Church has often felt like eyes staring at me. The eyes of other churchgoers: women who have given me the up-and-down modesty assessment, men I have been afraid of “causing to stumble” by any accidental skirt blowing, the little girls for whom I was taught I should be a model of virtuous womanhood. And then, of course, the eyes of God, which felt much further away, but still always watching me as if to catch all my mistakes. It felt like the eyes were always staring in judgment, looking to see if I fit the description of a “godly young woman.” I didn’t feel grace in those glances. I didn’t feel acceptance. I had a difficult time imagining God looking down on me in love. . . .

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