Last week I told y’all I was in the hallway. I knew I didn’t want to go back to the room I’d left, but I couldn’t see where I was going next either.

Well, I’m still in the hallway. I haven’t magically figured out where I’m headed, but I can see a little light under a couple of the doors now. And I’m telling you, after the last few months, that feels really good.

This has been a hard season. It’s been lonely in ways I wasn’t expecting, and there have been plenty of days when I’ve wondered what in the world God was doing. Or, if I’m being completely accurate, when I wondered when God was going to hurry up and DO something.

Waiting has never been my spiritual gift. I don’t particularly like waiting for my food in a drive-thru, so you can imagine how well I handle waiting for God to reveal what He’s doing with my actual life.

But over the last week or so, something has shifted. Not because I suddenly know the plan. I don’t. I’m beginning to think we probably never really know the plan as much as we’d like to think we do.

There’s a verse in Proverbs that says we make our plans, but God determines our steps. I would personally prefer that God give me the plan, the steps, a detailed itinerary and preferably a few confirmation numbers. Apparently that’s not how this works.

But I’m beginning to see the edges of something.

This week, Rachelle Gardner agreed to represent my book.

Y’ALL. I HAVE AN AGENT.

And not just an agent. is the agent I hoped would see something in this book. She’s the person I dreamed about working with, and now I get to. I’m still a little stunned by the whole thing.

But here’s what’s interesting. As exciting as that is—and trust me, I am ridiculously excited—it has also made me look back at the last few months a little differently.

Maybe the waiting wasn’t empty.

Maybe God was doing something when I couldn’t see a dang thing.

I don’t want to tie a pretty bow around the hard parts because they’re still hard. I still have grief over some of what I’ve left behind. Finding something new doesn’t make you stop missing what you lost. I’m still figuring out where I belong and who my people are.

But I think I’m beginning to find them.

And I’m beginning to see places where this voice I’ve spent the last few years figuring out how to use might actually be useful. I don’t know exactly what that looks like yet. A week ago I couldn’t see much of anything, so I’m not going to demand the whole floor plan now.

A little light under the door will do.

And while I’m over here contemplating God’s timing and the meaning of my life, I also spent part of the weekend at a beauty pageant for babies.

And I do mean BABIES.

My daughter walked her two-year-old, curly-headed blonde girl onto that stage, and I don’t know which one of them was having more fun. My daughter is thoroughly enjoying getting to live a little vicariously through this child, and the child is perfectly happy to oblige because apparently she was born ready for a stage.

I, on the other hand, was not prepared for the world of children’s beauty pageants.

These women are serious, y’all.

At one point a woman turned around and informed me, “This is very serious.”

Oh. Well, excuse me.

I did not understand the gravity of the situation.

They had a division for zero to eleven months. ZERO TO ELEVEN MONTHS. We got babies up there who can’t even walk yet and apparently there are RULES.

I realized I needed to check myself before I got in trouble at the baby beauty pageant.

But I loved watching my daughter and granddaughter have so much fun together. And maybe that has something to do with where I am right now too.

I’m 62. I’ll turn 63 in about a week and a half, and I think I’m finally figuring out that I don’t want to miss what’s happening today because I’m so busy trying to figure out what’s happening next.

There have been months when I’ve felt like nobody could see me. Months when everything seemed slower and quieter than I wanted it to be. I wouldn’t volunteer to do all of that again, but I know myself better because of it.

I know I can ask questions and still love Jesus. I know I can change my mind. I know I can leave a room without immediately knowing where I’m supposed to go next. And I’m learning—slowly, because apparently this lesson takes a while for me—that I don’t have to know the whole plan.

I’m still in the hallway.

But this week I can see a little light under the door.

And right now, that’s plenty.

What about you? Are you in a season where you’re still waiting, or are you beginning to look back and see something you couldn’t see while you were in the middle of it?

Tell me in the comments. I really want to hear where you are.

And if somebody came to mind while you were reading this—somebody who’s sitting in a hallway of their own—send this to them. Maybe they need somebody sitting out there with them.

Share The Back Row with Birdy Mae

A friend said something to me this week that I haven’t been able to shake.

“You’re in the space between the room you left and the one you’ve yet to enter.”

Well, damn.

That’ll preach.

And I immediately thought about Emily P Feeman’s book How to Walk Into a Room. She writes about this hallway too. That strange space where you know you’ve left one room, but you haven’t quite figured out where you’re going next.

Apparently, I’m in the hallway.

And I don’t particularly like it here.

It’s lonely.

I know I’m not going back to the room I left. I’ve asked too many questions. Changed my mind about too many things. Seen some things differently. And honestly, some of the furniture in that old room was ugly anyway.

But I knew where I sat.

I knew the language. I knew the people. I knew the rules. Lord knows, I knew the rules.

There’s something comforting about knowing exactly where you belong, even when you’ve started to wonder if you belong there anymore.

And now here I am.

Birdy Mae is growing like crazy. I’m meeting people I never imagined I’d meet. I’m having conversations I never thought I’d get to have. Every day, women show up in the comments saying, Oh my gosh. Me too.

That part is wonderful.

And I’m lonely.

Both things are true.

I think sometimes we’re so anxious to get to the testimony part that we skip right over that.

We want to say, I left this thing and then God gave me THIS BETTER THING and now look how happy I am!

Well, that’s not happened just yet.

I’m still out here in the hallway wondering which door I’m supposed to knock on.

And have y’all noticed that while you’re trying to figure out your entire life, the internet would also like you to have an opinion on absolutely everything?

Before coffee.

Every morning there’s another terrible thing, another ridiculous thing, another thing somebody insists I must speak about immediately, or apparently I am part of the problem.

Honey, sometimes I’m just trying to find my glasses.

It’s a lot.

Which is probably why the things that make me laugh have felt especially good lately.

Not because I’m laughing more. I’m not.

I’m struggling some.

But then I find somebody like Mike Akel making Churchville, poking fun at the absolute absurdity of church culture while still clearly loving the people in it.

Or Skeet Dozier comes across my screen and makes me laugh out loud.

And for a minute, that’s enough.

Nothing got fixed.

I still don’t know where the next room is.

But I laughed.

And sometimes you just need somebody to make you laugh while you’re standing in the hallway.

I don’t know what my next room looks like.

I hope there’s a chair for me.

I hope there are people who aren’t afraid of questions.

There better be coffee.

And for the love of Jesus, somebody in that room better be funny.

Until then, I guess I’m here.

In the hallway.

If you’re here too, scoot over.

We might as well sit together.

What I’m Pondering

Obviously, I’m pondering the hallway.

But maybe more than that, I’m thinking about how quick we are to rush ourselves—and each other—through it.

We want the answer. The new community. The next thing. The happy ending.

I don’t have one this week.

I’m just wondering if maybe some of us need permission to say, I know I can’t go back, and I don’t know what’s next yet.

Maybe that’s enough for today.

What I’m Reading: Fiction Edition

Y’all, we’re taking a break from theology this week. My brain said thank you.

I love a GREAT fiction book—the kind that makes me disappear for a while—and I’m in the middle of Time to Burn right now. It’s got time travel in a modern setting, family drama and so much happening that I keep needing to know what happens next.

I recently read The Mad Wife, and this one fascinated me. It takes us into the world of the mid-century housewife and starts pulling at everything underneath that picture of the perfect woman, perfect home, perfect family.

Yes, apparently I found my way back to complicated women even while taking a break from theology. Nobody is surprised.

And one of my most recent favorites is The Calamity Club - because who doesn’t love a story of some strong women who get shit done!

I loved this one.

Apparently my fiction requirements are: give me complicated women, some family mess, people behaving badly and preferably at least one person making a decision that causes me to yell at the book.

If you’ve read something lately that you couldn’t put down, tell me in the comments. My TBR pile is already completely unreasonable, so obviously I need your recommendations.

Around My Table

Since we’ve been talking about needing a laugh, let me introduce you to two people who gave me one this week.

First, Skeet Dozier on Instagram.

Y’all, I laughed OUT LOUD watching this man. Not internet LOL. Actual laughing.

And then there’s Mike Akel on Instagram, who is the brain behind Churchville.

Think The Office, but at church.

If you’ve spent any amount of time in church world, there are moments when you’re going to think, Oh Lord, I KNOW THAT PERSON.

I know John Crist is doing something in a similar mockumentary style and it’s funny, but there’s something about what Mike is doing that I really love. He’s tapped into the absurdity of church culture without losing the heart underneath it.

