My classmates loved reminding me I was “just the pastor’s daughter,” like that was something to laugh at. I ignored it for years. But on graduation day, when they tried it one last time, I put my speech aside and finally said what I should’ve said long ago.
I was left on the front steps of the church when I was a baby, wrapped in a yellow blanket with one loose corner dragging in the wind. My dad, Josh, always told me that part of my story gently, never like a wound.
“You were placed where love would find you first,” he’d say, and he made it feel true every single day after.
I was left on the front steps of the church when I was a baby.
Dad was the pastor of that little church then, and he still is now. He became my father in all the ways that count, long before the paperwork caught up.
