✨thoughts✨
Maybe this is just the voice of one sheep—
lingering near the edge of the flock,
If she’s even part of that anymore.
She’s tired of being led in circles
by men who never seem to question the path.
Wondering why they keep returning
to the same dry places,
why the grass never satisfies,
why the stories leave their spirits hollow.
She doesn’t claim to know everything.
But deep in her body—
in the marrow and memory of her—
she knows there are holes in the stories.
She’s watched generations follow a gospel
built almost entirely by men—
for men—
about men.
And yet, every single soul
who has ever entered this world
came through the same sacred passage—
a woman’s body.
That is not a footnote.
That is not background.
That is the portal.
They are the doorway
between the unseen and the seen.
And still—
men wrote their names onto every scroll,
traced Jesus’ lineage through Joseph,
- a man who wasn’t even his blood!
They gave Joseph the credit,
erased Mary’s mother entirely,
and cast Bathsheba as a seductress
instead of the survivor she was.
They left out the grandmothers,
the wombs that held the weight of glory in secret,
the women who sustained the bloodline of the Divine
in silence and shadow.
And this sheep?
She’s simply asking:
Why?
Why does the story drip with conquest and war,
but say so little about lullabies,
so little about the hands that wipe tears,
the arms that cradle the future?
She’s watched the mothers.
She’s seen them call their children
back from the edge,
heard them say,
“Tell me what hurts.
Let’s sit down.
Let’s make it right.”
Mothers don’t send sons to war
to prove their worth.
They want peace at the table.
They want every child whole.
She doesn’t pretend to be a prophet.
But she knows this gospel is missing something.
And she can feel what’s missing
in the space between her ribs.
Because if Mary carried Jesus,
then Mary’s mother carried Mary.
And Mary’s grandmother—
she carried the egg that would one day carry God.
To trace that line back,
through the gaps and the silences,
through the names no one bothered to remember,
you will find Bathsheba.
Not just the woman they whispered about.
Not the one they shamed.
But the grandmother of Christ.
The bloodline.
The blueprint.
The sacred vessel
who carried the promise
long before anyone knew how to spell Messiah.
This means Jesus—
the Light of the World—
passed through the womb of his grandmother,
and her mother before her.
He was carried in the bodies of women
whose names never made it into scripture,
but whose blood built the bridge between heaven and earth.
All the way to Eve…
Or was it Lilith and that was a lie too?
She sees what’s happening now.
Wives leaving marriages that asked them to shrink.
Mothers weeping in pews that never made space for their pain.
Daughters exhausted by the weight of shame
dressed up as holiness.
Trying to please fathers raised by unhealed fathers.
She sees it.
She feels it.
The flock is growing restless.
Because the story we were handed
left out the sacred blood of the womb.
And she is tired.
Tired of hearing her pain isn’t holy.
Tired of watching the womb erased
while men argue about power in temples.
Because if bringing life into this world
isn’t spiritual—
then nothing is!
To carry life in the dark.
To bleed for it.
To tear herself open
and bring another piece of God into the world—
there is nothing more divine than that.
They left it out of the story.
But she won’t.
This is not a feminist rant.
This is a feminine awakening—
and it’s important that men know the difference.