsibility to not feel like a second-class citizen and I simply should not be treated as one. And yet. 

My life experience is often not as valued as those that are married. I have sat in a variety of small groups over the years as the token single person. In one such group I didn’t speak for the first 20-30 minutes because I was not married and I was not a mom. I had nothing to contribute to the conversations they were having. And no one seemed to notice, it took awhile for someone to even remember that I was there too. That I wasn’t like them and might want to talk about something else. I have been told that I matter, that my voice matters, but the experiences I have don’t seem to match. 

And I have decided that there are times when it is not worth the effort when I am not fully accepted and heard as I am. Truthfully it is exhausting having to show up and fight to make space for myself and my life. To demonstrate to others that I have value, that I matter, that I deserve to be loved as I am. There are days when I want to fight not just for myself but for the other singles that might follow me. But it is a lonely fight, a lonely path to walk. To keep showing up to spaces that say they are for you but do not demonstrate it. To keep speaking up, knowing that you might be one of the few or only voices of the single experience that these individuals are hearing. There are many times I have grown weary. It would certainly be easier not to try. 

But I have hope. For myself and for all other singles. I have hope that we will be welcomed fully into the Church, a place that should be a home. Without ever once being thought of as less than or second-class. To be included and valued at all tables and in all spaces. 

On Easter Sunday I walked into church and was immediately overwhelmed. The sanctuary was already packed, filled to the brim with families. And I suddenly felt lonely. Here I was, a single woman, in what felt like a sea of couples and families. I sat down and sipped my coffee, hoping the service would start soon. When suddenly someone I had met only once before approached me to say hello. And then she invited me to sit with her and her husband. For the first time at a church I was invited to sit with a family. For the first time I was welcomed in as I was. Someone sought me out and included me. It was a gift. Isn’t that like God? To redeem a painful moment in church with one that heals? May we all have more moments like this moving forward.

the phoenix

Normally, I pick one word for the year. But 2024 was meant to be different I suppose, as I ended up with three.

Fire. Resurrection. Phoenix.

2023 felt like dying. I turned 29 and it seemed a downward tumble after that. There were many moments I wasn’t sure I could keep going, some moments I wasn’t sure I wanted to. I am forever grateful to those who saw and stepped in, who fought when I didn’t have it in me. They carried me long enough to find my own fight again. 

2024 didn’t fix anything. There was no automatic ‘new year, new me.’ In the midst of this one friend told me that, perhaps, 2024 was meant to be feisty, fire-y, about the fight. And another friend told me how something I had written smelled like resurrection. And that’s what I wanted, to come back to life. To be made new. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes. Letting grief and disappointment continue to deepen my empathy and influence how I want to move through the world. I was asked to rise above, to take the high road. And I was reminded, so clearly, of the sacrifices of the few for the sake of the many. 

Thirty felt like breathing again. Like I was getting to wake up from a sweat-inducing nightmare. It was not an easy breath, but one that felt like I had clawed my way towards. Resurrection wasn’t neat, there was dirt in my nails and my hair askew. Born into a new decade. Time to rediscover who Mallory is, what she loves, and who she is meant to be. 

And that’s what I sprinkled this year with. Moments that brought me joy. Activities that reminded me of what I once loved. My own resurrection. The burning away of what no longer is, of dreams long gone, iterations of me only crafted for the benefit of someone else. 

I fell in love with dancing again this year. I started dancing when I was three. Big Bird did ballet on Sesame Street and I decided I needed to as well. Then I danced for the next eleven years. While I’m sure dancing is something I loved at one point, it became something I dreaded. It certainly wasn’t my strong suit, I was far better academically. And it highlighted to me all that I hated and deemed bad about my body. There is no hiding in a leotard and tights. As I’ve looked back I’ve wondered if my lack of motivation really stemmed from growing weary by the hate for my own body. I’m inclined to think that’s the case.

My journey with dance didn’t stop then though. I took a couple classes in high school. A couple in college, one of them being the only 8 am class of my entire college career. And most importantly, I danced at camp. With silly costumes and lots of laughing, just because it was fun. Just because it was good. It’s how dancing came back to me and became something I enjoyed again. So I danced in the car and I danced in the kitchen whenever the desire struck.

