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This morning, I published one of the most personal stories I have written.
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At six years old, I climbed to the top of the monkey bars during recess and began preaching the sermon I had heard the Sunday before. Three boys climbed up with me. They listened. They asked questions. And, of course, me being me, I answered every one of them.
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I did not know yet that, in the churches I knew as a child, the most visible preaching roles belonged almost entirely to men. I only knew I had something to say, the boys were listening, and the top of those monkey bars looked like a perfectly good pulpit.
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The Pulpit on the Monkey Bars is about the Pentecostal church that raised me, the grandfather who made room for me, and the women who carried churches while someone else’s name remained on the sign.
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Some stories ask us to honor what formed us while still telling the truth about what limited us.
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I can love Papa and still question the system in which he preached.
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Love does not require silence.
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Maybe that little girl on the monkey bars understood something the adults had forgotten.
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Women do not become leaders when an institution finally gives them permission. They were leading all along.
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As you move into this week, I hope you will notice the women already leading around you. Who is carrying responsibility without the title, authority, or recognition?
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Make room. Say her name. Let her use her voice.
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