More Than a Cross

I wear a cross. Not because my faith has made my life easy, but because it hasn’t. I wear a cross
because there have been moments when I have needed something tangible to remind me of what
my heart was struggling to believe: God is here. Here in the joy. Here in the sorrow. Here in the
waiting. Here in the healing. Here in the questions that still do not have answers. I wear a cross
because life has taught me that faith is not the absence of suffering. Sometimes faith is simply
what we cling to while we walk straight through it.

There have been seasons when I have prayed for God to change my circumstances. Seasons
when I have begged Him to take something away, make something easier, heal what hurt, or
show me what came next. And sometimes He did. But sometimes He didn’t. Sometimes the
miracle wasn’t that the mountain moved. Sometimes the miracle was that somehow, I kept
climbing. That is why I wear a cross. Because the cross reminds me that suffering and love can
exist in the same story. It reminds me that what looks like an ending may not be an ending at all.
It reminds me that God can take the darkest chapter and continue writing.

Interestingly, some of the people who have questioned my wearing of a cross have been people
of my own faith. The cross is not a symbol commonly worn in my religious tradition, and
because of that, I have been asked why I wear one. Why a cross? Why that symbol? Those
questions could have made me take it off. Instead, somehow, they made me want to hold it
closer. They caused me to ask myself the same question: Why do I wear a cross? And the answer
became deeply personal.

I wear it because I desire closeness to my God. Not simply closeness to a religion or a tradition.
Not simply closeness to the faith I inherited or the things I have been taught. I want to know
Him. I want a relationship with God that reaches beyond what is expected of me and becomes
something alive inside of me. Something I choose. Something I seek. Something that is mine.
Being questioned about the cross has only deepened that desire. It has made me reach for God
more. It has made me ask harder questions. It has made me search for Him beyond the
comfortable boundaries of what I already know. It has made me want to understand Jesus
Christ—not simply as someone I have been taught about my entire life, but as someone I am still
learning to know.

The cross around my neck has become part of that seeking. It is not a rejection of my faith. It is
an expression of the deepest part of it. Because at the center of everything I believe is Jesus
Christ, and the cross reminds me of Him.

But something else happened when I began wearing a cross. People noticed. This small symbol
resting quietly around my neck began opening doors—and sometimes windows—I never knew
were there. It opened conversations with people whose faith looks different from mine. People
who worship differently than I do. People who pray in different ways, gather in different
buildings, carry different traditions, and have traveled very different spiritual roads. And yet,
somehow, the cross gave us a place to begin.

Someone would notice it. Someone would ask about it. Someone would mention their own faith.
And suddenly we were talking about God. Not arguing about religion. Not comparing whose
beliefs were right or wrong. Just two people talking about something sacred. I began to realize
how much more we have in common when we are willing to talk to one another. We have
questions. We have losses. We have prayers. We have miracles. We have moments when we have
felt God near and moments when we have desperately searched for Him. The cross became an
invitation: Tell me what you believe. And then, in return: Let me tell you what I believe.

There was something incredibly freeing in that. Somewhere along the way, the cross began to
change the way I carried my faith. I became braver. There were times in my life when I worried
about saying too much about God. I worried about making someone uncomfortable. I worried
about being misunderstood, judged, or seen differently because of what I believed. Sometimes it
felt easier to keep something so sacred tucked quietly inside of me. But it is difficult to hide your
faith when you are wearing it around your neck. And maybe I needed that.

The cross gave me courage. It gave me confidence to speak the name of God without shrinking.
To talk about Jesus without wondering whether I should apologize for believing in Him. To share
what I believe without needing someone else to believe exactly as I do. Little by little, the fear
began to leave. The shame began to leave. The hesitation began to leave. And in their place came
something I didn’t expect: confidence. Not confidence that I have all the answers, because I

don’t. Not confidence that my understanding of God is complete, because it isn’t. But confidence
that I do not need to be ashamed of loving Him.

I do not need to whisper about a God who has carried me through some of the loudest storms of
my life. I do not need to hide the faith that has held me together. I can wear it. I can speak it. I
can live it. And I can sit across from someone whose faith is completely different from mine and
still recognize something holy in their seeking. The cross has taught me that sharing my faith
does not have to begin with convincing someone. Sometimes it simply begins with
connection—a question, a story, a small piece of metal resting against my heart, and an open
door.

