my body, the body

This piece was written for Mission Chattanooga's 2025 Cenobium. The theme was Tabernacle.

I sit here and wonder, has there ever been a moment I fully loved my body. And then I wonder if there has ever been a time I have fully loved the other body I belong to. One body I am stuck with, no choice in the matter. This is the flesh I have been given to live out my days. The other? Apparently I am far too stubborn to give up on the body of Christ just yet. It would certainly be easier to walk away. I’ve been asked repeatedly by those on the outside looking in why I haven’t moved on. I find it hard to articulate at times. But I know enough, I have seen enough to know that it is this broken body I belong to. Both of them really, these two broken bodies that are wholly mine and wholly a signpost to more. Parallel lines, parallel journeys out of the dark, being beckoned to the light, to a wholeness I could not possibly obtain on my own. And for this, I am grateful. 

As I came of age in this body I came of age in the church. In my youth I did not learn to love my body and I did not learn to love the church. I find this easy to admit, it is simply the truth, my lived experience. I have made peace with each of these things separately but perhaps they are far more intertwined than I thought. Two bodies in which I had no peace. Two bodies I could not leave, though I certainly tried. But here I remain, in this body and within the body of Christ. 

Unsurprisingly I have met God in both. I say this now, of course, with the gift of hindsight and life lived. What surprises me now is this parallel journey of healing I embarked on without ever realizing. As I have learned to love and honor my body I have learned to love and honor the body God has crafted. The divine and the ordinary are constantly colliding. When Christ died and the veil was torn the cosmic disruption began anew. A turning point. God went from dwelling in one sacred place to dwelling in many places that became sacred. 

My turning point came in college when my places of pain became the places I found wholeness again. I had encountered the love of God and became so stubbornly sure of how it was true for me. It was here that I dug my heels in and decided to stay, come what may, both in this body and within the church. As I grew up I had heard that all people bore the image of God but I never contemplated what that meant. For myself or for those I regularly encountered. 

But something shifted in my understanding, which is by no means complete. If I bear the image of God, I must matter to God. And others must matter to God. Imago dei became the path back to myself and back to a body of believers. Theology of the body has been the gateway back to myself, and as I’m realizing, back to the church. God is reconciling my body back to me. Reconciling his body of believers back to me. All while reconciling all things back to Him. These are gifts I want to receive. I cup my hands for the body and blood of Christ. I cup my hands as I am coming back to wholeness, ready to receive this as well. 

My faithful stubbornness has served me well. I have been so sure that some of what has been said to me and about me couldn’t be true. So I kept showing up, I kept leaning in. And I have been rewarded. In my uncertainty and pain God has met me, repeatedly, consistently without fail. Perhaps because God is within me, within those around me. I, we, bear the image of God. I, we, contain the Spirit of God. A sacred thing to be sure. An ordinary thing to be sure. We’ve been made, we’ve been met, we’ve been filled. And in my tabernacling, I have been found, been held steady and safe. 

A place was found, the tabernacle was assembled, God’s presence rested, God’s presence left, the tabernacle was disassembled, and a new place was found. And so it is true of my life. A time and place was found to be in need, Mallory was assembled, God’s presence rested. And then God’s presence was needed somewhere else, my body carrying me there. What a wild and beautiful thought that perhaps, perhaps, I was indeed created uniquely for the time and spaces I get to occupy. Much like Esther, I am for such a time as this. 

I once said that becoming a theologian might have been for the purpose of rewriting the narrative of my youth, to provide a different story for those that follow. My willingness to bare myself is rooted in the belief that saying the true, even difficult things out loud, is freeing for me and freeing for someone who feels it is just them. 

I hated my body. There are days I still hate my body. This will be a conversation I think I will have all of my days. I have hated the body of Christ. There are days I am still deeply frustrated by the body of Christ. Within the body of Christ is where I learned to hate my body and the people I was surrounded by, honestly it is laughable to consider these clear parallels now. 