And apparently that’s exactly the kind of funny I need right now.

Make me laugh at the ridiculous stuff.

Just don’t make me feel like you hate the people in the room.

That’s what’s around my table this week.

A little loneliness.

A couple of really good books.

Some people making me laugh.

A hallway I’m still trying to figure out.

And y’all.

I’m really glad you’re sitting here with me.

Share The Back Row with Birdy Mae

My mama saw Dolly Parton at the Grand Ole Opry sometime in the early 1960s.

I wish I remembered everything she told me about that night, but I don’t. I remember her saying:

“She had the tiniest waist and the big voice.”

Those were apparently the details Frances considered worth passing down.

And this week, I’ve been thinking about that big voice.

Mama was one of eight children. Her daddy was a sharecropper, and she grew up picking cotton in Alabama.

Dolly was one of twelve kids growing up poor in the mountains of East Tennessee.

Two Southern girls who came from families without much.

One ended up onstage.

And I’ve found myself wondering about the other one.

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Who was Frances before she was my mama? What did that girl picking cotton want? What did she think her life might become?

I don’t know.

And now I can’t ask her.

I wonder how many women of Mama’s generation had big voices too. Not Grand Ole Opry voices. Mama could not sing like Dolly Parton, and we are not going to rewrite family history just because everybody involved is now in heaven.

But voices.

Ideas. Opinions. Questions. Things they wanted to do. Things they might have said if they’d been given a little more room to say them.

And then I think about me.

It took me a long time to find my voice.

Actually, that’s not true.

I always had one. I just spent a lot of years learning when I was allowed to use it.

Now, at 62, I turn on a camera and say what I’m thinking, and women show up and say, Me too. I’ve been thinking that too.

Sometimes I wonder what Mama would make of all this.

I think she’d be proud.

I also think there would be days when Frances would tell me, “You’re getting a little too big for your britches.” Let’s not make her a saint just because she’s in heaven.

But all those years ago, when Mama told me about seeing Dolly Parton, she remembered that tiny waist.

And she remembered that big voice.

Frances raised a daughter who eventually figured out she had a pretty big voice too.

It took me a while, Mama.

But I’m using it.

And say hello to Dolly for me.

Tell her I said thanks. And, Mama, I sure do miss you down here.

Did I ever tell you I used to teach women what it meant to be “biblical”?

Yes. I actually taught this stuff.

I said women couldn’t pastor. Women shouldn’t preach to men. I believed in complementarianism, which is really just another word for patriarchy. Men were the head of the household. Women were to submit. That whole stupid umbrella thing—you know, God, then the husband, then the wife under him. You get it.

We needed to be careful about how we dressed because we certainly didn’t want to cause a brother to stumble.

And here’s the thing: I truly believed it.

I wasn’t trying to keep women in their place. I really thought this was what God had asked me to teach.

Which makes what I’ve been doing lately a little awkward.

You see, I decided to make one little video about a woman in the Bible, and suddenly I’m neck-deep in all the women in the Bible.

And y’all.

I started with Abigail.

I knew her story. We knew her husband was a fool. Scripture pretty much tells us that. But this time I noticed something: Abigail goes against everything that umbrella taught me.

She doesn’t follow her husband’s lead. She does the exact opposite because Nabal is a fool and his foolishness is about to get everybody killed.

And look what happens.

She saves her people. She saves herself. She saves that fool of a husband. And she saves David from making a terrible mistake.

David even recognizes it.

Then I started studying Miriam.

Now, Miriam had some issues. There was that whole challenging-Moses situation.

But then I got to Micah 6:4.

When God talks about bringing Israel out of Egypt, three people are named:

Moses. Aaron. Miriam.

Miriam was a prophet. She belonged right there in the story with Moses and Aaron.

I don’t remember hearing much about that part. I certainly didn’t teach it.

And then there’s Jael.

Whenever I ask who people want to hear about next, there are always Jael fans.

Because, come on.

Who doesn’t love a woman with a tent peg?

So now I’m looking back at this idea of “biblical womanhood” I carried around for years.

Quiet. Agreeable. Soft-spoken. Supportive. Careful not to overstep.

And I keep thinking:

How did we get there?

Because the uncomfortable part is that I didn’t just believe those things.

I taught them.

I thought they were biblical.

And now I’m reading Scripture and looking at the women who are actually there.

Not the woman I was told to find. Not the woman I tried so hard to be.

The women who are already there.

I’m not interested in creating a new formula for biblical womanhood.

I’m just beginning to wonder if there was ever supposed to be one.

Maybe God never asked women to be small.

Maybe we did that part ourselves.

— Birdy Mae

📚 On My Bookshelf

I’ve shared these before, but if we’re going to talk about women, evangelicalism, and how we got here, these three belong on the shelf:

The Making of Biblical Womanhood by Beth Allison Barr—this one helped me start asking some very different questions about what we’ve been told is “biblical.”

Jesus and John Wayne by Kristin Kobes Du Mez—if you’ve ever wondered how evangelical Christianity became so tangled up with masculinity, power and politics, start here.

And Live Laugh Love by Kristin Kobes Du Mez — this is what I’m reading now, and y’all. I’m seeing pieces of my own history all over these pages. Christian bookstores, Christian music, purity culture, Elisabeth Elliot, Amy Grant—all of it. This is the women’s side of the story, and it is making some things click into place for me. The book releases in September. So PREORDER it NOW!

❤️ Around My Table

Speaking of Kristin Kobes Du Mez, her Live Laugh Love book tour is starting, and she’s coming to Birmingham.

Click here for all the tour info!

She’ll be at Thank You Books on October 5, and I’m planning to be there.

To be clear: I am attending. Nobody has handed Birdy a microphone.

And I may have gotten a bit giddy and asked Kristen if we could meet for pre book event chat, after event beverage, breakfast the next morning, or ANYTHING…. let’s all hope I am still allowed to attend.

I promise I’m not a stalker, I’m fairly normal, okay that’s not true, but I’m weird in the best sort of way.

But if you’re in Birmingham and you’ve been reading these books, asking some of these same questions, or you just want to come hear Kristin talk about this history, come join me. It’s free but you do need to let them know you’re coming!

I’d love to look around that room and see some Back Row people sitting there too.

I’ve been reading the women in the Bible again.

And y’all.

I have questions.

Because somewhere along the way, I learned a version of “biblical womanhood” that was quiet. Submissive. Supportive. Don’t lead the men. Don’t get too loud. Don’t take up too much space.

And then you actually start reading about the women in the Bible and...

Well. Somebody has some explaining to do.

Take Abigail.

Her husband Nabal makes a spectacularly bad decision with David. David gets angry and heads toward Nabal’s household planning bloodshed.

Does Abigail say, “Well, he’s my husband and spiritual leader, so I suppose we’ll all just die”?

No ma’am.

She gets provisions together, goes around her husband, meets David herself and talks the future king of Israel out of doing something terrible.

And David THANKS HER.

She doesn’t just save her household.

She saves David from becoming the kind of man he doesn’t want to become.

Then there’s Miriam.

We remember Moses.

We remember Aaron.

But listen to what God says in Micah:

When He reminds Israel of bringing them out of Egypt, He names the people He sent before them:

Moses. Aaron. Miriam.

Excuse me?

Miriam wasn’t standing somewhere in the background passing out snacks.

Scripture calls her a prophetess.

Now, did Miriam get everything right?

Absolutely not.

Welcome to the Bible.

Neither did Moses.

Neither did David.

Neither did Peter.

Funny how a man’s failure becomes part of his complicated story while a woman’s failure can somehow become the headline.

And then there’s Jael.

Lord have mercy, Jael.

We’ve already discussed the tent peg.

It’s difficult to make “biblical women should always be quiet and unassuming” work when one of them is standing there holding a hammer.

And Deborah?

Judge.

Prophetess.

Leading Israel.

Huldah?

When the Book of the Law is discovered during Josiah’s reign and the king needs to know what God is saying, they go ask her.

Rahab?

A woman we’ve reduced to her sexual history for generations, even though her courage protects the spies, helps save her family, and her name eventually appears in Matthew’s genealogy of Jesus.

And that’s before we get to all the women surrounding Jesus.

So I’ve been wondering:

Why did we make biblical womanhood so much smaller than the women in the Bible?

Because these women aren’t interchangeable.

They’re complicated.

Some are brave.

Some are strategic.

Some lead.

Some prophesy.

Some challenge powerful men.

Some make mistakes.

Some save lives.

