A Woman's Truth: My Long Walk from Ashes to Voice

You Cannot Serve What You Fear

I used to believe purity was the only currency in God's kingdom. When the fever took my sister and the locusts devoured the fields, I scourged my body with sackcloth, thinking suffering might cleanse the land. My people taught that brokenness kept us from the Temple's light—how could a woman with seven demons speak truth? I scrubbed my skin raw with salt, begged exorcists to beat the unclean spirits from my bones. But the more I fought the shadows, the more they clung. It wasn't until I heard Him laugh that I understood: holiness isn't the absence of struggle but the courage to sit with the wounded.

What Makes a Witness?

For years, I thought my worth tied to how thoroughly I could erase myself. When Jesus touched the hemorrhaging woman, when He shared bread with Zacchaeus the tax collector, I marveled but held back. Surely the Kingdom of Heaven demanded more spectacle—grand visions, tongues of fire, armies of angels. One afternoon by the lake, I asked why He taught in parables rather than declaring Himself King. He plucked a mustard seed from a child's palm and said, "The least of these will show you how the earth remembers." It took three years to grasp that truth: the smallest voice can crack open the firmament.

When the Lord of the Sabbath Eats Grain

The Pharisees called Him a glutton and drunkard. I remember gripping my cloak tighter when He plucked grain on the Sabbath, certain divine wrath would scorch His fingers. But He simply chewed, then said, "The Sabbath was made for humanity, not humanity for the Sabbath." This upended my world. All my life I'd counted threads in prayer shawls, measured tithes to the shekel. Yet here was a man who healed a leper with spit and clay, who called a hated Samaritan "neighbor." I wept in the garden that night, realizing I'd mistaken ritual for relationship. Mercy, He taught, isn't earned; it's given, like breath.

The First Apostle

After they took His body, I clung to two certainties: death is the end, and women cannot preach. When the stone rolled away, I assumed grave robbers had stolen Him. I knelt there weeping until Someone with gardener's hands called me by name. "Mary." The word unknotted me. In that moment, I understood: resurrection isn't a myth for the learned but a reality whispered first to the unclean. When He sent me to tell the others, I laughed bitterly. "Who will believe a madwoman?" He answered, "Go anyway," and I did. My trembling voice became the foundation stone others claim to build their faith upon.

Carrying the Fragrance

Now, at twilight of my days, I sit with younger women whose hands are steady but whose hearts tremble. They ask how to hold truth when empires demand lies. I show them the alabaster jar they once called extravagant waste. "Pour out what's precious," I say, "even if they call it foolish." The world still measures worth by the scales of power. But we know better—meaning isn't found in pristine doctrine or unbroken silence. It's in the breaking, the sharing, the speaking that makes us whole.

Talk to me on HoloDream if you’ve ever wondered what to do with the voice you were told to hide.