Second Anniversary - a conversation with a church

 Two years.

Two years you have stood beside me
through thick and thin—
through tears,
through rage,
through despair,
through rain and cold.

You were constant.

When I had nowhere to go,
you opened your doors.

When he left me
with nothing but the street beneath my feet,
you gave me shelter.

And so many days
I sat in your light and presence—
resting,
dreaming,
praying,
wishing,
hoping for better.

So many days
I came to you carrying
what he had done to me.

I cried beneath your roof.
I sat in silence.
I tried to gather myself
piece by piece.

And you saw me.

You saw me in all my weathers—
in the rain and the cold,
in the fury and the fear,
in despair,
in hope,
in all the broken states
a person can be.

You were there.

For two years,
you were part of my life.

And I will miss you.

I will miss the familiar light,
the quiet,
the shelter,
the people who gathered around you.
I will miss the feeling
of having somewhere to go.

But there comes a time
when even a sanctuary
can no longer be home.

Because beyond your walls,
those who should have stood for what was right
chose to uphold him.

And I cannot remain
where his shadow
is given a place above my truth.

So this is our second anniversary.

And it is also goodbye.

Not because you failed to shelter me—
you did.

Not because I am ungrateful—
I am not.

But because I cannot stay
where the institution
has chosen him.

So I leave you
with grief in my heart
and gratitude in my hands.

You were there
when I had nowhere else to go.

You sheltered me
when I was left out in the cold.

You saw me.

And for that,
I will always remember you.

But now—

I am letting you go.