Some do all of the above.

In other words...

They’re people.

Maybe that’s what we’ve missed.

I spent years trying to become a Good Christian Woman.

I taught other women some of the rules I thought would help them become Good Christian Women too.

I meant well.

I believed it.

But the older I get—and the more carefully I read these stories—the more I wonder whether we sometimes created our definition of biblical womanhood first...

and then went looking through the Bible for women who fit it.

Because Jael doesn’t fit very neatly.

Neither does Abigail.

Or Deborah.

Or Miriam.

Or Huldah.

Or Rahab.

Maybe the Bible was never asking women to fit one mold in the first place.

Maybe God has always used women exactly where they were—with their courage, intelligence, voices, leadership, mistakes, complicated histories and, occasionally, apparently, a tent peg.

And maybe instead of asking women to become smaller so they’ll fit our definition of biblical...

we ought to make sure our definition is big enough to hold the women God actually used.

Because they’re right there.

We’ve just got to read them.

— Birdy Mae

Share The Back Row with Birdy Mae

Well, heck y’all

I’m reading Kristin Du Mez’s new book Live Laugh Love, and I found myself in it.

My name in the book is Becky.

Okay, not actually. But Becky was the woman the Christian culture machine was built for.

Christian radio playing in the car. Christian bookstore on Saturday. Rebecca St. James, Jaci Velasquez, Jennifer Knapp. Positive. Encouraging. Uplifting.

Nothing too messy.

Nothing too uncomfortable.

Y’all. I was Becky.

And I didn’t just live in that world. Eventually, I worked in it.

But here’s the part that’s been sitting heavy with me:

I taught it too.

I taught women they couldn’t lead men.

Couldn’t preach to men.

Couldn’t pastor.

I taught that we needed to dress modestly because we certainly didn’t want to cause a man to stumble.

I believed motherhood was the highest calling for a woman.

And before we start hollering at younger me, let me tell you something about her.

She thought she was helping.

I thought I was handing women the keys to a good Christian life. Follow these principles. Do these things. Be this kind of woman.

And you’ll find contentment.

Small problem.

I wasn’t content.

Lord have mercy, there’s nothing quite like reading the history of your own certainty.

But the more I’ve read, the more I’ve understood why I grabbed onto it so tightly.

I wanted to belong.

I didn’t have the church pedigree. I was saved at twelve, left church at fifteen, and didn’t come back until my thirties.

I didn’t know the rules.

So when I came back, I learned them.

Honey, I learned them ALL.

And for a long time, knowing the rules made me feel like I belonged.

Until I started asking a different question.

Does this actually look like Jesus?

Why are we so worried about keeping women out?

Why did we make women responsible for men’s behavior?

Why did being a faithful Christian woman so often require being a little smaller?

I don’t have anger for the women who taught me those things.

They loved me.

I loved them.

They were teaching me what they believed was true.

And I don’t have anger for younger me either.

Actually, I want to sit down beside her.

I’d tell her:

Darling, you don’t have to work this hard to belong.

God isn’t asking you to become her.

Or her.

Or that woman over there who seems to have this whole Christian-woman thing figured out.

He’s calling you to Himself.

He wants you.

Turns out I don’t have to hate the woman I was to question the things she believed.

I can have compassion for her.

I can admit where she got it wrong.

And then I can keep following Jesus.

Which, come to think of it, might be what she was trying to do all along.

Love,

Birdy Mae

☕ What I’m Pondering

I’ve been thinking about how easy it is to judge an earlier version of ourselves with information she didn’t have yet.

I don’t want to do that.

So here’s my question this week:

What would you tell the younger version of yourself who was trying so hard to get it right?

I think I’d tell mine:

Darling, God never asked you to fit in.

📚 What I’m Reading

Live Laugh Love by Kristin Kobes Du Mez.

Y’all.

If you’ve ever wondered how in the world we are STILL arguing about what women are allowed to do in the church, read this book.

I’m learning history I didn’t know and seeing history I actually lived.

And occasionally I’m having to put the book down and stare into the middle distance for a minute.

That’s usually a sign I’m reading something worthwhile.

❤️ Around My Table

Two Instagram accounts I’m loving this week.

Kris & Dave are two veterans who are funny, outspoken, liberal, and completely unafraid to say what they think.

They make me laugh. They make me think. Sometimes they make me say, Well, there it is.

And then Pastors, Priests & Guides.

Oh, this one matters to me.

They create retreats and community for religious leaders who are trying to figure out where they belong, what comes next, and how to keep following Jesus when some of the old spaces don’t quite fit anymore.

I know a little something about that.

There’s something beautiful about discovering that losing your place at one table doesn’t mean there aren’t any tables left.

Sometimes you just haven’t found your people yet.

And if you’re looking for your table, I’ve got a seat for you. Pull up a chair.

Birdy Mae

Well hey there.

Can I tell you something? I used to have a lot more answers.

There was a time when you could ask me what the Bible said about women, marriage, church, politics, sexuality, hell—pretty much anything—and there was a good chance I could tell you.

And I wasn’t pretending. I studied. I did the Bible studies. Lord, did I do the Bible studies. I taught them. I led women’s ministry. I read the books and learned the verses.

I genuinely believed part of being a mature Christian was knowing the answers.

And honestly? Certainty felt good.

There was God’s way and the world’s way. Biblical and unbiblical. Right and wrong. Everything had a box, and spiritually speaking, girlfriend, I owned a label maker.

Then life started messing with my labels.

I met Christians from other cultures who loved Jesus deeply and understood some Scriptures differently than I did. I listened to people whose experiences with church were nothing like mine. I learned history I hadn’t known. I revisited passages I’d been certain about and discovered faithful people had been wrestling with them for centuries.

And eventually I had to look back at a few things I’d once taught with absolute certainty and say:

Well. I don’t believe that anymore.

Nothing will humble you quite like realizing Past You could’ve used a little less confidence.

These days I say I don’t know more often.

I say I wonder.

I say help me understand.

And strangely enough, my faith hasn’t gotten weaker. I think it’s gotten deeper.

I’ve been reading Invitations from God, and there’s a chapter I can’t seem to get past: The Invitation to Admit I Might Be Wrong.

Not my favorite invitation.

I’d much prefer The Invitation to Discover You Were Right All Along. I’d RSVP immediately and bring a casserole.

But I’ve been wondering why admitting we might be wrong feels so threatening.

Maybe because somewhere along the way, we confused certainty with faithfulness.

I believe Scripture is authoritative. Deeply. But Scripture being authoritative doesn’t make my interpretation authoritative.

I’m still a human being reading it. I bring my history, my church tradition, my experiences, my teachers, my assumptions and, yes, my wounds to the page.

That’s why I keep coming back to this:

The authority of Scripture requires the humility of the reader.

I can’t be the Holy Spirit in somebody else’s life. That’s above my pay grade, and I’ve got plenty to keep me occupied over here.

My job is to faithfully walk the road God has put in front of me—to study, pray, listen and remain humble enough to say, God, if I’ve misunderstood You, show me.

And maybe that’s why I don’t have as many answers anymore.

But I know this: I love Jesus.

And if you’ve been hurt by people who claimed His name, if you’ve been told your questions make you dangerous, or if you’re wondering whether there’s still a place for you—I want to keep pointing you toward Him.

Because people can get Jesus terribly wrong.

Churches can get Jesus terribly wrong.

I can get Jesus terribly wrong.

Which is precisely why I want to keep looking at Jesus.

Maybe growing in faith isn’t collecting enough answers that we finally become certain.

Maybe it’s becoming humble enough to keep asking better questions.

Love,

Birdy Mae

Pull up a chair: Are there things about faith you hold more loosely today than you did twenty years ago? Has that taken you farther from Jesus—or closer?

I’ve been pondering something this week.

I don’t think most people wake up one morning and decide to ignore something that matters.

I think it’s usually much slower than that.

One compromise.

One explanation.

One moment where we tell ourselves,

“Maybe I’m missing something.”

I know.

Because I’ve done it.

When the 2016 election rolled around, I heard things that didn’t sit right with me.

The name-calling.

The mocking.

The cruelty.

It didn’t sound like the fruit of the Spirit I’d spent years trying to cultivate in my own life.

But the people I trusted…

The pastors whose sermons had shaped me.

The leaders I admired.

The voices I had spent years listening to.

They linked arms and said,

“He’ll be good for our country.”

“We need a businessman, not a politician.”

And I remember thinking,

Maybe I’m the one who’s missing something.

