Hello friends and happy new year!
Some of you may have ended up here because of a fiery newsletter I wrote last week with my reflections on 1.6.21 and Christian nationalism. I’d prefer to never stir pots, to let them simmer quietly and unassumingly. But occasionally things reach a boiling point and words bubble over.
Writing is such a soul-exposing practice. We write and write and start noticing things and start writing on the things we notice. But sometimes the things we notice aren’t discernible to others. We think: “it’s so obvious, why can’t you see it?” and they think: “why can’t you leave well enough alone? Why do you have to be a pot stirrer?”
Some writers I admire refer to digital spaces as their living rooms, communal margins where beauty can flourish and tough conversations can be held and perspectives can even be altered or changed. I haven’t stepped foot in many living rooms since the start of the pandemic. But I’ve found myself in many welcoming digital rooms that embody the kind of hospitality that can actually make a difference.
This is what I hope for in my own digital footprint; that even in prophetic writing or the voicing of uncomfortable truths, in the tension of grace and honesty, that we would remember behind every screen is a living, breathing, image-bearing human.
If you were in my home, I’d grind some freshly roasted beans and offer you pour-over coffee in mismatching ceramic mugs. I’d probably make a batch of sourdough cinnamon rolls. I’d ask you to share your story. I’d ask about your favorite books. I’d ask if you prefer to drink your coffee black or with cream and sugar. I’d ask about the things that lift your soul and propel you forward.
I may not be able to have you over right now, but I still want to know you. I want to welcome you to my digital table, to invite you to introduce yourself here by commenting or e-mailing or sending a message via Instagram. I always try to respond to every message, to let you know your words aren’t lost in some digital abyss but are read, even prayed over.
Moving Forward
When I started this Substack, I didn’t know if anyone would read it. I did a poor job of advertising The Bread Box because I felt embarrassed to ask already overly-subscribed folks to subscribe to yet another newsletter. My goal was simply to write weekly. But writing eventually became a method of seeking and working out my own understanding of faith, doubt, and everything in between. It became far more than random musings.
In her book Inspired, Rachel Held Evans talks about the overwhelming doubt and questions that nearly obliterated her faith, and how she eventually challenged God to meet her in the wilderness.
She writes, “I am indebted to those who have gone before me, those saints of holy curiosity whose lives of faithful questioning taught me not to fear my doubts, but to embrace and learn from them” and “...I brought my whole self into the wilderness with God—no faking, no halfway. And there we wrestled.”
I had never read anything by Rachel Held Evans until this month. But as I made my way through her beautiful book I was hit with my own similar story, my own conversations with God, my own wrestling and wilderness-wandering.
I want to continue fueling holy curiosity in this space. But I also want to step back just a bit, to commandeer your inboxes less frequently and give myself a little more time to write and delve and think and research. I plan to send out my next Substack letter on January 28. And moving forward, will write on the first and third Fridays of each month.
Writers need readers. And you all have been my faithful readers for months now on Substack and Instagram and with my few published pieces.
I’m so grateful, and look forward to continuing to write for you in this new year.
Glad to have found you. Love your writing goals. Appreciate your welcoming space.
As a fellow writer also looking to start a Substack soon, this is so encouraging to read. Thank you!