https://unsplash.com/@jessicalfadel, https://www.jessicafadel.com/

Jessica Fadel, 26398 Ruecker Street Suite 531 Kansas City, MO, Raytown, FL (2026)

08/01/2023

I want to share this opportunity to listen, learn, and process through your experience of religious hurt, abuse, or trauma. And I wanted to also share the importance and weightiness that I feel in knowing many of you are here are because we share similar wounds or stories. With that in mind, I am always trying to be mindful of the kinds of things I would recommend to you in your own healing processes.

I’ve been thankful for the work and heart of Brian Lee () who has gathered these voices together to share their own stories and experiences, including my own. I’m so humbled to join and learn from these voices—many whom have been a part of my own healing.

There can be a rightful skepticism with entering into things like this, especially when money is involved, so I’m grateful that Brian has made it an option to register for the first 24 hours of access for free.

My hope is that if this is something you want to explore further, you have the chance to sit with the information and interviews presented without feeling like you have to commit to something you aren’t sure about. And then, of course, if it is something you want to continue to pursue, you can purchase an “All Access Lifetime Pass” and the content will be available for you to explore and go at your own pace.

Navigating faith-based spaces can be a risk—especially post-trauma and abuse—so as you begin to wonder about next steps, I’m grateful that there are opportunities like this to practice using the voice and power that perhaps was taken from you. And while I'm not sure of all the things that will be shared through this summit, I do know that heart behind each person is to see and honor those who have been hurt in religious spaces.

If this is something you choose to explore, please know I am here to listen to you and learn from you in the process.

You can use the link I’ve been given (in my bio and in my stories) which is an affiliate link or you can use the main link as well (brokentobeloved.org).
Photo by

07/30/2023

Your tears are holy things in the midst of all that is unholy
Photo by

07/29/2023

If tears come this morning because you have been pushed out,
if your stomach turns when you enter the doors because scripture was yelled,
if anxiousness visits with moral condemnations because you can no longer come,
may you speak to each tear
and turn,
and anxious voice,
with the gentleness and care you should have received from spiritual leaders.

You are not less holy,
less loved,
or a bad Christian for not going to church—
as you tend to your body
and her tender wounds.

Jesus’s love pours over you—
ready to greet the parts that feel unreachable,
to welcome and love where you’ve been unwelcomed and unloved.

As you sit with empty hands and weary hearts,
his love outlasts
the memorized verses,
the pages read,
and the Sunday mornings,

No matter the number of days or months
you are welcomed into his arms.

This morning I’m thinking of you praying,
for the ones who are feeling hopeless,
for the ones who have found solace,
for the ones who are filled with wonder and doubt,
for the ones who long for a place to come and be welcomed,
may you greet each wound, each sorrow, and each care,
with the same tenderness that the Shepherd greets you with this morning.
Photo by

07/28/2023

May the Lord bring a light
into the spaces that have been darkened
by night.

May his hand overturn
each hidden power
clutched by the ones who misuse.

May his peace be outpoured
over each one who is longing,
waiting, and wanting,
may it be like the spring dew,
fresh with the morning,
covering each place that has
known death
in the cold, dark winter.

May his words meet you once more
rewoven with his kindness and love,
healing each wound
that was carved in haste.

May this morning be a taste
of his welcome,
may you know how
he holds your faith,
in the storm and in the drought,
when all feels tossed by the wind,
when we cannot hold onto him,
may you be held by him.

May each heavy burden
each religious rite,
each unjust rule,
be lifted from your shoulders,
and may you know
your belovedness does not depend
on what you do to care for yourself this morning.

May you rest in his goodness today.
Photo by

07/27/2023

Jesus teaches me through his words and way.

There can be a hurried fear that causes us to gouge texts with a fury. A power that boils over into swinging with wounding swords. An anxiousness that breeds anger-filled preaching.

It says now, quickly. Now, violently. Now, at the cost of care, kindness, and love. Now—it screams at us. Each differing belief is the highest threat, each different practice of faith an abomination, othering our neighbors, roping our tribe off from the ones who “just don’t get it”…whatever “it” is.

What would it be like to have the one who knows all things pause with you. What would it be like to have the one who formed all things imagine with you. What would it be like to walk with him, to eat with him, to laugh and breathe with him—what would it be like to be in the presence of patient love.

There are many things written about the way Jesus came—as a human, into suffering—common, modest, humble, simple. Perhaps they wanted to hurry Jesus too. They wanted him to end each war, each trouble, each wrong they longed to right. Perhaps they wanted him to condemn, to unleash his power on all those they claimed were worthy of judgment. Perhaps they wanted him to be cold to the ones they deemed unworthy.

