Editor’s note: This article is a 2024 CBE Writing Contest honorable mention. Enjoy!
I stood at the edge of the grave, watching with horror as the casket was gently lowered, and my mind exploded with the realisation that surely my daughter’s too-short life is not all there is. It was in that moment that I felt the power of God, and, at the same time, bereft of life without God. This was our eighteen-year-old daughter, Melanie, who was suddenly killed as a result of a car accident. In that instant I could hear the voices of angels through the wailing and the grief; I could hear their voices echoing thoughts of strength and hope mixed with feelings of utter despair that God had truly abandoned us. Melanie was dead and we couldn’t endure a life without her.
As a mother, part of me had died— Melanie remained part of my being, part of my soul. Memories of her first movement deep within me, like a spirit slowly waking, churned. As she birthed through a world of echoes into life and love, Melanie’s full self began to unfurl. The preciousness of Melanie’s life reflected in her love for those around her. Her joy manifested through dance, her creativity budded through music, her soul cherished through faith.
To honour our memories of Melanie, our family gradually struggled to fit the pieces together of a new life. My heart bled because I was powerless to take away the grief from her brother, sister, and dad. Somehow, as the days, months, and years unfolded, we crawled through a life where grief and sadness were always lurking. We managed to support each other through a life of lament. The feelings of regret for an unfulfilled life seeped ever further into our being, so much so that we found ourselves carrying the invisible agony of grief on our backs— such heaviness to bear. The obliteration of the life we cherished together and apart seemed so hard to imagine. We couldn’t envisage the life before us and we wished we could remember every detail of the life that was behind us. The life we were living was so unutterably difficult.
Woven through this new life, the light of God flickered and unexpected acts of love lit the way through the fog. My questions were difficult to answer. I knew that God had not abandoned me—I could see his face in the faces of those that loved us and encouraged us. I found myself perpetually trying to understand the new way that I had to live. Somehow I recognised the world differently. Stories of humanity that I’d previously glossed over sank deep within me. The heart-language I gradually learned to speak and think touched crevasses I didn’t know my soul had. Was God teaching me a new way of speaking? Was I learning a new way of listening?
As I learnt this new language, I gradually became aware of the role of women in the church. My heart ached to hear this new language from the pulpit. I often found my mind wandering to language that women would connect with; I yearned to hear the gospel as it related to women’s stories of loss and struggle. My mind endlessly asked questions—but what about the women? Where are they, and how do they tell the gospel story? Unanswered questions reverberated as I tried to make sense of this new way of knowing. I felt the echo of silence so strongly, and yet the voice I heard speak strength and hope at Mel’s grave didn’t go away.
Slowly and tentatively, a picture started emerging in my soul— I can only describe it as the Holy Spirit stirring deep within me. I saw a place within my church where women who have experienced domestic violence, sexual abuse, and single motherhood could come and be heard: a dedicated ministry for women where sermon voices included women’s voices.
As my embryonic ideas grew deep within, I began to understand that this calling was the essence of being human. I knew this because I had touched that essence of humanity many times through my life journey. I knew that there was nothing that could extract that conviction from me. I realised that perhaps my story could include explaining God’s story in a way that speaks to women who needed to hear God’s stories of respect, love, freedom from oppression, equality, and unconditional love.
Alongside this state of being, I felt so vividly the concept of exclusion and realised that, just as Jesus’s practice of inclusion defeated exclusion, so too my church had the same opportunity. It can’t possibly be that a woman who is called to preach is excluded from fulfilling that call. That would mean that the church is excluding a call from God. This is unimaginable.
Soon, my church will vote on a framework that enables the ordination of women. And there I will be too, standing with women of infinite stories and journeys, to arrive at this place, weary and worn from the battle of life and exclusion. These women have learned a language of humanity that has shaped and formed their response to faith and God’s calling.
I found myself asking that if Mel had not died, would I have reached the depth of humanity where I now live? Would the calling that has come from God have had the space to be nurtured? As my mind churns with this polarity of thinking—trading devastating life loss with a call—I realise that there are no answers to my questions. Yet—here we are, Lord.
Editor’s note: At the time of writing, August 2024, Libby’s church had not yet voted on the ordination of women. As of this publication, her church has approved of women’s ordination. Thank you, Jesus!
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