Father

~ Father ~

Throughout this book, when I speak of God, I most often refer to God as He.
That’s not a theological claim—it’s a reflection of my conditioning, my culture, and my habits of speech. It’s how I learned to speak about the Divine, and I’ve chosen not to edit it out because it feels true to the way I process and express my experiences.

That said, I want to be clear: I don’t believe God is necessarily a he, or a she, or even an it. I don’t pretend to know what the reality behind that word fully is—only that, in some deep and personal way, I feel connected to it. And I also recognize that all language falls short of what it tries to describe, especially when it comes to something as mysterious and infinite as God.

Still, I once heard something that gave me pause—and maybe even a little peace—about why God is often referred to as Father in the Bible and in Jewish tradition. The thought was this:

Perhaps God is called Father not because God is male,
but because the absence or wounding of a father
is one of the deepest pains in the human story.
And maybe—just maybe—that’s the place in us
that most longs to be seen, held, and redeemed.

I don’t know if that’s universally true. But it feels true enough to acknowledge.

So, as you read, I ask for grace in my use of language—and invite you to look past the pronouns toward the presence I’m trying, however imperfectly, to name.

I’ve recently been impressed with two things that I feel like God is teaching me.

1. You don’t need to be right, you need to be love.

2. When we love each other, it doesn’t make God real, it just makes him tangible.

Breakfast

~ Breakfast ~

For this next part, I’m hoping there’s enough trust between us for me to share a biblical story. This isn’t a sermon—not in the traditional sense. What I’m trying to explore here is how grace and mercy function in relationships, and maybe—just maybe—where some freedom can be found.

There’s a theology in some church spaces that teaches if you were once a Christian—however that was defined—and then you backslide, deconstruct, or fail to conform to what that church expects, you’ve somehow “lost your salvation.” I’ve felt the weight of that belief in my own life. I know others have too. And I think it’s done damage.

So this is my attempt to return to the heart of the message the church was always meant to carry. Not the shame-based version. Not the performative one. But the real thing—rooted in mercy, not measurement.

If you’ve ever been hurt by scripture or triggered by how it’s been weaponized, I get it. I’ve been there. I know how deeply it can cut when it's misused. But I want to invite you to hold on with me for just a moment, because I think there’s something in this story that might feel different. Something good. Something healing.

Matthew 26:69–75 (AMP)

69 Now Peter was sitting outside in the courtyard, and a servant-girl came up to him and said, “You too were with Jesus the Galilean.”

70 But he denied it before them all, saying, “I do not know what you are talking about.”

71 And when he had gone out to the gateway, another servant-girl saw him and she said to the bystanders, “This man was with Jesus the Nazarene.”

72 And again he denied it with an oath, “I do not know the man.”

73 After a little while the bystanders came up and said to Peter, “Surely you are one of them too; for even your Galilean accent gives you away.”

74 Then he began to curse (that is, to invoke God’s judgment on himself) and swear (an oath), “I do not know the man!” And at that moment a rooster crowed.

75 And Peter remembered the [prophetic] words of Jesus, when He had said, “Before a rooster crows, you will deny Me three times.” And he went outside and wept bitterly [in repentance].

I want to try holding two sides of something here.

I think most of us have, at some point, felt the sting of being abandoned by someone we thought was our friend. Maybe they acted like they didn’t know us. Maybe they distanced themselves for their own sake—so they wouldn’t be embarrassed, judged, or outcasted because of their association with us. Maybe they didn’t say anything at all when it counted. And in that silence, we heard the message loud and clear: you’re not worth the cost.

But if we’re being honest, I think most of us have also been on the other side.

We’ve had friends—people we genuinely love—and still found ourselves in rooms where someone started talking about them behind their back. And instead of stepping in to defend them, we stayed quiet. Maybe we even joined in. Maybe we shared something they told us in confidence, not because we didn’t care about them, but because in that moment… self-preservation felt more important.

These moments often come from the same place: the need to protect our egos. We don’t want to be associated with what others might think is “uncool” or “too much” or “broken.” Or we subtly elevate ourselves by tearing someone else down—placing ourselves on a higher rung of whatever social ladder we think we’re climbing.

And it’s human. I’ve done this. More than once.

There’s something almost magnetic about gossip, even when it’s about people we care about. There’s a strange power in distancing ourselves from others at their lowest—because doing so, in a twisted way, makes us feel a little higher. A little safer. A little more in control.

But it costs something. Every time.

