The Sanctuary and The Space Between

Claimed Twice: Two Years Later

Two years ago today, I was baptized. 💛 I remember the water, the hush of the sanctuary, the sense that I was finally stepping fully into something bigger than myself. I felt claimed, loved, and alive in a way I hadn’t before.

Part I: The Sanctuary Stage

I have so many beautiful and sacred memories of the church I got baptised at. The pastor we had at the time would allow me to hang out in the sanctuary while I waited to walk over for my MMA class at the dojo next door. I remember standing on the stage, singing my heart out, sometimes imagining Coach Erin—the one who would later break me—in the audience. Every note I sang felt like it was meant for her. I remember the first time I ever went to that church, 18 years old, performing ballet with the Vision Academy Community Award troupe to If Wishes Had Wings while the worship team sang. Using my God-given gift in that sacred space felt magical. Even the day I had a seizure in the sanctuary, I wasn’t scared. I felt calm, peaceful, completely held in His presence. That space was sacred. That space was home.

I realise now that I was always living,  “in the space between, where two worlds come to meet”, between who I was and who I was becoming, learning to belong in both God’s presence and my own unfolding identity.

Part II: The Shift

And yet, here I am, two years later, and it feels different. The closeness I once felt with Jesus has thinned to almost a whisper. The church I loved has changed in ways that cut me to the core. Friends I trusted are gone. Leaders I looked up to now clash, splitting the community into factions. I go to one side and feel the sting of judgment in sideways glances. I go to the other, and I feel like a stranger in a religion I don’t belong to. 

Part III: The Gut Punch

Our previous Pastor retired in the summer of 2024 and along came our new pastor. Our lead singer on the worship team was chosen but with her new found position came changes and rules that alienated not only myself, but other members of the church. For me it meant my time hanging out in the sanctuary was over. “Conference rules,” she said. That moment broke me. It wasn’t just a rule—it was a gut punch, the closing of a door I thought would always be open.

Being removed from the worship team broke me too. “Focus on academics,” they told me. Two people were responsible, and yet both tell me different stories about who made the decision. I don’t believe either of them, because I know both are lying. That betrayal stings in a way I can’t neatly articulate—a sense that I was no longer seen, no longer trusted, no longer part of the community I poured my heart into.

Even in this distance, I remind myself that “even if we’re worlds apart / you’re still in my heart.” That truth, however faint, gives me hope that connection and love are not fully lost. 

Part IV: Feeling Lost

Sometimes I wonder if Jesus has abandoned me. I know, rationally, He hasn’t. But I feel it—in the quiet, the distance, the emptiness where His voice used to be. I feel like a shell of who I was before, a faint echo of the girl who once wandered freely, claimed and whole.

Even so, I try to hold onto “I’ll never be out of reach / ’cause you’re a part of me.” It’s a reminder that the bond, the sacred claim on my life, endures—even when I can’t feel it.

Part V: Finding Safe Spaces

And yet…life keeps moving. Jiujitsu and judo class feel like home. Even when I’m being rolled over by someone better than me, when my body is challenged and hammered, I belong there. I am alive in that space. I am strong. I am myself.

I’ve found other pockets of sanctuary too: Queer Christian Fellowship. QCF is the only place I can be myself completely, where rainbow and lesbian flag colors aren’t just accepted—they’re celebrated. I can declare who I am without fear, without hesitation. This year, I promised myself I would connect with people and make friends—and I did. I met Curtis, my close friend and the one I share all my NDA tea with. For three days each year, I feel whole.

And there, too, I find myself “in the space between, where two worlds come to meet.” It is the intersection of faith and identity, joy and fear, belonging and growing.

Part VI: Loving My Body, Telling My Story

Two years later, I love my body more, despite all the challenges I face. I got a wheelchair, and I use it confidently. I am using TikTok as a platform to share my story, and I’ve had people tell me they love my videos and that they feel less alone. These little victories remind me that even when the world feels unsafe, I can carve out spaces where I belong and inspire others while doing it.

Part VII: Tension and Fear

But even joy is tinged with fear. I see the news, the political attacks on the LGBTQ+ community. I feel the weight of the world telling me that being myself is suddenly unsafe. And I carry that tension with me back into my everyday life, where most places are not safe, not affirming, not fully mine.

Part VIII: Honouring the Journey

Today, on Lesbian Visibility Day 🏳️‍🌈, I honor that tension. I honor being seen, even when it’s messy, even when it’s frightening. I honor the parts of me that are alive, resilient, and unbroken, even when my spiritual life feels paused. I honor the courage it takes to keep showing up for myself and my faith, even when it hurts, even when it’s confusing.

Two years after baptism, I am here. Not fully whole. Not fully heard. But still present. Still searching. Still visible. Still me. And maybe, in the quiet, in the waiting, in the messy in-between, that is enough.