But perhaps one of the most important things I have come to understand is that the God I choose
to believe in does not define His love for me by the cross around my neck. He does not define
His love for me by a ring around my finger. His love is not measured by the clothes I wear, the
words I say, or whether my life looks exactly like someone else thinks a faithful life should look.
It isn’t about the song sung in Sunday congregation or the lesson taught in Sunday School. It
isn’t determined by how perfectly I practice my religion or how many boxes I manage to check.

There is a difference between the symbols of my faith and the God behind them. The cross
matters deeply to me, but my God does not love me because I choose to wear it. I wear it because
I know He loves me. And that difference means everything.

The God I choose to follow loves me despite my shortcomings. He loves me through my
mistakes. He loves me in the moments when I get it right and in the moments when I get it
terribly wrong. He offers me grace when I fall short and mercy when I need forgiveness. He
offers another chance when I am convinced I have used up all my chances. He sees beyond the
outward pieces of my religion and looks into the quiet places of my heart.

He sees my questions. He sees my intentions. He sees my trying. He sees my failures. He sees
the things I wish I had done differently and the person I am still trying to become. He sees the
desires of my heart, and He loves me there. Not conditionally. Not reluctantly. Not only on
Sundays. Not only when my faith feels strong. Not only when I am obedient enough, certain
enough, prayerful enough, or good enough. He loves me unconditionally.

That is the God I choose to follow. A God of grace. A God of mercy. A God who meets His
children in their broken places instead of waiting for them to become whole before He comes
near. A God who is not frightened by my questions. A God who does not disappear when I
doubt. A God whose love is bigger than my mistakes. A God who sees not only who I have been,
but who I am trying to become.

When I fasten that small cross around my neck, I am not announcing that I have figured out God.
I haven’t. I still question. I still wrestle. I still become afraid. I still make mistakes. I still have
days when heaven feels close enough to touch and other days when I wonder why God feels so
quiet. But still, I put on the cross. Because faith, for me, has become less about having all the
answers and more about knowing where I will turn when I don’t. I turn toward Him.
The cross rests near my heart as a quiet reminder: You are loved. You are seen. You are known.
You are not walking alone. There is grace for this. There is mercy for this. Keep going. There is
more to the story.

And perhaps most importantly, the cross reminds me of Jesus. Of a Savior who understands pain.
A Savior who understands loneliness. A Savior who knows what it is to carry something
unbearably heavy. So when life asks me to carry something I never would have chosen, I touch
the cross around my neck and remember: He carried one too. Mine is small. His changed
everything.

Because of His cross, I believe there is life beyond loss. Hope beyond heartbreak. Grace beyond
mistakes. Light beyond darkness. Resurrection beyond the places that feel like endings. I believe
there is joy still waiting to be found.

So I wear a cross. Not as decoration. Not as a statement against the faith that raised me. Not
because wearing it makes God love me more. Not because removing it could ever make Him
love me less. I wear it because I need the reminder. When I am afraid, I wear it. When I am
grateful, I wear it. When I am hurting, I wear it. When I am celebrating, I wear it. When I
understand God, and especially when I don’t. It rests against my heart like a tiny declaration: I
still believe.

Maybe wearing a cross is uncommon within my faith. But perhaps that is part of why it has
become so sacred to me. I have had to decide for myself what it means. And every time someone
asks me why I wear it, another door opens. Another window opens. Another conversation begins.
Another person tells me a piece of their story, and I am given another opportunity to tell a piece
of mine. A symbol that once made me wonder whether I would be questioned has instead given
me the courage to speak. It has swept away so much of the fear and shame I once felt about
openly expressing my love for God.

So if you ask me why I wear a cross, my answer is becoming simpler. Because I love Him.
Because I want to know Him. Because I want Him close. Because I am no longer afraid for the
world to know that I believe in Him. Because I want something resting near my heart that
reminds me where my heart belongs. Because sometimes the smallest symbol can open the
biggest doors.

But above all, I wear it because the cross reminds me of something I never want to forget: God’s
love for me isn’t hanging from the chain around my neck. His love is already wrapped around
my life.

Loved in my strength. Loved in my weakness. Loved in my certainty. Loved in my questions.
Loved when I rise. Loved when I fall. Loved through my mistakes. Loved through my becoming.
Loved not because I have earned it, but because I am His.

That is the God I choose to believe in. That is the God I choose to follow.

And that is why I wear a cross.