Because in some sense, I think we all get caught in this cycle—sometimes as the one left behind, and sometimes as the one who stays silent or walks away. My hope is that this next section gently opens a door to another way of being. One that’s rooted in grace, not shame. Again, I’m going to try to hold both sides at once—and just see what unfolds.

John 21:1–19 (AMP)

3 Simon Peter said to them, “I am going fishing.”

They said, “We’re going with you.”

7 …Simon Peter … sprang into the sea.

9 They got out on land (the beach), they saw a fire of coals there and fish lying on it [cooking], and bread.

10 Jesus said to them, “Bring some of the fish which you have just caught.”

11 So Simon Peter went aboard and hauled the net to land, full of large fish, 153 of them…

13 Jesus came and took the bread and gave it to them, and so also with the fish.

14 This was now the third time that Jesus revealed Himself to the disciples after He had risen from the dead.

15 When they had finished breakfast, Jesus said to Simon Peter,

“Simon, son of John, do you love Me more than these [others do—with total commitment and devotion]?”

 He said to Him, “Yes, Lord; You know that I love You [with a deep, personal affection, as for a close friend].”

Jesus said to him, “Feed My lambs.”

16 Again He said to him a second time,

“Simon, son of John, do you love Me [with total commitment and devotion]?”

He said to Him, “Yes, Lord; You know that I love You [with a deep, personal affection, as for a close friend].”

Jesus said to him, “Shepherd My sheep.”

17 He said to him the third time,

“Simon, son of John, do you love Me [with a deep, personal affection for Me, as for a close friend]?”

 Peter was grieved that He asked him the third time, “Do you love Me?”

And he said to Him, “Lord, You know everything; You know that I love You [with a deep, personal affection, as for a close friend].”

Jesus said to him, “Feed My sheep.”

This part of the story is kind of funny to me. Just go with me for a second—it’s actually kind of ridiculous when you think about it.

Imagine you’ve got a friend. Not just any friend, but someone who’s really been there for you. Someone you could trust, confide in—maybe someone who even brought healing or purpose into your life. The kind of friend who shows up when no one else does. And then suddenly… people are out to get them. Like, really out to get them. Torture-and-kill kind of out to get them.

And somehow, they get caught. Arrested. Taken in.

Now you’re standing nearby, and people start looking at you and going, “Wait… aren’t you that guy’s friend?” And then, “No seriously, we’ve seen you together—you sound like him, you dress like him. We know you know him.”

And your response?

At first, it’s: “Nah, I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

Then: “You’re crazy. I have no idea who that guy is.”

And finally: “I swear on my damn life—I don’t know him. Leave me alone.”

And then the ball drops.

Something hits you in the gut. The wind gets knocked out of you.

Your friend is on their way to be executed—and you just denied knowing them to save your own skin.

In that moment of clarity, you realize what just happened. That your silence—or your betrayal—wasn't just about fear. It was about self-preservation. And it cost you something sacred.

I know this might sound like an extreme example. But this story—Peter denying Jesus—is what I would call a hyper-truth. It’s more than just historical or theological—it’s archetypal. It repeats itself in our lives all the time.

It plays out every day, sometimes subtly, sometimes loudly.

There are people all over the world—marginalized, criminalized, rejected—who are being harmed, not just by individuals, but by systems. Whether it’s racism, sexism, homophobia, xenophobia, or other forms of injustice, the betrayal isn’t just personal—it’s collective. It’s societal.

And many of us, out of fear, comfort, or wanting to stay in good standing with the group—we say nothing. We protect ourselves instead of standing by the people we say we care about. Just like Peter did.

But this story isn’t meant to shame us.

It’s meant to reveal something.

And maybe… show us a way out.

I’m not here to argue or make claims about whether Jesus was a historical figure, God incarnate, a spiritual teacher, or whether he literally rose from the dead. That’s your conclusion to come to. But the story is here. It’s been here a long time. And maybe it’s worth looking at—not as dogma, but as something that might hold a kind of truth we can learn from. Maybe even something sacred.

The story goes that after Jesus is tortured and killed, he comes back. That alone is wild, but stay with me. The part that hits me isn’t just the resurrection—it’s what he does with it.

Peter, who had spent years with Jesus—traveling with him, learning from him, experiencing the unexplainable—probably hates himself at this point. And I don’t think that’s an exaggeration. I’ve hated myself for far less than selling out a friend who loved me—let alone one who ended up nailed to a cross.

So picture this: Peter is back to fishing. Back to the only thing he knows. Because what else do you do when you’ve become a massive disappointment—not just to yourself, but probably to everyone who knows what you did?