His ways pushed against what they imagined or taught God to be…perhaps what they had formed him into. What they were met with was the very thing they despised, the very thing they thought too soft, too slow, too welcoming, too imaginative.

They were met with a tender word toward the forsaken.
They were met with someone who walked with the unwelcome.
They were met with flesh that broke for the sake of others.
Perhaps we too can meet another with this same way.

Would it be a waste to linger looking at the sunset,
a lesser thing to pluck the flower and place it in the water,
would it be foolish to walk another mile around the thawing pond?

Jesus shows us through his way.

Look and wonder,
delight in what I have crafted for you,
be slow with the anger you have for those who think need correction,
be generous with the love you hold—my love,
walk another mile and feel the sun,
and know, I’m here walking with you.
Photo by

07/26/2023

you made me this way

like a meteorologist
watching out for the storm clouds
bracing for the wind and waves
predicting the impending blows

like a watchdog
pacing around his land
feeling for the thuds of the intruder
eyes locked on the entrance

like a therapist
listening to each inner turmoil
but without consent, without the tool chest, without the power
to tend to your deep rooted thirst for power

like a child
wandering in the dark
reaching out for hand
calling out for rescue and relief

a sensitive soul
a watcher of storms
with soft hands
that can only hold so much
with a tender heart
that beats with anxiety
because you made me this way

so if you’re wondering why
I cower when it storms
why my body still bears the scars
why your house is not a home
why I’ll never be at peace in your presence
and why I’m too soft for your preference
it’s because you made me this way

so I’ll watch for the ones who run
use these soft hands to bear
use this tender heart to care
use these bruises
to welcome the wounded

use the way you molded me
and the strength I now hold
and the place I call home
and the path I now walk
and the healing I now know
for good
Photo by

07/25/2023

Religious abuse and trauma altered what I was mindful of on Sunday mornings.

And with time and healing came the opportunity to hold, to witness the pain of another, to see with my scarred eyes the ones who came with fresh wounds.

Each story reminded me that there is more gentleness to spread, more ways to welcome, more care needed—especially in church spaces. It’s one of the reasons I still go to church. I was welcomed when I had nothing to give, I was given a place to rest when I didn’t know how to ask for a bed, I was given hope and faith once more when all I felt was weary and dry.

And ever since, I’ve longed to give that same grace and kindness to others. And I’m helped by your stories here, I remain mindful of the pain you carry, I am made a better listener and softer burden bearer because of your courage.

So on Sundays, I post a prayer and then look for people like you and remember that we each hold a story, a grief, a loss and we each take a risk. We risk in conversation, in singing the words we’re not sure if we still believe, in stepping through the doors that once pushed us out.

For those who welcome and long to be welcomed:

May each bed we make be a place of rest,
may each table we set be a place of welcome,
may each tear we witness be a sign of gentleness,
may each hand we hold find comfort in our own.

May our scars remind us
that pain remains present
in the bodies of those who sit
beside us this morning.

And may you know abundant welcome this morning,
may a seat be opened,
may words be restored,
may someone notice your pain
and name the risk you take,
may they be mindful of all you carry,
may you feel tenderness in the Shepherd’s house once more.
Photo by

07/24/2023

The wrong shall fail, the right prevail.

As I’ve seen the ways in which unnecessarily harmful language about ourselves and others has made room for damaging narratives about the state of humanity, I have also wondered how we can speak honestly about both the harm we have given and the harm we have received.

I think for most of us, it isn’t hard to imagine that we have and are capable of hurting someone else—we’ve seen the tears stream down our partner’s face, the words we wish we could take back, or the rage that went too far. Perhaps even more so, we know deeply the reality of the wounds that others have inflicted upon us—we wake with them each morning, they haunt us in relationships, and visit us unwelcomed.

So where do we go with the harm—with the wrongs that have been done by us and to us? Where do we go with our longing for justice, for forgiveness, for restoration, and hope? Who will care if wrong prevails and right fails?

Could it be that there was a human so tender, so pure, that he lived a life without harming another? Could it be that love was so perfectly and bountifully displayed that we were caused to wonder at his humanity? Could it be that Jesus came to right each wrong, to make a way for justice to reign, for hope to break through in the midst of such darkness?

