Michelle F. Morrow

When we were dating long-distance, my wife suggested we exchange four books that were important to us as a fun way of getting to know each other.  One of the books she sent me was Rachel Held Evans’ Evolving in Monkey Town. Though I had heard of Rachel and had read quotes used by others I followed, I hadn’t read any of her work yet. I was immediately captivated, and as I read, I imagined Rachel writing from some cozy study in her home just a couple of hours away from where the woman I was falling in love with mailed me the book.

Rachel’s witty and vulnerable storytelling hooked me. I started listening to podcasts she’d been on, watching videos of her, and following her on social media. I resonated with so much of her journey, the questions she was asking, and her hopes for faith communities shaped by Jesus. Rachel quickly became a hero of mine, especially because of the way she put herself on the line as she advocated for LGBTQ inclusion.

One of Rachel’s gifts was the way she saw those of us who had been marginalized or excluded from our faith communities. Rachel’s journey included the shaping of her prophetic imagination: she became a seer. She’s quoted as saying, “I thought God wanted to use me to show gay people how to be straight. Instead, God used gay people to show me how to be Christian.” As she encountered queer folks, she learned to see our image-bearing beauty and gifts. She looked us in the eye, and she bore witness to the suffering we experience, especially at the hands of non-affirming Christians and churches. She got in the trenches with us, risking attack alongside us. She was a true ally.

In 2019, my wife and I were planning to move back to my wife’s home state of Tennessee. We had recently left the church I had invested in for a decade because we could no longer bear the exclusion we experienced there as a gay couple. We were devastated, and needed a place where we could heal. I fantasized about meeting and getting to know Rachel. We’d be so close. I wanted to sit across a table from her, sipping coffee, and feel what I felt when I read her work or listened to her speak. I wanted her to see me, to listen to my journey, and to validate all the feelings that had been dismissed or minimized or made invisible by the church that was supposed to love and care for me.

Shortly, before we finalized our plans to move, we heard Rachel had gone to the hospital. I thought about her constantly during those days, and I felt a sinking feeling. When I heard she died, it was as if I was hearing that a close friend had died. I felt sick. I felt a grief that filled me up and stretched out as if it would touch the whole world. I needed her. The world needed her. She was creating change, making the world a better place.

My wife and I made a trip out to Tennessee to scout out places to live ahead of our move. When we arrived, we heard that Rachel’s funeral was scheduled  during our time there and that guests were welcome. We drove to Chattanooga and attended the service. We held hands and wept.

Every few months I feel an ache in my heart and a tightening in my stomach, and I realize I’m missing her voice in this world. So I’ll play a podcast or watch a video just to hear her voice. Her humor and chuckle, her generosity and imagination, her questions and exploration, her frustration and lament. I usually cry. I sometimes smile. I always take a deep breath and try to touch the hope she made me feel.

She’s been gone five years. I miss living in a world where she is writing in the place I imagined as I read one of her books for the first time. Though my wife and I no longer live in Tennessee, we have talked about planning a trip to visit Rachel’s hometown. To be in the place where she was. To feel closer to her. To say thank you to her for helping us feel seen and valued. #RememberingRHE