You had this sacred bond with your people. You were part of something beautiful. And then the world turned violent. Your friend got taken. Beaten. Killed. And when it mattered most, you disappeared. Denied even knowing him. Not once. Not twice. But three times. Just to save your own skin.

How do you even show your face after that?

If I were Peter, I wouldn’t just be ashamed—I’d be terrified. Afraid that the people who once called me brother might now want nothing to do with me. Afraid they might see me as a traitor. And most of all, afraid that Jesus himself—if he really did come back—might look at me and say: You don’t belong anymore.

But that’s not what happens.

Jesus doesn’t confront Peter with anger. He doesn’t demand an apology. He doesn’t even bring up the denial directly.

Instead, Jesus finds him on the shore.

Peter’s fishing, probably lost in thought, probably replaying his mistake on a loop in his mind. Then Jesus calls out, gently, from the beach. He makes breakfast. Literal breakfast. Bread. Fish. A fire. Something about that feels so absurd and so tender it almost makes me want to cry.

And then he invites Peter to sit with him.

Can you imagine the tension in that moment? The silence? The weight?

At any second, Jesus could’ve crushed Peter. Not with words—just with a look. Just a half-second of disappointment. That’s all it would’ve taken. Peter would’ve folded in on himself. I know I would’ve.

But instead, Jesus breaks the silence with a question.

Not “Why did you do it?”

Not “How could you?”

Not “Do you realize what you cost me?”

He simply asks, “Peter… do you love me?”

Three times, Jesus asks.

Three times, Peter answers: “You know I do.”

And if Peter was anything like me, I imagine by the third time, he’s barely holding it together. Wondering, Is this a test? Is he trying to see if I’m sorry enough? Is he about to lay into me? Am I about to be disqualified?

But that’s not what happens either.

I don’t think Jesus was trying to shame him. I don’t think he was rubbing it in. I think he was restoring him. Not with a lecture. But with love. With invitation. With presence.

I imagine Jesus was saying, in his own way:

Peter, I saw you. I saw every time you denied me. I told you it would happen. I knew your fear would take over. I knew you’d shrink back. And I still love you.

You didn’t destroy what we had. You didn’t burn the bridge. You’re still mine. And more than that—I want you with me. I’m not done with you. In fact… would you help me feed people? Would you help me love them? Would you walk with me again? I miss you. And I’d love to have you back.

That’s not just a story about Peter. That’s a story about all of us.

About how, even in our worst moments—when we’ve sold out, fallen short, and disappeared from the people and values we care about the most—there is still a place at the fire. There is still breakfast waiting. There is still a voice that calls us not guilty, not disqualified, not disgusting…

…but beloved.

This… this concept doesn’t really make sense to me.

But I’m trying to keep my heart open to it.

Something about this story feels impossible. The human part of me is like—Peter didn’t deserve that kind of love. That kind of kindness. That kind of forgiveness. But that’s what Jesus does. That’s how Jesus is. This is his model for how to be in relationship with people.

Even after being left for dead by his own friend, he didn’t harbor bitterness. He didn’t return with anger or passive-aggression or withdrawal. He showed up, made breakfast, and extended love. If that’s not a miracle, I don’t know what is.

I know this won’t land with everyone. Honestly, not all of it lands with me either. Maybe there are still cracks in my heart that haven’t healed yet. Because part of me still thinks: Isn’t this bad boundary setting?

Like, bro… you left me to die. Why should I still be your friend?

Why would I even consider forgiving you? That doesn’t deserve forgiveness.

And yet… when I really sit with that, I realize most of us—maybe all of us—have done things that don’t deserve forgiveness. We’ve all, in some way, betrayed someone, abandoned someone, or wounded someone we cared about.

This story, I think, is offering us a different way. Not a naïve way. Not a codependent way. But a radically generous one. One that recognizes that being human means screwing up. Often. That mistakes aren’t flaws in the design—they’re woven into the fabric of how we grow. Mistakes are the compost. The soil. The stuff new life grows from.

I’m nowhere near perfect in my ability to forgive. I still get angry. I get hurt. I get reactive. But as I’ve been walking this path, something’s shifting. The anger doesn’t last as long. The resentment doesn’t stick quite the way it used to. I don’t justify my irritation as much. I let things go faster. And my life—my inner world—is becoming simpler. Lighter. More spacious.

I think that’s why I’m drawn to this story.

Not because I think I’ll ever fully embody it.

But because it gives me something worth aiming at.