I have spent a tremendous amount of time and energy trying to change my body. With regret I reflect on the myriad of ways I have caused her harm. She did not ask for or deserve these things. I was given a tabernacle and I desecrated her. I inflicted harm upon her, I withheld food, and I have spoken harshly. At the time I was unaware she could be sacred, that she could matter. But she does. Deeply. Christ came with a body. God declared humans good in the garden. There were so many signposts I missed that indicated that my body was good. There were too many other voices given priority in my ears and mind. But now I see them for what they are. Perceive them for the lies they spew. For this, I thank God.

My tabernacle was in transit for quite some time. Unsure if there would ever be a place to rest again. Unclear if there would be a reason to reassemble in order for the presence of God to descend. But it seems as though the time has come, the unfolding beginning. Art carefully added to tapestries, color coming in when needed most. I would have thought that this healing would have come when I was in a distinctly Christian space. While I worked at a summer camp, when I was in seminary, or something that was clearly set apart. Isn’t that like God though? To remind us that the place of meeting is not always what we expect. That God truly can be found anywhere, that his people exist in places we often forget about. 

I could not find healing at camp. There I was cheered on for my weight loss, how it improved my appearance. My perception being that they thought this improved my character as well. My body was smaller, the amount of space I took up was smaller. And to be fair, there were certainly those that probably wished I took up less space, that I would say less and be less. After all, it was not a woman’s place to speak out so boldly and so often. There was fear I would get big ideas heading to seminary but only God ever gave me grand ideas and a mind whirling at a break neck pace. My apologies, I suppose, to the male egos I impacted along the way. 

Seminary was a stepping stone. Here the intersection of reconciling my body and reconciling the body is perhaps seen more clearly. My obsessive calorie counting lessened as I leaned into studying theology of the body. As I gained a community that was far more accepting and compassionate, more people were allowed a seat at the table here. What I didn’t see then, what I didn’t realize until I was far removed was how deep the pain ran. Scars invisible but deep in my mind and heart of what the body of Christ has said about who belongs and who can speak. The way the Word of God was weaponized and used to cause immense harm. Church and the bible feeling unsafe, a painful thing for a woman so certain of the love of God. 

No, it wasn’t until this tabernacle, tattered and worn, was set up in a prison to work that wholeness and healing could really come to be. Tools gathered along the journey to be sure, but the repairing was done in the most unlikely of places. And truly this is like God, the place people shun and forget about being the place where God is most comfortable to do good work. God is not afraid of the dirt and the mess, some of his best work done here. As I interact with these men, who do not have full agency over their bodies, I have discovered the gift and beauty of my own body. In this season I have wrestled more with what it means to have a body and why my thoughts about this body matter. 

I have been forced to wrestle with my thoughts on the body of Christ. You see, my tabernacle is decidedly out of place here. Not necessarily because I do not belong but because it doesn’t seem like the others. Maybe a faith that has been hard fought for is not common here, one that is stubborn. But here I am all the same. My life and my beliefs are reflected back to me by men who only get a glimpse. They question, they prod, and they try to figure me out. None of them have. But as they have wrestled with who I am, I have wrestled with the same question. And I have wrestled with God. Wondering what this tabernacle is for and where it will go. And though I have been awakened to deep scars and pains, I have also been assured of a deep knowledge and peace of the true things. And this will have been worth it.

My body is good. I do not hate her as frequently as I once did. I have grown fond of her, I can even dare to call out her beauty some days. What was taken from me, God has given back. God has enabled me to be reconciled with this flesh I inhabit. She is capable of far more than I ever thought possible. This flesh and this heart carrying more strength than my imagination could muster. As I believe these things to be true more and more, I get to reflect it to those around me. I inflicted harm upon myself. Daily I am surrounded by those that inflicted harm upon others. My body has been made good. Their bodies have been made good. The narrative is changing for me and for those around me. And this, truly, has been worth all the pains it cost. 

