God loves like an Appalachian grandmother, and SHOC loves like God
I know—what a statement! But let me explain.
My grandmother was a devout Christian woman who, above all else, knew how to love. She had this incredible ability to recognize the uniqueness of every person in her life and treasure them for it. She held us close, just as we were. She was one of the few people who never made me feel less than.
I have this vivid memory of sitting in the car with her in an Ingles parking lot while my mother and sister shopped inside. We talked about the mundane—what I was up to, my friends, my hobbies. But then there was a pause. She looked at me—really looked at me—in a way that felt so vulnerable, like she was looking through me. It was almost intimidating, though that’s hard to say about a sweet old lady.
After a moment, she spoke:
“There’s something that makes you different, and I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.”
At the time, I was a closeted queer teenager, doing everything I could to hide the parts of myself I thought no one could ever accept. In that moment, I assumed the worst. She saw through me, I thought. I was mortified. I found a way to brush it off, but her words stayed with me for years.
“There’s something that makes you different, and I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.”
Fast forward 15 years, and I found myself standing at the blue doors of a church led by a stranger I met on the internet. To this day, I’m not sure what compelled me to walk through those doors. Growing up queer in the Church had been traumatizing. By that point, even being near a church parking lot was enough to send me into fight or flight. Yet, there I was—heart pounding, hands trembling. And I walked in.
What I found on the other side was nothing short of a miracle.
I found my community—my beloved queer community—in the place I least expected: a church called Safe Harbor Orange County, or SHOC.
SHOC became a space where I could rest, restore, belong, and become. It was a space where someone like me—someone who had been told they were unwelcome in the Church and unloved by God—could finally feel at home.
Growing up, I had been conditioned to believe that I was inherently sinful, that I was an abomination, that I didn’t deserve God’s love because of something fundamental and unchangeable about myself.
But SHOC taught me the truth.
There is something different about me, and my grandmother loves me for it.
My community loves me.
My church loves me.
And God loves me.
SHOC loves like God, and God loves like an Appalachian grandmother—not despite who we are, but because of who we are.
It turns out God understands love and intersectionality better than we ever could—treasuring and holding close the beautiful, unique things that make us who we are.
—Kaye Kelley
This #GivingTuesday, help us keep SHOC thriving as a space of love, inclusion, and growth.
Our goal is to reach $2,000/month through recurring or one-time donations. Right now, we’re at $1,100/month—and we need your support to close the gap!
Together, we can ensure that SHOC remains a place where everyone is loved and celebrated for who they are. Join us in planting seeds of hope and connection today.
