Logan
My name's Logan, and I’m a transgender Episcopalian.
In 2019, I went to church with my family for Easter. It was the first spring in a long time that I wasn't admitted to inpatient care, but I was still battling chronic suicidal thoughts.
Pronouns: he/him and she/her
Photo credit: Logan archives
I felt jaded after a winter of refusing to be just another trans suicide statistic, but I made my way through the service. I traced my finger along with the words in the bulletin, trying to will the Spirit in the room to calm my overactive mind.
At the service's end, the acolytes swung fabric doves and streamers in the air as they processed out—so high that I could almost touch them from my balcony seat if I had reached out my hands. When the organ resonated through the pipes behind me, and the choir started to sing "Hail Thee, Festival Day" below, tears sprang to my eyes, and I tried to wipe them away before anyone could see.
Joyful music, swaying streamers, dust particles dancing in the warm air of the balcony in beams of stained glass light. I began to breathe as if the stone resting on my chest had finally been rolled back.
I wasn’t magically fixed; I still grapple with mental health as a trans Christian in a world that wasn't built for me. But in this moment, the Spirit planted a seed. Jesus had risen, and not only for the people around me at church that day.
He had risen for me as well.
And if Jesus could live again, then so could I.
Photo credit: Logan archives