As for the body of Christ, I have decided she is worth the fight. She is messy and painful but it is not over for her. I do not know what will come, what pains will be faced but as I look to the horizon I am certain of a day coming when all will be made well. God has met me here too many times for me to be convinced otherwise. I have often looked into the eyes of another and been certain it is God peering back at me, for a mere moment, appearing in the tabernacles around me. The work is not finished, but the work is in progress. I was uncertain of this for a while, but if it is true for me it must be true for others. I am willing to wade into the murky waters for others because it has been done for me. Besides, we have these neighboring tabernacles. There is a reflection of God I do not want to miss in this moment that only they can provide. 

I cannot decide if I think the fog is beginning to dissipate. But I do feel sure that when it is time for the tabernacle to move it will be in a better condition than when it arrived here. Far more vibrant, healing has brought colorful patchwork and design. There is also now a community that is present for me to discern the time to move and be hands to facilitate the move. What a beautiful gift. All these little tabernacles near one another, ready to support when needed. Each is unique and necessary. Each a bit worn and frayed. But each imbued with the spirit of God, each a beacon of hope in the midst of this brokenness. 

oh that won't do

I had quietly snuck into the sanctuary after the service had started. This particular morning I was a greeter at the welcome table. I came in late, thinking nothing of it. Until we passed the peace.

An older gentleman, who I had never seen before, came to shake my hand and pass the peace. 

“You’re sitting alone? Oh, that won’t do.” 

Then he walked away. Leaving me a bit stunned as I sat down. Alone. 

I think this encounter demonstrates so well what Christians often think of us singles. We are seen as a problem. Something to be avoided. Something to comment on but not someone you would actually be willing to sit with. 

Now, I am quite used to sitting alone at this point in my life. It doesn’t bother me like it once did, though every now and again I certainly feel the sting of singleness. What might always sting though, is the way I often feel like a second-class citizen in this world, and at times, in the church. 

I can hear now those that will gasp and say it isn’t true, that they wouldn’t treat someone that way. But the reality is we live in a culture, especially within the church, that prioritizes (and dare I even say idolizes) marriage. Singleness is often seen as that unfortunate period of waiting before marriage, as if your life doesn’t truly begin until you are married. 

But my life is not unfortunate. My life is full and beautiful. It is simply lived without a spouse. 

And this makes things harder. On a practical level I am living on a single income (and feeling very grateful that I get to live with a stellar roommate). I am responsible for my life and all my belongings. I have to make all decisions alone. At the end of the day it is just me. 

I am untethered. 

I am unconnected. 

There is no one who is just for me.

It’s a feeling hard to describe. Those who have lived and are living it understand. 

This is not to say I am not loved or cared for. I am, deeply. But at the end of the day it is still just me. And it’s hard. There is an ache within me that runs deep. Different seasons find that ache dull or sharp. 

I am deeply grateful for those who make space for me and my singleness. Those who quite literally weep with me when the ache is almost too sharp to bear. Those who let me complain. Those who let me be angry. Those who let me be sad. Those who let me be. Those who actually hear and bear witness to what I have to say. Those who do not try and set me up without my clear permission. 

My singleness seems to have pushed itself to the front of my thoughts recently. Singleness is clearly an aspect of my life, but that doesn’t mean it always gets a great deal of thinking time or focus. Recently I have been asked to speak on singleness and the life I lead as a single woman in the Church. And my singleness was nudged from the back of my brain forward. Then I helped a friend look at questions regarding singleness and dating in the Kingdom of God. Another nudge forward. 

Now it’s there just floating at the front of my brain, vying for time and space in the myriad of thoughts I am consistently rolling through my brain. I want to give these thoughts the time and space that they deserve. I know that I am not the only person in their late twenties trying to figure out what it means to be single, trying to navigate my place in this world and in the Church. 

The reality is that there are not a lot of answers or resources for people like me. I have found that most individuals do not want to look into the face of singleness. It is painful and uncomfortable. So they look away as they say, “it will happen when you least expect it.” Or “I bet God just has someone really special for you.” Or even “Well, do you have something in your life that you need to fix in order to be ready for a spouse?” None of that is helpful and none of it is wanted. There is simply a push to be quiet and try to get married quickly. That is the solution that is presented to me as a single 29 year old woman. And it is not fair and it is not right. 

