Don't Call Me an Evangelical. I Follow Christ.
I can’t feel my face. I kept poking my cheek and I couldn’t feel it. When my alarm rang Wednesday morning, I fought against waking up; being unconscious was much safer. Finally sitting up, I poked my cheek again. I still can’t feel my face. Went through the motions of the day, head in a fog of thoughts. You are unsafe. You are a white, single woman and you are unsafe. Your friends aren’t safe — Iranian, Indian, Hispanic. My beautiful friends are unsafe. Unsafe. Unsafe. Unsafe. Helpless. Helpless. Helpless. Angry. Angry. Angry. I yelled at God; told Him we weren’t on speaking terms right now.
I called my parents at lunch and poured my pain into the phone. I thought we were moving forward. I thought we would have a woman president. I thought that if I worked hard and was a great engineer, I would be given a square deal and maybe I was imagining the subtle sexism at work, right?
I got home and curled on the couch in the hug of a heated blanket. I cried. God where are you? And I knew. He was crying too. His supposed people had sold him out. They sold their souls for power. Do not call me an evangelical. I follow Christ.