“We Call Her Sacred, Still”

They told us

God was a man

with a beard,

a throne,

and rules

that hurt us.

But we

have met the divine

in other forms.

We’ve seen her

in grandmothers who bless with their hands,

in lovers who kiss with care,

in birth,

in grief,

in moonlight

that doesn’t ask you to believe

—just feel.

She is not confined

to pews

or pulpits.

She rises from soup pots,

from protest chants,

from the silence between contractions

when life is being pushed

into the world.

Our god is not angry.

She is tired.

Of being erased.

Of being dressed in obedience

and made to whisper.

She speaks now

in wind,

in fire,

in women who do not flinch

when they say no.

We’ve built altars

in our homes—

on bathroom mirrors,

on nightstands,

in notebooks

where we dared

to write ourselves holy.

Our prayers don’t rhyme.

They weep.

They roar.

They ask not for salvation—

but for space.

We do not kneel.

We gather.

We hold each other’s hands

and call it liturgy.

We light candles

for rage

and forgiveness

in the same breath.

This is the gospel

we write now—

where softness is sacred,

and no one is damned

for choosing themselves.

Where the divine lives

in our defiance

and our healing

alike.

She was never gone.

They just stopped

looking.