But I am not exactly a “stay quiet” kind of woman. You can ask those that love me most. I have a thought or opinion on everything and will happily give it if given the opportunity. (So be wary if you say that you genuinely want to know what I think, I am a fan of honesty and openness.) At this point, I have plenty of thoughts and plenty to say in regards to singleness. I have taken note of the many interactions I, and my friends, have had as single people in the Church. I can see what people think beneath the surface and sometimes not so beneath the surface about what it means to be single. 

I am not a second-class citizen. Yet often I am treated as such. As my friend and I looked at the questions asked for her Dating and the Kingdom of God speaking event, someone asked how they could not feel second-class. I think the questions should really be about why we are treated as second-class and how we can make a shift on a larger scale. It should not be my responsibility to not feel like a second-class citizen and I simply should not be treated as one. And yet. 

My life experience is often not as valued as those that are married. I have sat in a variety of small groups over the years as the token single person. In one such group I didn’t speak for the first 20-30 minutes because I was not married and I was not a mom. I had nothing to contribute to the conversations they were having. And no one seemed to notice, it took awhile for someone to even remember that I was there too. That I wasn’t like them and might want to talk about something else. I have been told that I matter, that my voice matters, but the experiences I have don’t seem to match. 

And I have decided that there are times when it is not worth the effort when I am not fully accepted and heard as I am. Truthfully it is exhausting having to show up and fight to make space for myself and my life. To demonstrate to others that I have value, that I matter, that I deserve to be loved as I am. There are days when I want to fight not just for myself but for the other singles that might follow me. But it is a lonely fight, a lonely path to walk. To keep showing up to spaces that say they are for you but do not demonstrate it. To keep speaking up, knowing that you might be one of the few or only voices of the single experience that these individuals are hearing. There are many times I have grown weary. It would certainly be easier not to try. 

But I have hope. For myself and for all other singles. I have hope that we will be welcomed fully into the Church, a place that should be a home. Without ever once being thought of as less than or second-class. To be included and valued at all tables and in all spaces. 

On Easter Sunday I walked into church and was immediately overwhelmed. The sanctuary was already packed, filled to the brim with families. And I suddenly felt lonely. Here I was, a single woman, in what felt like a sea of couples and families. I sat down and sipped my coffee, hoping the service would start soon. When suddenly someone I had met only once before approached me to say hello. And then she invited me to sit with her and her husband. For the first time at a church I was invited to sit with a family. For the first time I was welcomed in as I was. Someone sought me out and included me. It was a gift. Isn’t that like God? To redeem a painful moment in church with one that heals? May we all have more moments like this moving forward.

the phoenix

Normally, I pick one word for the year. But 2024 was meant to be different I suppose, as I ended up with three.

Fire. Resurrection. Phoenix.

2023 felt like dying. I turned 29 and it seemed a downward tumble after that. There were many moments I wasn’t sure I could keep going, some moments I wasn’t sure I wanted to. I am forever grateful to those who saw and stepped in, who fought when I didn’t have it in me. They carried me long enough to find my own fight again. 

2024 didn’t fix anything. There was no automatic ‘new year, new me.’ In the midst of this one friend told me that, perhaps, 2024 was meant to be feisty, fire-y, about the fight. And another friend told me how something I had written smelled like resurrection. And that’s what I wanted, to come back to life. To be made new. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes. Letting grief and disappointment continue to deepen my empathy and influence how I want to move through the world. I was asked to rise above, to take the high road. And I was reminded, so clearly, of the sacrifices of the few for the sake of the many. 

Thirty felt like breathing again. Like I was getting to wake up from a sweat-inducing nightmare. It was not an easy breath, but one that felt like I had clawed my way towards. Resurrection wasn’t neat, there was dirt in my nails and my hair askew. Born into a new decade. Time to rediscover who Mallory is, what she loves, and who she is meant to be. 

And that’s what I sprinkled this year with. Moments that brought me joy. Activities that reminded me of what I once loved. My own resurrection. The burning away of what no longer is, of dreams long gone, iterations of me only crafted for the benefit of someone else. 