So I stayed quiet.

Then the Access Hollywood tape came out.

I remember thinking,

“Okay... surely this changes everything.”

Surely everyone would say,

“No. This is a bridge too far.”

But they didn’t.

And once again…

I stayed quiet.

Not because I agreed.

Because I trusted the voices around me more than I trusted the quiet conviction growing inside me

Read more

I had one of those conversations this week that stayed with me long after we hung up.

Not because we argued.

We didn’t.

It was a conversation between two women who love Jesus and care deeply about Scripture.

At one point she asked me,

“Where is the biblical authority in what you’re saying?”

It was a fair question.

But I found myself pausing.

Not because I don’t believe in the authority of Scripture.

I do.

Deeply.

I paused because she and I weren’t hearing the same words.

When I hear the phrase biblical authority, I don’t just think about Scripture.

I remember an umbrella.

Some of you know exactly the one.

God.

The husband.

The wife.

The children.

I remember lessons about where women belonged.

When to speak.

When to stay quiet.

What authority meant.

Now, before anybody gets nervous...

I’m not saying that’s what she meant.

I’m saying...

that’s what I heard.

Because words don’t just carry definitions.

They carry memories.

The older I get, the more I realize faithful people can read the same Bible and sometimes come to different conclusions.

Not because they don’t love Jesus.

But because we all bring our stories with us when we open Scripture.

For me, the question isn’t whether Scripture has authority.

It absolutely does.

The harder question is this:

Who gets to decide their interpretation is the only faithful one?

I’ve become much less certain about my own interpretations...

and much more confident in the character of Jesus.

That hasn’t weakened my faith.

It’s humbled it.

One sentence has been rattling around in my head all week.

The authority of Scripture requires the humility of the reader.

I can’t be the Holy Spirit in someone else’s life.

My calling is to faithfully follow where I believe God is leading me...

while remaining humble enough to admit I still have more to learn.

That’s really the heart behind Birdy Mae.

Not to tell people what to think.

But to help people rediscover the heart of Jesus.

Especially those who wonder if they’ve lost Him because they were hurt by His followers.

If the church wounded you...

that wound may be real.

But the wound isn’t Jesus.

He has always moved toward the hurting.

Toward the outsider.

Toward the one who wasn’t sure they belonged.

That’s still the Jesus I’m following.

So I’ve been pondering something.

Before we answer someone’s question...

What if we asked one of our own?

“When you use that word... what does it mean to you?”

I have a feeling we’d understand one another a whole lot better.

Love,

Birdy Mae

☕ What I’m Pondering

What word carries a different meaning because of your story?

Maybe it’s church.

Maybe it’s home.

Maybe it’s authority.

Maybe it’s submission.

Maybe it’s grace.

Sometimes we think we’re disagreeing about a word...

when we’re actually remembering two very different stories.

I’d love to hear yours.

📚 What I’m Reading

This week I’m slowly making my way through Invitations from God, and one chapter keeps calling me back:

The Invitation to Admit I Might Be Wrong.

Not wrong about Jesus.

Not wrong about the authority of Scripture.

But wrong about my certainty.

It’s reminding me that humility isn’t the enemy of faith.

It may actually be one of its greatest expressions.

I’m also working through 100 Days of Believing Bigger again.

I think this is my fifth time.

Apparently God knows I need a lot more than one hundred days to believe everything He wants to teach me.

And I’m okay with that.

❤️ Around My Table

I’d love to introduce you to a few people who found a chair around my table this week.

Heather Land has made me laugh for years, but this week she made me cry. She shared a beautiful video about her relationship with her mom, addiction, recovery, and what grace looks like after years of hurt. I’m linking it below because I think it’s one of the most honest things she’s ever shared.

Heather and her Mom

My husband grilled one of the best steaks we’ve had in a long time. I handled the eating. He handled everything else. We were both operating in our spiritual gifts.

Jules, my 2 year old grand girl, FaceTimed me just to show me her new dress. There’s something wonderfully sacred about a little girl who believes Gigi needs to see her twirl before the day is complete.

And I discovered a peach tea this week that actually tastes like peaches instead of peach-flavored sugar. If you’ve lived in the South long enough, you know that’s a miracle worthy of mentioning.

☕ Pull Up a Chair

I’d love to hear from you this week.

Is there a word that carries a different meaning because of your story?

You don’t have to explain everything.

Just tell me the word.

Or tell me the story behind it.

I’ll be in the comments.

Because I have a feeling we’ll all understand each other a little better if we begin there.

Love,

Birdy Mae

Well hey there.

It’s hot.

Not metaphorically.

Actually hot.

The kind of hot where you walk outside for three minutes and immediately question every life decision you’ve ever made.

The tomatoes are giving up.

The grass is crunchy.

Even the birds sound irritated.

Around here, we call them the dog days of summer.

I’ve been thinking...

Life has dog days too.

Not bad days.

Just... slow ones.

The kind where you keep looking over the horizon expecting something to change.

You’re waiting on news.

Waiting on a phone call.

Waiting for clarity.

Waiting for life to pick back up again.

If I’m honest...

that’s where I’ve been living lately.

Nothing is wrong.

But nothing feels settled either.

It’s a strange place to be.

So I’ve been reading a book called Invitations from God.

And there’s one chapter I can’t seem to leave alone.

The Invitation to Admit I Might Be Wrong.

Now...

I don’t like that invitation one bit.

I’d much rather accept the invitation that says,

“Congratulations, Mary. You were right all along.”

That one sounds delightful.

The other one?

Not so much.

But the more I’ve sat with it...

the more I’ve realized this invitation isn’t really about being wrong.

It’s about letting go of the illusion that I was ever meant to know everything in the first place.

I’ve spent a lot of my life trying to figure things out.

Trying to understand people.

Trying to understand God.

Trying to understand why some prayers seem to get answered and others don’t.

Trying to understand why one door opens while another quietly closes.

The older I get...

the less certain I become about almost everything.

Oddly enough...

the more peaceful I become.

Because maybe faith was never about arriving at perfect certainty.

Maybe faith is trusting God enough to keep walking even when I don’t have the whole map.

I’ve also realized something else.

It isn’t my job to figure out someone else’s journey.

I don’t have enough information.

I don’t know every chapter they’ve lived.

I don’t know every prayer they’ve prayed.

I don’t know every wound they’ve carried.

And if I’m honest...

I don’t even fully understand my own story yet.

So maybe I can loosen my grip on needing to be right about theirs.

Maybe that’s one of the gifts hidden in these dog days.

When life slows down...

we finally have time to notice the things we’ve been clutching too tightly.

Our timelines.

Our expectations.

Our certainty.

Our need to explain everything.

Maybe God isn’t asking me to solve the mystery.

Maybe He’s simply inviting me to keep walking.

I still have questions.

Probably more than I used to.

And strangely...

I think that’s become a gift instead of a weakness.

Questions keep me curious.

Questions keep me humble.

Questions remind me that God is God...

and I am wonderfully, gloriously...

still learning.

Even at sixty-two.

Especially at sixty-two.

So if you’re in a slow season too...

A season where nothing seems to be moving quite as fast as you’d hoped...

Maybe don’t rush to fill the silence.

Maybe there’s an invitation waiting there.

One you wouldn’t have noticed if life hadn’t slowed down long enough for you to hear it.

Love,

Birdy Mae

PS - let’s talk more

Every week, I’d love for us to keep the conversation going.

Not with debates.

Not with hot takes.

With stories.

This week’s question:

Where has life—or God—gently changed your mind?

I’ll be in the comments reading and responding.

Because sometimes the best part of The Back Row isn’t the letter.

It’s what happens around the table after everyone sits down.

I’ve been pondering something this week.

Have you ever noticed how quickly we decide who people are?

We meet someone in Chapter Seven...

and then spend the rest of our lives believing we know the whole book.

Maybe she’s guarded.

Maybe he’s angry.

Maybe she’s loud.

Maybe he’s quiet.

Maybe she’s deconstructing.

Maybe he never walks back into church again.

We see one chapter...

and somehow convince ourselves we’ve read the whole story.

But here’s what I’ve learned.

Every person makes a little more sense once you know what came before.

The woman who struggles to trust?

There may be a chapter you haven’t read.

The man who seems angry all the time?

There may be a chapter you haven’t read.

The person who asks hard questions about faith?

There may be a chapter you haven’t read.

I’ve started wondering how many people I’ve misunderstood simply because I met them too late in the story.