A dear friend had encouraged me to take dance classes again, I had brought it up a few times. He knew I would love it if I did it again, he certainly had. And that’s precisely what I did at the start of 2024. Taking classes once a week, whenever I could, any style of dance. Dancing for the love of it, not to perform or be perfect. Dancing to move my body, to be free. I can take the stress of the week and leave it in the studio time and time again. I am amazed at what my body remembers after years and years of no formal classes. But I have been even more amazed at the beauty I have found in the mirrors of the dance studio this time around. Remembering what a gift it is that my body can move. The delight in dancing with others who are here just to be. My body is capable of far more than I have given her credit for and I’m grateful to learn this lesson. 

My love for my body deepened this year. A lot of it happened in the dance studio. Some of it happened in my therapist’s office. But perhaps the bulk of it happened in a tattoo artist’s chair. I slowly started a sleeve in March of 2021. I thought I was going in for one lamppost, but Jennifer knew I would be back. And I was. Now my whole arm tells the story of Narnia, of books that I loved as a child and love even more dearly as an adult. The art is beautiful, bringing me to tears time after time as each piece was revealed to me. I adore it. I love showing it off. But I love how it has brought healing to how I view my body. 

Sitting in that chair, talking with Jennifer, and learning about how my body has to prepare and heal from a tattoo has taught me so much. I developed tenderness and awareness for my body. A deeper desire to care for her on a grander scale. And as art was added to my body I began to see my own body as art. Thinking about how many people I have hugged, tears I have wiped away, miles I have run. My body has carried me through so much, protected me in so many instances. She is not inherently bad. She is not a problem. And she is not the enemy. Somehow, sitting with Jennifer for all those hours, I finally began to realize and let that sink in. I didn’t realize what a gift it would be to receive an arm full of tattoos, but I’m glad I decided to take the chance. To do something because it brought me joy, because it brings such color to my life. A permanent reminder of goodness, through the stories represented and the stories I’ve been able to write. 

I don’t know what my thirties will hold, not a clue what 2025 will be like. But I feel sure that so much more is coming, the new decade beckoning new beginnings. The last years of my twenties saw the death of a lot of dreams, of a number of “I thought by nows” and the hope to just have it all figured out by now. 

That’s perhaps one of the greatest tricks of adulthood. That it seems like everyone else must have it all figured out. Or at least they sure make it seem that way. We get tricked into thinking that everyone’s curated outward appearances must be the complete truth. 

There isn’t much I feel like I have figured out just yet. Thirty years honestly feels like so little time. But there are some things I feel rather sure about. I know that I am going to keep dancing. I am sure I’ll be getting more tattoos. I know that I will continue to cook and eat incredible food. I am more certain than ever of the gift of community and friends who know and love me well. I know that I am where I am meant to be right now. Where I live, where I work, where I attend church. And I am certain of how deeply loved I am. I have watched God show up this year through the people in my life time and time again. I have not been forgotten. In the midst of the grief and the fire there has certainly been One calling me into new life, calling me to rise from the ashes. So I will. Dusting myself off, passion in my eyes, and a fire within my heart. I am sure that the best is yet to come, things far better than I have ever dreamed of. 

the wilderness

This piece was written at Cenobium at Mission Chattanooga. Creatives from our church gathered to create together around a central theme, Stone. We discussed the way stone was used in the Bible and all the implications that followed. This piece is part of an anthology that is available for purchase from Mission Chattanooga.

The unraveling began three years ago. There was a loneliness and pain I’d never experienced before. I watched dream after dream die. My hand was forced as I relinquished, unwillingly, all control. I was unsure how I could survive, if I wanted to survive. 

Up until that point I’d been promised many things. I had done my part, it was time to collect. But instead of a bouquet of promises, ash was dumped into my hands. Each promise burned away. And ash is pesky, I couldn’t quite wipe my hands of it all. The residue was still there. A painful reminder of what wouldn’t be mine. 

There were a lot of tears during that winter into spring. Prayers choked out in the middle of sobs. In the midst of confusion and pain. Didn’t I do what was asked of me? Did I not follow the script well enough? Dear church, did you not promise my life would be different? 

