an amethyst anointing

There is, perhaps, no chore I hate more than washing dishes. I adore cooking, especially for others. But I would willfully avoid dishes forever if I could. And yet I love a window above a kitchen sink. A glimpse into something else while I scrub away cheesy bits and coffee remnants. 

I close my eyes, inhaling deeply the lemon dish soap. And I am transported to a different kitchen sink. I couldn’t tell you what the view outside of the window is, I just know there is an abundance of light. My eyes instead focus on the bottles lining the windowsill. Immediately I am drawn to the amethyst bottle. I go to reach for it but I can’t, merely observing in this vision it seems. Each bottle is unique, a dazzling variety, a collective prism. Splashing colors across the kitchen. The colors mean something, I am so deeply sure of it. 

Each bottle contains liquid, I think it might be clear. Differing amounts I assume, though hard to be sure with the variety of shapes. It could be an illusion, really they all have the same amount. I certainly would never be able to tell. If this were my windowsill and my little bottles, I would have put flowers in them. Something small and wild, picked on a run just because it delights me. I’ve decided I need a windowsill like this someday. 

And then I am suddenly aware that this is my windowsill and those are my bottles. 

“You keep track of all my sorrows. You have collected all my tears in your bottle. You have recorded each one in your book.” 

A sharp intake of breath as the weight of the reality settles on me. My tears, truly collected in bottles. Beautiful bottles, a way to honor the sorrows. Tears quickly filling my eyes, laughter spilling from deep within. I have cried so many tears over the years. Many shed unseen and yet here they are on full display. Bringing beauty into this kitchen as the light hits them so. A wonder to behold. 

Perhaps my tears really weren’t wasted. Certainly not as I stare at them now, collected with care and put on display. Not one moment of sorrow or anguish forgotten. And I feel relief. So often the tears fell with no witness and no resolution. But there has always been a witness. One who acts with deep tenderness and love. One who has taken the salty chaos of my life and let it mark space with beauty. What a gift to behold. A glimpse into something far more eternal than that which caused the tears. 

And then I saw God, it had to have been God. For there are no words I can choose to fully describe this Being. Light, warmth, peace, and love certainly. And a deep assurance that this is who carefully collected each tear. God stands at the sink and I realize that I am in the sink, or some version of me I get to watch. I hold my breath in wonder, what is it I am granted a glimpse of? 

I’m curled up in the sink, knees drawn tightly to my chest. I look as though I’m holding onto them for dear life. I feel the love of God expand. And now I’m in the sink. Fully living this moment, whatever it may be. 

God picks up a jade bottle and breathes deeply. 

“Truly your tears were never wasted.”

Slowly, gently, the tears are poured out onto me. Not hot, not cold, not bitter. God whispers to me what every tear was. Each moment of heartbreak and anguish. Each time I was forgotten, overlooked, and left out. Every book and song and dance that made me weep. God listened. God remembered. And as I sit in that sink, washed by my own pain, God begins to weep. God’s tears washing over me. Every ache I held, God held with me. 

I was cleansed by my tears. I am baptized by God’s tears. 

And I am undone. 

Another bottle lifted from the sill. Whispers of every injustice I saw. Of every lonely moment felt. Each time I took the high road and it broke me open each step. Every good bye I wasn’t ready for. Each time my brain and I could not agree on reality. Not a single moment forgotten. A careful catalogue of my deepest pains. And each tear of mine is matched with a tear from God. 

Not for a moment was I alone in my tears. Even when I hid in the car, a bathroom, a bed, a closet, or a shower. It turns out there has always been an audience, but not a passive one. God has wept with me. Seen my pain and sorrow and never once looked away. Listened, leaned in, and never forgot. Carefully, tenderly, collecting each tear. 

Letting me be cleansed by my own salty pain. Often cathartic in the moment, now being used to cleanse me, make me new. My pain was never forgotten. Shaping me into who I get to be now. God’s tears baptizing me into a new life. Granting peace and companionship. I have never wept alone. I have never been alone. 