Maybe that’s why Jesus asked so many questions.

He seemed far more interested in people’s stories than their labels.

He met fishermen before they were disciples.

Tax collectors before they were generous.

Women before they were defined by their worst day.

He never seemed to confuse someone’s current chapter with their entire identity.

I’ve been thinking about that.

Because every version of me makes more sense when you know what came before.

The little girl who learned to keep the peace.

The young mom trying to survive.

The woman who spent decades believing certainty was the same thing as faith.

The Birdy sitting at this kitchen table today.

None of those women are the whole story.

They’re chapters.

Maybe that’s true for you too.

Maybe someone has decided who you are after reading one chapter.

Maybe you’ve done the same to someone else.

Either way...

I hope we’ll become the kind of people who ask one more question.

Who stay curious a little longer.

Who remember there’s almost always a chapter we haven’t read yet.

Love,

Birdy Mae

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I’ve been pondering something this week.

Maybe it’s because my social media feed has gotten itself all stirred up, but everywhere I turn somebody’s talking about getting back to the good old days.

Back to traditional values.

Back to traditional marriages.

Back to the way things used to be.

And every time I hear it, I catch myself whispering the same thing.

Honey... some of us remember “back” differently.

Now don’t get me wrong.

There are parts of “back” I miss.

I miss neighbors who knew your name.

I miss church dinners where every table had three casseroles and somebody’s famous banana pudding.

I miss kids riding bicycles until the porch lights came on.

I miss Sunday afternoons that moved a little slower.

There was goodness there.

Real goodness.

But memory is a funny thing.

It depends on where you were standing.

Because while one person remembers safety...

another remembers surviving.

While one person remembers stability...

another remembers silence.

And those memories deserve the same respect.

Before we decide we ought to go back...

maybe we should ask one more question.

Back for whom?

The rest of today’s letter is for paid subscribers.

One of the gifts of this little corner of the internet is that I don’t have to squeeze everything into ninety seconds. I get to tell you the whole story. Today I want to tell you why those four little words—”the good old days”—land differently in my heart.

Read more

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There are women who walk the easy road.

And then there are women who seem to find themselves on the hard one.

Not because they’re looking for a fight.

Not because they enjoy controversy.

Not because they’re rebellious.

But because once they’ve seen something...

they can’t pretend they haven’t.

I’ve been thinking about one of those women this week.

Her name is Karen.

I met Karen in one of the strangest ways imaginable.

Picture this...

It’s the early 2000s.

A van full of women headed to Memphis for a Beth Moore conference.

Twitter was still new enough that we were all figuring out how it worked.

One of the women traveling with us posted that she was headed to the event.

A woman named Karen replied that she was flying in.

Another friend offered to pick her up from the airport.

And the rest of us...

absolutely lost our minds.

“What if she’s a serial killer?”

“What if she’s pretending to be nice?”

“What if she abducts you?”

Looking back...

it’s amazing any of us survived the early internet.

Karen had shared that she’d recently lost her mother.

She had planned to bring her mom to hear Beth Moore.

Instead...

she was bringing her daughter.

By the time we met, she’d already lived through more grief than I understood.

And then I made the world’s greatest first impression.

I dumped an entire Big Gulp Diet Coke...

all over her daughter.

Clothes.

Stuff.

Everything.

There are friendships that begin with deep theological conversations.

Ours began with sticky shoes.

Karen became more than a conference friend.

She became a ministry partner.

A trusted voice.

One of those people who quietly changes the way you think.

Then life got hard.

Really hard.

Karen was diagnosed with cancer.

I watched her fight.

I watched her recover.

And then I watched something happen that confused me for years.

Her church...

the place she’d poured herself into...

the place where she’d taught women for years...

the place where her Bible study drew more women than Sunday morning attendance...

became the place that no longer had room for her.

Leadership changed.

The atmosphere changed.

The questions she’d always asked suddenly became unwelcome.

Eventually...

so did she.

If I’m honest...

I didn’t understand.

Not really.

There were moments I caught myself thinking...

“Karen just needs to move on.”

“Find another church.”

“Let it go.”

Those thoughts embarrass me now.

Not because I wasn’t trying to be compassionate.

But because I had never stood where she was standing.

I’d never had the place that shaped my faith quietly tell me...

“There’s no place for your voice here anymore.”

I had never watched years of discipling women become something people wanted to forget.

I had never been told that the gifts God had given me were suddenly a problem.

I simply didn’t know.

Then...

life has a funny way of introducing us to the people we used to misunderstand.

I haven’t lived Karen’s story.

Not even close.

I’ve never been pushed out of a church the way she was.

But I have slowly realized that there are rooms where I no longer fit.

Places where I once taught no longer invite me.

Friends who no longer return my calls.

People who have quietly stepped away because Birdy Mae asks questions they’d rather not hear.

I’ve been told I’m wrong.

I’ve been told I’m dangerous.

I’ve been told I’m leading people astray.

And what surprises me most isn’t that people disagree.

It’s how certain they are.

Then I remember...

I used to be just as certain.

There wasn’t much room in my faith for mystery.

Or questions.

Or maybe.

I thought certainty was spiritual maturity.

Now I wonder if humility might be.

The remarkable thing about Karen isn’t that she survived what happened.

It’s who she became because of it.

I’ve watched the Holy Spirit do something beautiful.

The fire could have made her bitter.

Instead...

it made her gentler.

More compassionate.

More welcoming.

She became the kind of woman who notices the person standing alone.

The one who doesn’t quite fit.

The one who’s wondering if there’s still a place for them at the table.

Karen always makes room.

Because she remembers what it feels like when no one made room for her.

I want to be more like Karen.

Not because I want to walk harder roads.

Lord knows I’ve got enough of those.

But because I want hardship to leave me softer instead of sharper.

Kinder instead of cynical.

More curious instead of certain.

More willing to welcome instead of protect my own comfort.

Maybe that’s one of the hidden gifts of the hard road.

It teaches us how to recognize each other.

Somewhere along the way...

I stopped wondering why Karen couldn’t “just move on.”

And I started thanking God that she didn’t.

Because women like Karen quietly become the trail guides for the rest of us.

They walk ahead.

They pay the cost first.

And years later...

when we find ourselves on the same road...

we discover someone has already left breadcrumbs home.

Thank you, Karen.

I hope you know how many of us are walking a little more bravely because you walked first.

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☕ What I’m Pondering

I’ve been asking myself a hard question this week.

How do I stay empathetic toward people who don’t seem to have much empathy for me?

That’s not rhetorical.

I’m genuinely trying to figure it out.

It’s easy to become the very thing we’ve been hurt by.

To write people off because they’ve written us off.

To become suspicious because others have been suspicious of us.

But every time I’m tempted...

Jesus quietly keeps walking back into the room.

He never seemed to run out of compassion.

Even for the people who misunderstood Him.

Even for the people who were certain He was wrong.

I’m still trying to figure out how to love people without letting bitterness sneak in through the back door.

Maybe empathy isn’t something people earn.

Maybe it’s something we choose.

I’m still pondering.

📚 What I’m Reading

This week I’m reading On Tyranny: Twenty Lessons from the Twentieth Century by Timothy Snyder.

It’s tiny.

You could read it in an afternoon.

But don’t.

Read one chapter.

Then sit with it.

Then read another.

It’s one of those books that doesn’t tell you what to think nearly as much as it teaches you how to pay attention.

I’m also putting together my Birdy Mae Bookshelf over on Amazon.

It’s where I’m collecting the books that have shaped my faith, challenged my assumptions, and helped me ask better questions.

I’ll link it below.

Click for the bookshelf

And if there’s a book you think belongs on that shelf...

tell me.

Some of my favorite books have come from conversations just like this one.

❤️ Around My Table

If we were sitting around my kitchen table this week, these are the people I’d tell you about.

Not because I agree with every word they say.

I don’t expect anyone to agree with every word I say either.

But because they’ve challenged me, encouraged me, or simply helped me see the world a little differently.

PoliticsGirl (@IAmPoliticsGirl)

If you’ve spent much time online, you’ve probably run across PoliticsGirl.

Whether you agree with every opinion she shares isn’t really the point.

What I appreciate is that she’s willing to speak clearly, thoughtfully, and unapologetically about what she believes. She reminds me that courage and kindness don’t have to be enemies.

I don’t follow people because they make me comfortable.

I follow people who make me think.

Sacred Slope

One of my favorite discoveries lately.

Sacred Slope isn’t about having all the answers.

It’s about creating space for honest conversations.