And the more I aim toward it, the more I taste its fruit.

It’s not perfection.

But it’s peace.

It’s patience.

It’s kindness.

And that, I think, is enough for now.

Welcome. I’m truly glad you’re here.

A couple of months ago, something unexpected happened while I was working through a familiar trauma. I have Complex PTSD, and over the years, processing pain has become second nature—like routine maintenance just to stay functional. I’ve been in and out of therapy for about 14 years, and honestly, I had stopped believing that healing—real, lasting healing—was possible.

I thought therapy was just going to be a part of my life forever. Not a path to freedom, but a way to hold myself together. And maybe I will return to therapy again down the road. But this time… something shifted.

It was subtle, but profound. It felt like my nervous system came back online. For the first time in decades, I felt safe—not just in my mind, but in my body. In my core.

I hadn’t realized how long I’d been in fight-or-flight until I stepped out of it. Cognitively, I knew I’d been stuck since I was about eight years old. But this wasn’t a thought—it was a feeling. And when it landed, something inside me opened.

And then, I just started writing.

I’ve never journaled. Never written anything this personal before. But something bigger than me compelled me to start putting my story into words. And the more I wrote, the more I realized—I have a story. And maybe, just maybe, it’s one that could help someone else feel less alone.

Because that feeling—of being broken, ashamed, and isolated—is a kind of hell. I know it well. As a counselor, I’ve sat across from people who say things like, “No one really understands what I’m going through.” And while it’s true that no one can fully live another person’s life, I believe there are patterns—echoes—in our suffering. And in those echoes, we can meet each other.

So this is my offering. My attempt at connection.

My hope is that this series—Cleansing the Temple—resonates with you on a heart level. That through authenticity and vulnerability, we might find one another in the places we’ve hidden. That maybe, through story, we remember we were never as alone as we thought.

This book is the most vulnerable thing I’ve ever done.

For most of my life, I’ve hidden who I really was—not just from the world, but from myself. I believed that if people saw the truth of me, they’d reject it. That if I was fully seen, I’d be deemed unlovable. Unlikable. Unworthy.

Root—the first book in this series—is the beginning of my story. It’s where I trace back to when I first started to shut down. To disappear. It’s my attempt to be fully transparent—not because I have all the answers, but because I’ve come to believe what Brené Brown says:
“Vulnerability is the birthplace of connection.”

And I’m trying, however imperfectly, to embody that truth—for my own healing and in the hope that it might invite others to do the same.

There’s something deeply dysfunctional in the culture we live in. We spend so much of our lives trying to impress people with polished versions of ourselves—versions we’ve carefully curated for approval. But what does that leave us with?

A gap.

A wide, aching gap between the image we present and the person we actually are.

Have you ever felt lonely, even in a room full of people?
I wonder if it’s because those people don’t really see you.
Maybe it’s not their fault.
Maybe we never gave them the chance.

Because here’s the paradox: the love we long for can only touch us if we’re willing to show up without the mask. But most of us don’t. So even when we’re validated, affirmed, admired—it doesn’t reach us. Because it’s aimed at the mask. Not us.

No wonder it doesn’t heal.

So this is my offering—my attempt to show up without the mask. Not as a performance, but as a practice.
Of honesty.
Of connection.
Of hope.

I don’t know where this will lead. But I do know that living behind a mask nearly destroyed me. And this—this act of telling the truth—is saving me.

If any part of you recognizes yourself in these words, I want you to know:
You’re not alone.
You never were.

And maybe, just maybe, your truth is exactly what someone else is waiting to see.

I’m not entirely sure what this will evolve into—but I have a feeling, and a quiet hope, that a community might form around it. A community rooted in safety, trust, and real connection. One where we can be seen—not for who we think we should be, but for who we are.

If you’ve found your way here, I’d love to hear from you. Truly.
I don’t have all the answers, but I am trying to offer something that we all need—hope.

Hope that even when pain is ever-present, it’s not pointless.
Hope that the suffering we carry might actually be building something sacred within us.
That maybe pain is the fertilizer for our growth.

Maybe it’s not meaningless after all, even if we can’t see the purpose in the moment.

I want to stand with you in that place—in the process. Even when the movement is slow. Even when it feels like there’s no end in sight. I know what it’s like to long for someone to simply be there. And so, I’m trying to be the person I needed when I was younger—for you, and for anyone else who finds these words.

I hope something here helps.
I hope it meets you in a quiet, honest place.
And I hope to connect with you along the way.

Thank you for reading.
I love you.