Over and over bottles are poured out. Each moment of tears retold to me with deep compassion. Because God watched and sat with me in each moment. With every bottle, every memory I am more sure. More sure of love, more sure of peace. More sure that every painful moment wasn’t lost in the chaos. 

The amethyst bottle, my favorite, is last. This one is different. These are tears of joy. Bearing witness to life and love, laughter running from my eyes. Every inside joke. Every camp costume. These mattered too. Once again, matched by God. God who is laughing (is this laughing, it feels radiant and wild). 

The other tears were a baptism. These tears? These are an anointing. Sealing up what has been done here in this sacred sink. This holy kitchen. I have lived a life that so often feels like it is marked by sorrow and grief. I know sadness well and deeply. And yet, it is the joy that anoints me. It is the joy that will mark me. 

My eyes fly open. Standing at my own sink. Dishes still waiting. And I weep, knowing the tears will be collected. Knowing that God will weep. My emotions never wasted or mocked. Each experience matters to God, to me. 

I have been baptized by the tears of God. I have been anointed by the tears of God. 

I am undone. 

I am whole. 

I will listen for the sound of another weeping when I believe myself to be all alone. For I am not and I have never been. And I wonder if I will know the sound of my tears being collected in bottles. 

dream

My word of the year is dream. Absolutely comical choice now that I am at the end of 2025. A month or so ago I was bemoaning to a friend that really it felt like a year of loss. In all facets of my life. One of our beloved family pups passed away unexpectedly, things at work shifted quickly and unexpectedly, and I watched so many people I love lose someone they loved both expected and not. Dream simply didn’t feel right as the year began to end. 

And yet. 

Some of my favorite moments of this year were dreams fulfilled, they just weren’t mine. In 2025 I got to celebrate three different friends publishing their very first books. How insane is that? What a gift to celebrate! One in Chattanooga, one in Waco, Texas, and yet another in Lexington, Kentucky. I don’t take for granted the privilege of being able to be present. I’ve decided that all I really want to do is celebrate my friends and the impressive things they’re doing. Is that somehow a full time job? Because I’ll submit my resume immediately. 

Those successes somehow feel like mine in some small way. Watching ideas and dreams become something I could hold in my hands. And they make my own dreams feel possible too. Maybe someday these friends will show up to the party celebrating my own book coming to life. 

Looking back, I can see that 2025 held a lot of good too. The second half of the year was just filled with so much sorrow. So I’ve forced myself to pause and really look at this year. Because this was also the year I became and realized I was utterly obsessed with my own life. It happened at a David Gate poetry reading, the first of October. I sat there with friends, drinking in the beauty of words and it struck me, how much I love my own life. In the midst of all the turmoil and growing list of unresolved issues I could so clearly feel a deep love for this life I’ve been granted and get to build. 

And as I ended 2025 with more good riddance than anything, I thought about how it’s giving me more space to dream. To wonder what can be different in the coming year, something to hold on to that is bigger and brighter than what I’ve experienced these last few months. Admittedly, there were some things that needed to be put aside for me to dream a little bit bigger. I needed to be pushed outside of my own comfort zone to start seeing what else this life I’ve been creating can hold. 

This isn’t the life I thought I would have, to be sure. But it is filled to the brim with so many and so many things that I love. These are the moments I want to be sure and carry alongside the grief and pain. Unbridled joy belongs everywhere. It's meant to sustain in the midst of trials and lows. And I am deeply grateful for the joy I have been able to find and create, especially this year. As I get older I continue to embrace saying yes and pursuing things that I delight in and bring me joy. 

Building a life I love is a dream come true, one that would wildly surpass what teenage me could have imagined. I wish she could see me now. I know for a fact that her reaction to all these tattoos would be priceless. I think she’d be proud, mostly. Absolutely in shock on a few points, I’m certain. But I can imagine the delight in her eyes as I told her the story of how we made it here. And with that I know that this quest has been worth all the pains it cost. 

Dream wasn’t what I thought it was going to be for this year, but that seems to be how these things always work out. It has helped me to loosen expectations as I get older and while that is difficult it has also been good. I am grateful for the dreams, big and small, that I have gotten to experience this year. And I’m grateful that I get to keep dreaming as the years roll on. 

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.