Some guests are still wrestling.

Some are healing.

Some have found peace on the other side.

Every one of them has a story worth hearing.

If you’ve been looking for conversations where curiosity is welcomed and people’s experiences are honored without being sensationalized, I think you’ll find something beautiful there.

Until next Friday...

I hope you find a Karen.

And if you’re lucky enough to already have one...

call her.

Tell her she mattered.

She may have no idea how many people are walking a little more courageously because she walked first.

And if you happen to be the Karen in someone else’s story...

thank you for staying on the hard road long enough to leave breadcrumbs for the rest of us.

Love,

Birdy

I don’t think I woke up one morning and discovered Christianity had changed.

If that had happened, we’d all have noticed.

Change like that makes headlines.

It splits churches.

It fills Facebook with passive-aggressive Bible verses.

No...

I think it happened the way rivers change course.

A little at a time.

So slowly you don’t realize you’re standing somewhere different until one day you look around and think...

“Wait...when did we get here?”

Then you begin telling your own story.

Not the political story.

Yours.

I left corporate America to raise our girls.

I loved it.

Really loved it.

It wasn’t always easy.

Some months we stretched every dollar until George Washington looked tired.

But I’d have made that choice a hundred times.

When someone talks about the beauty of motherhood...

I nod.

I know.

I lived it.

So when I hear conversations about women returning home...

part of me smiles.

Because I know the gift.

And another part of me gets uneasy.

Because I know the difference between celebrating a calling...

and prescribing one.

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There are a few things in my office that I treasure.

One of them is a Route 66 sign made from old license plates. My friend Melinda gave it to me before we ever started our trip down the Mother Road.

Right beside it sits a folded-up Route 66 map from 1968.

Every now and then I pull it off the shelf.

I unfold it carefully, smoothing out the creases that have been there longer than some of my readers have been alive.

It smells like old paper...

and dreams.

I place my hand on that map, and for just a moment I’m transported back to 2012.

Not because I remember every mile.

I don’t.

I remember the laughter.

Melinda and I spent twelve days wandering Route 66 from Oklahoma to Arizona.

We were both standing on the edge of becoming empty nesters. Our youngest kids were in their last years of high school, and we both sensed that life was about to change.

So we did what two women who love Americana and old roads do.

We packed our bags.

Grabbed a map.

And took the long way.

Route 66 has Americana in spades.

Neon signs.

Tiny diners.

Roadside attractions.

Motels that have been welcoming travelers for generations.

It’s a road that refuses to hurry.

And looking back, I think that’s exactly what I needed.

We almost ran out of gas in rural New Mexico because we were convinced there had to be another station just a little farther down the road.

Turns out there wasn’t.

Nothing will make two Southern women pray quite like watching the gas gauge drift toward empty while the sun is setting over the desert.

We rolled into what can only be described as the sketchiest little gas station imaginable on fumes and gratitude.

We laughed until we cried.

We met a fascinating man in Madrid, New Mexico, who wore skirts because, as he explained, they were cooler than pants.

Honestly...

he made a pretty compelling argument.

We met a young expectant mother who needed a little help getting back on her feet.

We stood on the corner in Winslow, Arizona.

(Yes...we sang the song.)

We spray-painted cars at Cadillac Ranch with people who’d joined us after reading about our adventure in the local newspaper.

We stayed at the Blue Swallow Motel in Tucumcari, New Mexico, where we met the wife of an Apollo astronaut and laughed ourselves silly while filming what passed for livestreaming back then. Anybody remember U-verse streaming?

I still have that video.

Maybe I’ll share it with you.

But if I’m honest...

the places aren’t what I remember most.

I remember Melinda.

Every woman ought to have a Melinda.

She’s the kind of friend who remembers to bring Green Apple Jolly Ranchers because she knows they’re your favorite.

(And to this day, every time I unwrap one, I’m back on Route 66.)

We can spend hours talking about faith, family, kids, dreams, and absolutely nothing at all...

and then spend the next two hours perfectly content watching the desert roll by in silence.

We don’t talk nearly as often as we once did.

Life has a way of doing that.

She’s always been the quieter one, though over the past few years she’s found her voice and gotten a little louder. Not loud like me...just louder for her.

We don’t always agree.

We never have.

But I know her heart.

And sometimes that’s more important than agreeing.

If she called tomorrow and said, “I’ve got the maps...”

I’d start packing before she finished the sentence.

Looking back now, I realize that trip happened before another journey began.

A journey I never saw coming.

In 2012, if you’d asked me about God, I would’ve answered with confidence.

I knew who God was.

I knew what sin was.

I understood the narrow path.

I believed I knew exactly what faithful living looked like.

I wouldn’t have called them “rules.”

But if I’m honest...

that’s exactly how I thought about them.

I confused certainty with faithfulness.

Somewhere along the way, I started asking questions.

Questions I never imagined I’d ask.

Questions I was pretty sure good church women weren’t supposed to ask.

And instead of finding my faith slipping away...

I found it deepening.

These days, I’d answer that same question very differently.

Today I’d tell you that I trust the road I’m on.

I don’t know where every curve leads.

I don’t know why some stretches have been harder than others.

I don’t know exactly what God is doing around every bend.

But I’ve come to trust the One I’m traveling with.

And I’ve finally stopped worrying so much about whether everyone else is taking the same road I am.

That’s between them and God.

My assignment has become wonderfully simple.

Love people well.

I’ve also been thinking about all the people who handed me my first map.

Sunday school teachers.

Youth leaders.

Pastors.

Women who faithfully taught Bible studies.

They weren’t trying to mislead me.

They loved Jesus.

They handed me the very best map they had.

And for that...

I’m grateful.

I don’t resent them.

But I’ve learned something they probably would’ve agreed with if we’d had the chance to sit around a kitchen table together.

The map isn’t the journey.

It’s where the journey begins.

Maps help us get started.

Journeys change us.

I still collect old maps.

Not because they’ll get me where I’m going.

Google Maps does that just fine.

I collect them because they remind me there is more than one way to travel.

Interstates are efficient.

They get you there quickly.

Route 66 meanders.

It invites you to slow down.

To notice.

To stop.

To listen.

To meet people you’d never have encountered if your only goal was arriving.

These days, my faith looks a whole lot more like Route 66 than Interstate 40.

It’s slower.

More curious.

Filled with stories.

Less interested in certainty.

Far more interested in compassion.

Less concerned with reaching the destination as quickly as possible.

Far more interested in loving the people I meet along the way.

And maybe...

just maybe...

that’s where Jesus was headed all along.

☕ What I’m Pondering

I’ve been thinking a lot about the faith I inherited.

I learned it sitting in Sunday school classrooms and in the pews at South Avondale Church. I learned it from people who genuinely loved Jesus and faithfully taught what they had been taught.

I’m grateful for them.

But somewhere along the way I realized I’d inherited more than faith.

I’d inherited certainty.

For years I believed every question had an answer if I just looked hard enough.

What I missed was the beauty of wrestling.

The gift of uncertainty.

The invitation to lean in and listen instead of rushing to be right.

Maybe God has always been inviting us onto the slower road.

The one where we notice more.

The one where we ask better questions.

The one where we discover that love is often a better guide than certainty.

This week’s question:

What beliefs did you inherit...and which ones have you intentionally chosen as your own?

I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

📚 On My Nightstand

The Many Lives of Mama Love by Lara Love Hardin

I just finished this one, and I can’t recommend it enough.

It’s a story about addiction, redemption, resilience, and the extraordinary courage it takes to build a life after you’ve lost almost everything.

More than anything, it’s a reminder that people are rarely the worst thing they’ve ever done.

I closed the book grateful I’d met Lara through her story.

Jesus and John Wayne by Kristin Kobes Du Mez

This week’s nonfiction read.

If you’ve ever wondered how faith, politics, masculinity, and American evangelicalism became so deeply intertwined, this book is worth your time.

I won’t spoil it.

I’ll just say the subtitle tells you exactly what you’re in for:

How White Evangelicals Corrupted a Faith and Fractured a Nation.

Read it with curiosity.

❤️ Around My Table

Bri is proof that joy can fit inside one human being.

She’s a phenomenal cookbook author, an incredible home cook, and one of those people who somehow makes everything feel a little lighter.

If you need recipes, encouragement, or simply someone who reminds you that delight matters, she’s worth following.

Evan Dodson

Evan feels like everybody’s favorite crafty uncle.

