Toughly and Tenderly Compassion is Calling

what I didn't learn at church camp

Wandering around the west coast of Ireland, I came across this heart, tenderly carved into the tough rock.

One of the first Bible verses I memorized was Ephesians 4:32. It was taught as a song at church camp. Along with fellow campers, I belted out,

Be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another even as God for Christ sake has forgiven you. Do do doodley do, buh buh buh bum, Ephesians four, thirty-two.

Looking back on my summers at church camp, neither the memories nor the emotions feel tender. Actually, like a tough piece of meat, I feel like they need a good tenderizing.

The word tender has a long and interesting history. Describing food, it means easy to cut or chew. Referring to the body, it indicates soreness and a sensitivity to pain. In connection to plants, it indicates needing protection, being easily injured by the elements.

When something is labeled as tender this can result in enhanced attention or increased disregard.
Oh, that flower is tender let me be gentler with it.
Or oh, that flower is tender, it’s going to wither no matter what I do, so let me uproot it now.

This is also true for our lived experiences.
Oh, what happened to me is a tender story, I’m careful with how I tell it.
Or oh, what happened to me was too tough, that was a long time ago, I can’t tell it now or ever.

I decided I wanted to claim a word for 2026. I tried a few on for size and they didn’t quite fit. As this is the year when my second book is being published, I shifted the search to find a word specifically for Not My Grandmother’s Hymnal. After some time, what came to me was tender.

Not the noun. Not the verb. But the adjective.
The essence of how I want this book to live and move and breathe.
Tenderly.

By tenderly, I do not mean nice and passive, playing it safe and sweet. I do not mean taking the easy road and skipping over the hard trails. I do not mean focusing on sales over connections or profits over relationships.

By tenderly, I do mean honest and sincere, taking risks and initiating discussion. I do mean making space for questions and silence. Sitting with uncomfortableness. Honoring doubt.

Being tender does not require glossing over the tough spots. Or only lifting up the pretty ones.

Collectively, the poems comprising Not My Grandmother’s Hymnal explore the faith I inherited from my ancestors and the journey of transforming my grandmother’s beliefs into my own.

Individually, some of the poems are born from fearful and frightening encounters with scripture and those preaching it. Others reflect those miraculous moments where love and grace felt close enough to touch like a delicate flower and taste like a tender cut of beef.

Graveyards, one of the poems in the book, is inspired by church camp. Not that cute song about being kind, tenderhearted, and forgiving. But those hot summer nights around a camp fire where children were warned of an even hotter hell and eternal punishment. Those coals have cooled, but will never be forgotten.

If I close my eyes, I see a fellow camper standing near the flames, telling a crowd that her father was gay. I remember the words on her t-shirt and the tears streaming down her face. I remember a leader saying she had to choose between loving her father and loving our God. I remember gay jokes rising from the row behind me.

At that time in my life I didn’t know I was queer. I did know that what I was hearing was anything but holy. When I shared my worries with a counselor, I was warned not to let emotions lead me astray, “you can feel bad for someone, but that doesn’t make their sin less sinful.” Learning to trust my emotions and instincts rather than fear them has been a crucial part of composing a faith that is my own and not a replica of my grandmother’s.

The Greek word found in Ephesians, translated to tenderhearted, literally means “having good bowels.” Suggesting we are called to have more than compassion for others, but rather a positive gut level, deep emotional sympathy.

You may be thinking, “Rebecca, this is not a great way to market your book.”

Time will tell, but it does capture the heart of how I want these poems to arrive and exist in the world. Tenderly. Blending pain and beauty. Harm and Healing. Releasing certainty and embracing curiosity.

Our world right now needs tenderness. Poets and prophets and everyday people tenderly holding all that we are experiencing. Willing to tenderly tell our stories.

How does being tender feel for you?
How are you living tenderly?
How are you tenderizing the tough pains of life?
How you responding compassionately to the suffering of others?

This Friday I’ll share a reading of the poem Graveyards on Facebook and Instagram.

Tenderheartedly yours, Rebecca

I almost forgot.
My advanced reader copy of the book arrived. It’s a tender dream to hold.