Perhaps he’s asking if he can hold some of the justice load, perhaps his patience is long-suffering and longer than we’d like it to be, perhaps the tenderness we so long for, that we’ve been deprived of, is being extended to another. And perhaps the judgment that we’ve despised and enacted in our own ways, ushers in peace in small and slow ways that our eyes have yet to see. Perhaps hope looks like offering him the heavy gavel we’ve carried for too long.

And in this, we are still welcomed to ask, if the wrong really will fail and if the right will prevail. We are still loved in our doubt of that, in our wondering if it will ever be true, and if the pain will one day indeed cease. And as we wait, I hope you see his hand come toward you in the gentlest way, asking if he can hold that burden with you, alongside you, for you. In the waiting, may you know his hope and peace.
Photo by

07/23/2023

Everyone has their own s**t.

Sometimes I forget that.

Part of my story involves staying safe by having a heightened awareness to what is going on around me—always reading the room for emotions, big personalities, and what might happen next. Who might get angry, whose smile drops when no one is looking, who remains quiet, who is unsafe…these are the questions that run through my mind. I often silently and observe from a place of perspective, wondering how a group of new acquaintances might come together or how colleagues discuss topics in a Monday morning meeting.

But as I greet new faces on a Sunday morning, I’m often reminded that everyone has their s**t—everyone has something that broke them, something that pains them in the night, something that has brought them back into a church where they feel safe for the first time.

I’ve come to see that although I can notice a bookmark laden with quotes from theologians I don’t agree with, I cannot see the hidden pain that landed someone in their darkest night—that bookmark being their only comfort.

Although I can notice a shirt adorned with political phrases that make me squeamish, I cannot see the story of their son or daughter who is no longer with them—that shirt a mark of their care and honest fears.

And although I can notice spiritual language being used in particular ways, I cannot see the tiny thread of hope they are clinging onto—those words tending to their soul.

There is so much that I don’t see, so much that my ears have to slow down to notice, so much that my eyes have to meditate on in the story of another. There is pain buried deep or bubbling to the surface of those who we often dismiss, of those who we think don’t deserve or who need a kind ear, just like we did and still do.

Everyone has their s**t…this is the phrase I speak to myself in the car on the way to church, on my way to work, as I go to meet a friend for coffee. I want to remain sensitive to this—to not assume based on political or theological views, based on slogans and verses, but to see the person in front of me—the one with real fears, real sorrows, real traumas.

I hope I can see with His eyes.
Photo by

07/22/2023

do I breathe too deep
do my feet imprint the ground
too much
do they leave a patch of flattened grass
long after I’ve gone
that inconveniences you

do I remind you of innocence
of anger and rage
do I impress upon you
that I need more than I ask

do I seem too sad
too melancholy for the party
do I make a mess
of the streamers and balloons
laid out just for you

do I hold too tightly
to the tender things in my hands
shielding their softness
absorbing their magnitude

am I too slow
for your emotional marathon
sitting at the window
watching the leaves dance
finding beauty in the shadows
watching candles slowly burn
until it’s my turn
was I too slow, too soft, too unlike you?
Photo by

07/21/2023

If Jesus never shed a tear
if his life was easy from the start
if pain never met his hands
if splinters never got stuck under his nail
if friends never betrayed
if sweat never clouded his brow
if all his paths were smooth and light
if he never cried out for relief
then who will tend to these wounds of mine?

If Jesus just brushed off the dust,
and told us to never pause in the grief,
if tears never fell into his hands,
midnight prayers never coming from his lips,
then who will carry us through the storm?

If the sun set upon the Lord,
if the King knew the darkness well,
if rain fell upon his face
and bruises formed upon his lip,
if he couldn’t find a place to settle
if he did not remove himself from earth’s sorrows
then perhaps he is familiar with this night I’m in…

What a gift his tenderness is
what a marvel his courage to cry
what a strength that remains in his broken down body
what a faith of the One who called out for the pain to end.

And what a gift your tenderness is
what a marvel your courage to cry
what a strength that remains in the broken parts & pieces
what a faith of those who have lost.

Perhaps faith looks like night crying,
garden-dwelling,
tears flowing,
head resting,
calling out to the One who will listen,
the One who has been here before,
with us now,
with us forevermore.
Photo by

Jessica Fadel

08/01/2023

07/30/2023

07/29/2023

07/28/2023

07/27/2023

07/26/2023

07/25/2023

07/24/2023

07/23/2023

07/22/2023

07/21/2023

Address

Telephone

Website

Alerts

Contact The Business

Shortcuts

Share

Category