He loves a Disney cruise, makes beautiful things, co-hosts the Faith Adjacent podcast, and brings kindness into every corner of the internet he occupies.

The world could use more Evans.

Some writers give you information.

Karen gives you perspective.

Her writing is thoughtful, gracious, intellectually curious, and deeply rooted in faith.

Every time I leave her Substack, I find myself thinking a little differently than when I arrived.

That’s one of the highest compliments I know how to give a writer.

Until next Friday...

May you find an old map worth unfolding.

May you remember the people who traveled beside you.

May you be grateful for the roads that brought you here.

And if God invites you onto a new one...

I hope you’ll have the courage to take the scenic route.

— Birdy Mae

Links are affiliate links — doesn’t cost you any more just adds some pennies to my wallet

I read the 224-page Religious Liberty Commission report. I can’t stop thinking about who gets to define freedom when faith and power share a table.

I did something this weekend that I cannot recommend for relaxation.

I read a 224-page government report about religion.

Some people garden.

Some people take naps.

Apparently, I make choices.

It is the draft report from the Religious Liberty Commission, and I started reading because I kept seeing pieces of it mentioned in the news.

You know me.

Once I start wondering, I’m probably going to go find the thing and read it myself.

This is both a gift and the reason I occasionally lose entire afternoons.

So I poured a drink, grabbed a highlighter, and started reading.

And here’s the thing.

I agreed with parts of it.

I believe religious liberty matters.

Deeply.

I believe the Christian student should be able to pray over her lunch without being mocked or punished.

I believe a Jewish child should be protected in the practice of his faith.

I believe a Muslim woman should be able to wear her hijab.

I believe a Sikh man should be able to wear the articles of his faith.

I believe incarcerated people should have reasonable access to religious practice.

I believe the atheist should be free to say, “I don’t believe any of this.”

Religious freedom matters to me.

Not just my religious freedom.

Yours.

Because freedom that only protects the people who believe like me isn’t freedom.

It’s preference.

And I kept reading.

At first, I nodded.

Highlighted.

Made notes.

But somewhere along the way, I stopped highlighting.

And started writing questions in the margins.

This is where the Monday/Tuesday letter goes a little deeper.

Friday is our open table. Everybody’s invited.

But these midweek letters are where I bring the things I can’t stop thinking about—the questions still scattered across my kitchen table.

If you’re a paid subscriber, come sit a little longer.

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Tomorrow, America turns 250.

There will be fireworks.

Flags.

Little kids running around with sparklers while every adult within twenty feet says, “Don’t point that at your sister.”

There will be hamburgers and hot dogs and potato salad made three different ways because apparently mayonnaise is one of the great theological divides of our time.

And I’ll celebrate.

I love this country.

I do.

Which is precisely why I’m not willing to pretend I don’t have questions.

Funny how that works, isn’t it?

We’ve somehow decided that loving something means never saying anything uncomfortable about it.

Honey.

That’s not love.

That’s how your friend lets you walk into church with spinach in your teeth.

The people who love you tell you the truth.

Sometimes gently.

Sometimes after saying, “Now don’t get mad...”

And sometimes they grab you by the shoulders and say, “Girl. What are you DOING?”

Love tells the truth because love believes something is worth saving.

I’ve said the same thing about the Church.

If I didn’t love her, I wouldn’t care enough to ask hard questions.

And I suppose I feel the same way about America.

I love this country too much to sit quietly while I wonder if we’re becoming something I don’t recognize.

So, because my brain never leaves me alone, I started reading.

That’s usually where the trouble starts.

I Thought “Under God” Had Always Been There

I grew up saying the Pledge of Allegiance.

Hand over my heart.

Facing the flag.

“One nation, under God...”

I never questioned those words.

Honestly, I think I assumed George Washington wrote them himself somewhere between crossing the Delaware and chopping down that cherry tree.

Turns out...

Nope.

The words “under God” were added to the Pledge in 1954.

Not 1776.

Not by the Founding Fathers.

During the Eisenhower administration, in the middle of the Cold War.

Two years later, in 1956, “In God We Trust” became the official national motto of the United States.

Again...

Now, the phrase itself had appeared on American coins much earlier. I’m not suggesting somebody dreamed it up over lunch in the 1950s.

But making it our official national motto?

That’s recent history.

My mama was alive.

And I don’t know why, but learning that stopped me.

Because I had always carried those words as evidence that America had been officially, unquestionably, intentionally established as a Christian nation.

And apparently...

I’d never actually asked when the words got there.

Or why.

I just inherited the story.

And then, because my brain never leaves me alone...

I started wondering the same thing about the Church.

How many things have I believed simply because I heard them long enough?

How many things did I assume were ancient...

when they were actually fairly recent?

How many traditions did I confuse with Scripture?

How many political ideas did I confuse with theology?

How many times did somebody say, “We’ve always believed...”

and I never once asked...

Have we?

That’s an uncomfortable question.

I know.

Set your casserole dish down.

We’re going a little deeper.

And since it’s Friday, the door to The Back Row is wide open.

My midweek letters are where paid subscribers and I stay a little longer and wander farther into these conversations.

But Fridays?

Fridays are for everybody.

So come on in.

Who Gets to Define “Under God”?

Here’s the question I can’t seem to shake.

The official Freedom 250 celebration includes something called America Prays.

And the language on the White House website calls for the:

“prayer & rededication of the United States as one nation under God.”

I read that sentence several times.

Rededication.

One nation under God.

And I want to be clear.

Prayer doesn’t scare me.

God doesn’t scare me.

Honey, I love Jesus.

I’ve followed Him most of my life.

But I have a question.

Who gets to define the God in “under God”?

Because when the government starts talking about rededicating the nation to God, somebody has to decide what that means.

Which God?

Whose theology?

Which denomination?

Which interpretation of Scripture?

The Southern Baptists?

The Catholics?

The Methodists?

The Episcopalians?

The Pentecostals?

The Mormons?

Our Jewish neighbors?

Our Muslim neighbors?

And before somebody types, “Well obviously the Christian God...”

Okay.

Which Christians?

Because we’ve spent 2,000 years disagreeing with one another.

Sometimes loudly.

We can’t even agree on baptism.

Y’all really want the government sorting out the Trinity?

I’ve watched a church business meeting debate the color of carpet for forty-five minutes.

Forgive me if I’m hesitant to hand theology over to a bunch of yahoos in Washington, DC. And yes, I said Yahoos—and not every single one is a Yahoo, but there is a definite majority.

This Isn’t About Whether I Love Jesus

This is the part that gets frustrating.

The minute some of us raise questions about Christian nationalism, people assume we’ve become anti-Christian.

I haven’t.

I’m not embarrassed by Jesus.

I’m not trying to remove God from my life.

I’m trying to understand why so many Christians seem eager to hand our faith to political power and ask it to protect us.

Because Jesus had opportunities to align Himself with power.

And He kept walking toward people instead.

The poor.

The sick.

The outsider.

The woman everyone had already judged.

The foreigner.

The person religious leaders had decided was unclean.

That’s the Jesus I keep finding in Scripture.

And the older I get, the more nervous I become when Christianity starts sounding more interested in control than compassion.

More interested in winning than serving.

More interested in protecting its place in society than washing anybody’s feet.

Maybe that’s because I’ve watched what happens when institutions start protecting themselves.

Churches do it.

Ministries do it.

Organizations do it.

Governments do it.

Somewhere along the way, the mission becomes maintaining the machine.

And once the machine matters more than the people...

then darling, we have a problem.

I Love This Country Enough to Tell the Truth

I really do love America.

I love the ridiculous roadside attractions.

I love small-town parades.

I love baseball games and county fairs and diners where somebody calls you “sugar” before bringing you coffee.

I love that we are a nation made up of people whose stories began all over the world.

I love the promise of America.

But loving the promise doesn’t require pretending we’ve always lived up to it.

We haven’t.

That’s not disrespectful.

That’s history.

And maybe the most patriotic thing we can do at 250 years old is finally become mature enough to tell the truth about ourselves.

The beautiful parts.

The painful parts.

The parts we got right.

The parts we are still trying to repair.

Love tells the truth.

Remember?

So Tomorrow, I’ll Celebrate

I’ll probably eat something grilled.

I’ll watch fireworks.

I’ll complain about the heat because Alabama in July feels like living inside a bowl of hot soup.

And I’ll be grateful.

Grateful for freedom.

Grateful for the people who fought to expand that freedom when it didn’t include everyone.

Grateful for the people still doing that work.

But I’ll also be thinking.