The Church might have promised me something, but God did not promise me the same things. 

Instead, a quiet voice told me I was entering the wilderness. A word I quickly shoved away into the recesses of my mind. An idea too painful to consider in the moment, laid dormant for later. 

Here I was in the wilderness, like so many before me. I did not choose to be here. I did not want to be here. What was I supposed to be doing here anyways? How quickly can I leave this place?

There was no clear cut answer, so I did all I knew to do. And I began to just show up. Quietly, consistently, and dare I say, faithfully. It hasn’t felt like faith, it has felt absurd. To hold onto what so many would say has caused me harm. To keep going with so many questions unanswered. To walk blindly forward, unsure of where this path may take me. 

Repeatedly I have been asked why I chose to remain in the Church, this thing that seems to have caused me the greatest harm. But really it hasn’t been the Church that has inflicted pain, it has been the people. It’s true that hurt people hurt people, simply repeating the pattern they lived. 

I, however, will disrupt the narrative. 

Maybe that’s what this wilderness has been for. I have felt like a fraud. Someone going through the motions of a faithful life. All the while feeling as though I am truly a garden left fallow. 

And yet, there’s been sacred work happening. In the stillness there has been deep and meaningful reflection. And with reflection came the dying and the uprooting. The wilderness is messy. My hands have gotten dirty as I have yanked at and yanked out deeply rooted lies. Gaping holes have been left behind, a deep ache as I have burned away that which has caused me harm. The ashes, now, a beautiful reminder of what needed to die and be laid to waste. 

From the outside it might look as though I’m going through the motions. Showing up when I am supposed to. Saying what is supposed to be said. And seemingly nothing else. But I know I have been working. 

At first it seemed I had squandered my time in the wilderness. I heard a soft whisper a few months ago that it was time to leave the wilderness. And I panicked. What do I have to show for these last few years? What have I done? What have I produced? Am I even worthy to leave?

Each of these is simply the wrong question. Really, I didn’t need to ask anything, just take a faithful step forward. In the midst of this season I have been a quiet kind of faithful. Not saying or doing much. Simply showing up, in the midst of pain, joy, grief, and celebration. Loving well and with abundance. A younger version of myself might be appalled that I have called this season faithful as well, truthfully I am still uncertain if I should. I came unraveled and I have felt untethered. And yet I know there is One who holds the end of the string. One I can trust. One who has grounded me and been steady. One that I have continued to love and seek after, albeit differently than before. 

As it turned out I needed to be in the wilderness. I needed the garden of my heart to lay fallow, to be uprooted. Three years feels like a long time to be in the wilderness, to be wandering. 

And yet, so much unexpected joy has been found in all my meanderings. It has appeared in surprising places, at unexpected times, and in people I never could have imagined. My tears watered my dormant garden to make way for joy to spring forth. So often I have found that grief is the catalyst for something different and most of the time it is something better. 

Healing has happened in the wilderness. Something that could have only occurred here, when I became unraveled, stripped of what I thought was meant to be or what I felt should have been.

The promise was never for things in this world. No, the promise was for something far grander and far more true. The promise of resurrection, of death being put into reverse. A chance to live, really live. 

When I think of the resurrection I have found that I often prefer C.S. Lewis’ description. A stone table, broken in two. There’s a permanence to it, a certainty that there is no going back to what was. Death itself died that day. Death itself became unraveled. 

It may have felt like death in the midst of my garden laying fallow, but I believe new life will begin to spring forth soon. The silence wasn’t squandered. There has been rest, a chance to replenish the soil. And there has been work getting the ground ready, that time has not been wasted. When new life begins I will see all the ways I can continue to disrupt the narratives, daffodils and dahlias in hand. There is a deeper, truer strength built from the years in the wilderness. 

A friend told me once that I was set ablaze to raise hell and restoration in the world. What a better way to exit the wilderness than on fire? Like a phoenix rising from the ashes. A beacon, to be seen by all and seen as hope that the wilderness can be left. A path paved by light, with the ash of our past falling off each of us.