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Coretta Scott King, Elizabeth Warren, Endometriosis, Esther, Feminism, International Women's Day, intersectionality, Malala Yousafsai, persistence, progressive Christianity, sexism, Syrophoenician woman, Vashti, woman with hemorrhage
About a month ago, in the midst of my horrific pain, I wrote most of this blog post.
Today, bits of the pain still linger, but I feel much better already. Yet reading this which I wrote when I felt so much less hopeless makes me realize how far I’ve come and reminds me of my persistence and resilience.
And so, on this International Women’s Day, I share with you.
At this point of my life, I needed to hear he word “persist” over and over and over again.
Thanks to the resilience of U.S. Senator Elizabeth Warren, words written by Corretta Scott King were brought alive again in order to protect our Union.
Of course, like most women even in the twenty-first century, we are shushed, told our opinion does not matter, or ignored altogether.
I try to acknowledge this over and over. But sometimes, I’m not privileged. Sometimes, I’m muddling through life with a belly full of ache and a energy system that is zapped. My skin color is privileged, but my insides ache and hold me back.
Once again, I’m struggling with endometriosis.
I’ve learned well how to push through the pain to achieve what I need to. But sometimes it’s just not enough to barely make it through to survive. I work, but I’m not fully living.
When I read all of the sexism and misogyny that’s happening in our country and world, and I see what friends have and do experience, it’s time to claim that we deserve more than the crumbs under the table. We deserve to have health and food and equality. We deserve for our voices to be heard.
And at a time when my pelvis aches and my aggravation increases daily with the dismissal and silencing of women, hearing the word “persistence” and the stories to go along with the word is refreshing.
We need to hear the stories of our sisters who worked for suffrage. We need not only to listen to the stories of our sisters of color, transgender sisters, and lesbian sister, but acknowledge the additional hurdles they have overcome. We need to tell each other our tales and not dismiss what another woman says because we haven’t experienced the same.
I needed the tenacity of Elizabeth Warren today. I need the enduring words of Corretta Scott King. I need to see Malala Yousafzai rising from her injuries and advocating for women all over the world. I still need to see the presence of Hillary in public and private because- even after all of the criticisms and losses, she still continues on. I need the stories of the women in Scripture who persisted: the Syrophoenician woman, the woman with the hemorrhage, Tamar, Vashti, Esther, and more. And I need to hear the stories of my endosisters who continue on one procedure to the next but never giving up.
The more we see women pushing and pushing beyond the boundaries of “no” and “maybe later” to “yes” and rising from the ashes of pain and failure and sexism, the faster we will heal in body, mind, and soul.
Today, I was reminded of my fragility.
As a white person, I feel it’s necessary to reflect upon my relationship with Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Day, his legacy, and who I am in my racial privilege.
“2016 has been a terrible year,” I’ve heard repeatedly since January. First, it was David Bowie, quickly followed by Alan Rickman. Over the year shocking and unexpected announcements were made about the deaths of Prince, Mohammad Ali and Gene Wilder.
The Grim Reaper’s frequent visits happen occasionally. In my personal life, I remember the uncomfortable year of 1994. First, my grandma died of metastatic breast cancer. Then my grandfather had a massive stroke. Finally, my grandfather’s brother died from a sudden heart attack in the doctor’s office. My soul felt a bit worn by the end of the year – especially after a breakup of a long term relationship in October.
As a pastor, I see how death comes in waves. There are times when we have three funerals in one week. Or there are times when our congregations seem like they’ve lost so many people in one year. All Saint’s Sunday is filled with names of our recently deceased read aloud. I’ve seen this happen in two specific years of my ministry so far: 2010 and 2015.
They are part of our stories, and we are forever grateful for their existence and contributions. We are grateful for their vulnerability in art.
Much like living with a high pitch noise that won’t go away, I feel as if I am experiencing this Advent/Christmas season with a humming irritation swirling inside of me more than I’ve experienced in other years.
For many years, I was led to believe that there was only one way of being Christian. This way would focus on specific issues like abortion, who is allowed to get married, who isn’t allowed to have sex, and who will be granted eternity in heaven.
Ever since starting the 
Michelle L. Torigian 