I fell in love with dancing again this year. I started dancing when I was three. Big Bird did ballet on Sesame Street and I decided I needed to as well. Then I danced for the next eleven years. While I’m sure dancing is something I loved at one point, it became something I dreaded. It certainly wasn’t my strong suit, I was far better academically. And it highlighted to me all that I hated and deemed bad about my body. There is no hiding in a leotard and tights. As I’ve looked back I’ve wondered if my lack of motivation really stemmed from growing weary by the hate for my own body. I’m inclined to think that’s the case.

My journey with dance didn’t stop then though. I took a couple classes in high school. A couple in college, one of them being the only 8 am class of my entire college career. And most importantly, I danced at camp. With silly costumes and lots of laughing, just because it was fun. Just because it was good. It’s how dancing came back to me and became something I enjoyed again. So I danced in the car and I danced in the kitchen whenever the desire struck.

A dear friend had encouraged me to take dance classes again, I had brought it up a few times. He knew I would love it if I did it again, he certainly had. And that’s precisely what I did at the start of 2024. Taking classes once a week, whenever I could, any style of dance. Dancing for the love of it, not to perform or be perfect. Dancing to move my body, to be free. I can take the stress of the week and leave it in the studio time and time again. I am amazed at what my body remembers after years and years of no formal classes. But I have been even more amazed at the beauty I have found in the mirrors of the dance studio this time around. Remembering what a gift it is that my body can move. The delight in dancing with others who are here just to be. My body is capable of far more than I have given her credit for and I’m grateful to learn this lesson. 

My love for my body deepened this year. A lot of it happened in the dance studio. Some of it happened in my therapist’s office. But perhaps the bulk of it happened in a tattoo artist’s chair. I slowly started a sleeve in March of 2021. I thought I was going in for one lamppost, but Jennifer knew I would be back. And I was. Now my whole arm tells the story of Narnia, of books that I loved as a child and love even more dearly as an adult. The art is beautiful, bringing me to tears time after time as each piece was revealed to me. I adore it. I love showing it off. But I love how it has brought healing to how I view my body. 

Sitting in that chair, talking with Jennifer, and learning about how my body has to prepare and heal from a tattoo has taught me so much. I developed tenderness and awareness for my body. A deeper desire to care for her on a grander scale. And as art was added to my body I began to see my own body as art. Thinking about how many people I have hugged, tears I have wiped away, miles I have run. My body has carried me through so much, protected me in so many instances. She is not inherently bad. She is not a problem. And she is not the enemy. Somehow, sitting with Jennifer for all those hours, I finally began to realize and let that sink in. I didn’t realize what a gift it would be to receive an arm full of tattoos, but I’m glad I decided to take the chance. To do something because it brought me joy, because it brings such color to my life. A permanent reminder of goodness, through the stories represented and the stories I’ve been able to write. 

I don’t know what my thirties will hold, not a clue what 2025 will be like. But I feel sure that so much more is coming, the new decade beckoning new beginnings. The last years of my twenties saw the death of a lot of dreams, of a number of “I thought by nows” and the hope to just have it all figured out by now. 

That’s perhaps one of the greatest tricks of adulthood. That it seems like everyone else must have it all figured out. Or at least they sure make it seem that way. We get tricked into thinking that everyone’s curated outward appearances must be the complete truth. 

There isn’t much I feel like I have figured out just yet. Thirty years honestly feels like so little time. But there are some things I feel rather sure about. I know that I am going to keep dancing. I am sure I’ll be getting more tattoos. I know that I will continue to cook and eat incredible food. I am more certain than ever of the gift of community and friends who know and love me well. I know that I am where I am meant to be right now. Where I live, where I work, where I attend church. And I am certain of how deeply loved I am. I have watched God show up this year through the people in my life time and time again. I have not been forgotten. In the midst of the grief and the fire there has certainly been One calling me into new life, calling me to rise from the ashes. So I will. Dusting myself off, passion in my eyes, and a fire within my heart. I am sure that the best is yet to come, things far better than I have ever dreamed of.