Because America is 250 years old now.

And at some point, birthdays stop being about how many candles are on the cake.

They become an opportunity to ask:

Who am I becoming?

I think that’s a fair question for a country.

And maybe for the Church too.

I don’t need America to become a Christian nation.

I need Christians to become more like Christ.

And I have a feeling if we focused on that...

we’d have plenty to keep us busy.

☕ What I’m Pondering

I’ve been thinking about the difference between faith being free and faith being favored.

I absolutely want religious freedom.

For me.

For you.

For my Jewish neighbors.

For my Muslim neighbors.

For the person who believes something entirely different from what I do.

And for the person who doesn’t believe in God at all.

Because if faith requires the government to put its thumb on the scale...

I have to wonder what we’re afraid of.

Jesus never seemed particularly worried that His message couldn’t survive without political sponsorship.

So here’s the question I’m carrying this weekend:

Do I want freedom for my faith...or do I want my faith to be favored?

Those aren’t necessarily the same thing.

And I’m still pondering.

Until Next Friday...

May we love our country enough to tell the truth.

May we love our neighbors enough to protect their freedom as fiercely as our own.

May we love Jesus enough to follow Him...

even when He leads us away from power and toward people.

And may we never confuse being under God

with being in control.

— Birdy Mae

Share The Back Row

I’ve been thinking about birthdays this week.

America turns 250 on Friday.

There’ll be fireworks, little kids running around with sparklers, enough red, white, and blue to blind a person, and somebody—bless ‘em—is going to burn the hot dogs.

As God intended.

I’ll be celebrating right along with everybody else.

Because I love this country.

I really do.

Which is exactly why I can’t pretend everything’s fine.

You know, we’ve somehow convinced ourselves that if you love something, you never say anything uncomfortable about it.

Honey...

that’s not love.

That’s avoidance wrapped in a flag.

The people who love you enough to tell you the truth?

Those are your people.

The friend who whispers you’ve got spinach in your teeth before you walk into church.

The spouse who gently says, “Maybe sleep on that email before you hit send.”

The child who finally finds the courage to say, “Mom...I don’t think we’re okay.”

Love tells the truth.

Not because it’s trying to shame.

Because it’s trying to save something worth protecting.

That’s why I’ve never understood why asking hard questions gets treated like betrayal.

Whether we’re talking about the Church...

or the country.

If I love this place—its people, its promise, and the ideals we’ve always reached for—why would I quietly watch us drift farther away from them without saying a word?

That doesn’t feel like patriotism to me.

It feels like giving up.

And I love this country too much to give up on her.

Somewhere between buying hamburger buns and wondering if somebody remembered the ice, I caught myself asking a question I couldn’t shake.

When a nation turns 250... how do you know if it’s growing wiser?

Not richer.

Not stronger.

Wiser.

And then, because my brain never leaves me alone...

I started wondering the same thing about the Church.

This is where I’d normally say, “Pull up a chair.”

Because what came next kept me awake longer than I expected.

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It’s Saturday.

I know.

The Friday letter wandered into the weekend.

I’d ask for forgiveness, but honestly, I think grace is more appropriate.

So...

Set your casserole dish down.

Pull up a chair.

I’ve got a few things rattling around in my head.

🪑 What I’m Pondering

I’ve been thinking a lot this week about the news surrounding the administration’s push toward a closer relationship between government and Christianity.

And if I’m honest...

It unsettles me.

Not because I’m afraid of Christianity having influence.

I’m afraid of which version of Christianity gets chosen.

Who decides?

Who gets to define what “real” Christianity looks like?

Who gets left out?

Who gets protected?

Who gets punished?

Those aren’t hypothetical questions. We’ve been asking them inside churches for a very long time.

I’ve spent decades watching people begin with hearts that were genuinely surrendered to God.

They loved people.

They served quietly.

They wanted nothing more than to be faithful.

But somewhere along the way...

The mission shifted.

Suddenly, it became about protecting the institution.

Protecting the image.

Protecting the platform.

Making sure the money kept coming in.

Making sure the follower count matched the brand.

Power has a funny way of convincing us we’re still serving God, even when we’re mostly serving ourselves.

Maybe that’s why this keeps rattling around in my head.

Because once government starts blessing one version of Christianity over another...

Who decides what that version is?

Is it the Christianity that washes feet?

Or the Christianity that guards gates?

The Christianity that welcomes outsiders?

Or the Christianity that builds bigger fences?

I know some people will hear that and think I’m arguing against faith in public life.

I’m not.

I’m arguing for a faith that doesn’t need political power to be faithful.

I don’t want Washington deciding what Christianity looks like any more than I wanted a denomination deciding who was worthy of belonging.

I’d rather follow the Jesus who had dinner with the people everyone else was trying to control than build a faith that depends on who occupies the halls of power.

❤️ What Caught My Eye

I cannot stop thinking about the children in Dilley.

If you haven’t heard of Letters From Dilley, it’s a project that shares letters written by and about families held in an immigration detention center.

I keep picturing what summer is supposed to look like.

Sprinklers.

Sticky popsicles.

Fireflies.

Sparklers.

Grandparents sneaking them an extra cookie.

Instead...

These kids are spending their days behind locked doors.

Whatever your politics are...

Whatever your opinions are about immigration...

I just can’t convince myself that children belong in detention.

Every child bears the image of God long before they become part of a political argument.

I hope we never lose sight of that.

📚 What’s on My Nightstand

This week’s recommendation is How the Bible Actually Works by Peter Enns.

Y’all...

Where has this man been all my life?

Peter has a way of talking about the Bible that feels like sitting across the table from a really smart friend instead of getting a lecture from someone trying to prove they’re smarter than you.

He’s funny.

He’s relatable.

And he gives people permission to ask the kinds of questions many of us were taught not to ask.

One of my favorite things about this book is that he doesn’t treat curiosity like it’s the enemy of faith.

He treats it like part of faith.

Imagine that.

Now, I don’t agree with every conclusion Peter reaches—and that’s okay.

I don’t need someone to think exactly like I do before I can learn from them.

If you’ve ever read a passage of Scripture and quietly wondered, “What am I supposed to do with this?” this is a wonderful place to start.

It’s become one of my favorite books this year.

❤️ People You Should Follow

Carlos Whittaker

Carlos is one of those rare people whose public life matches the person he is when the cameras are off.

He loves people well.

He asks thoughtful questions.

He writes books that make you think.

And he consistently reminds us that listening is often more powerful than shouting.

If your feed could use a little more curiosity and a little less outrage, go follow Carlos.

Kendall Mariah

I had the chance to spend some time with Kendall and her family last week, and she is exactly who she appears to be online.

Kind.

Funny.

Authentic.

She’s a military spouse whose husband just deployed, and somehow she still finds ways to create joy for other people.

Also...

She loves Disney almost as much as I do, which tells me she has excellent judgment.

Go give her a follow and cheer her on.

Lauren DeMoss

Lauren is brilliant.

The kind of brilliant that doesn’t have to announce itself.

She’s thoughtful, articulate, deeply curious, and—just to make the rest of us feel inadequate—she can actually grow things.

She has a way of helping people think more deeply while making complicated ideas feel accessible.

We need more voices like hers.

Go follow Lauren.

That’s what’s been sitting with me this week.

Now I’d love to hear what’s been sitting with you.

Hit reply.

Tell me what you’re pondering.

I read every single one.

Until next week...

Set your casserole dish down.

Pull up a chair.

— Birdy Mae

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You remember that song from when you were little.

The one where they show you four pictures and ask which one doesn’t belong.

One of these things is not like the others.

I have had that song stuck in my head for days now.

Because last week I sat at a farm table under string lights, plate of good food in front of me, glass of wine, s’mores waiting by the fire pit, surrounded by content creators and influencers whose platforms range from a few hundred thousand to many, many millions.

I looked around the table and did the math before anyone even said hello.

Most of the room was Gen Z. A handful of millennials sprinkled in.

And then there’s me.

The resident older woman. The one who’s supposed to be the wise one in the room, the one with the years and the seasoning and the settled perspective.

Instead, I was the one taking notes. Learning from every single one of these younguns like my life depended on it.

Because it kind of does.

At one point, I found myself sitting across from a woman I had admired from a distance for a long time. Someone using her platform to educate more people than I can wrap my head around. Someone who has taught me things — actual theology, actual courage — without ever knowing my name.

I leaned across that table and hugged her.

And she knew exactly who I was.

I am still floored by that. Days later. Still floored.

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