To the Woman Who’s Too Christian for the World and Too Real for the Church

Dearest tender hearted reader,

If you’ve ever politely declined a second date because he didn’t pray before eating, but still stared at him in disbelief when he misquoted Romans, this one’s yours. If you’ve ever dressed for brunch like you were heading to the boardroom and the throne room, just to sit at a table of women who made you feel like an endangered species, you’re not alone. And if you’ve ever felt like you had to dim down your discernment for the world, or zip up your realness for the church, then I know exactly the tightrope you're walking.

I’ve walked it in 90mm heels and a Ralph Lauren Purple Label coat, tailored within an inch of heaven, thank you very much.

The world has no idea what to do with a woman like you.

I remember once, at a curated dinner party in Mayfair, hosted by a friend of a friend who “does something in finance” (don’t they all?), I was seated next to a man whose Rolex screamed new money and whose conversation screamed theological illiteracy. He asked what I did. I said law. He asked if I wanted to be a partner. I said I’m more concerned with being in partnership with the Holy Spirit.

He laughed. I didn’t.

It’s not that I’m humourless. I’m just fluent in eternal priorities. And the thing is, I like red wine glasses filled with San Pellegrino. I like luxurious silence, nuanced conversation, and dresses with structure. I like men who lead with purpose and women who build with legacy in mind. What I don’t like is pretending I don’t hear the Holy Spirit when He speaks, just to keep the peace at a table I was never meant to beg for a seat at.

And then there’s the other table. The one we call “church.”

If you’ve ever walked into a Bible study in a wool trench, heeled boots, and Venice-originated perfume, only to be greeted with the smile that says, “Oh, she thinks she’s that girl”, you know what I mean. If you’ve ever chosen not to overshare your testimony because you didn’t want to be someone else’s cautionary tale or whispered prayer point, welcome. You’re in fine, sanctified company.

I once mentioned, very casually, that I fast during decision-making seasons. You’d have thought I said I consult horoscopes the way some of the girls blinked at me. We claim to want spiritual maturity, but we often only reward palatability. Be devout, but not too devout. Be vulnerable, but don’t bleed. Be beautiful, but for heaven’s sake don’t be noticed.

Here’s the truth: You’re not too Christian for the world, and you’re not too real for the Church. You are simply rare. And rare always rattles the room.

You are the woman with standards. Not arrogance, standards. You don’t date for “vibes.” You date for covenant. You don’t need attention, you attract respect. You don’t post cryptic captions for validation, you pray with your phone on “Do Not Disturb.” And yet… you laugh. Loudly. You flirt (graciously). You know the name of every wine on the menu, though you don’t drink. You’re in the world, but never of it.

You, my love, are a living contradiction. And God delights in that.

You are Ruth in the fields, excellent and intentional. You are Esther in silk, discerning rooms and discerning spirits. You are Lydia, running a business and hosting revivals. You are the woman people try to figure out because you have too much elegance to be wild, and too much Holy Ghost to be tamed.

Your standards make people nervous. Your conviction makes them uncomfortable. But it is not your job to shrink for comfort. It is your call to stand in costly oil.

You’re the woman who dresses like her prayers have already been answered. Who reads Scripture like it’s a love letter, and doesn’t apologise for expecting everything God promised. Who would rather stay home than flirt with anything that compromises her peace.

You don’t date men who ghost, you date men who pursue. You don’t water down the Word, you speak it with clarity. And you don’t confuse loneliness with lack. You know that being set apart sometimes looks like eating dinner alone at your marble kitchen island while waiting on a promise only Heaven could script.

I wrote this letter because I want you to stop questioning your place in rooms that were never designed with your soul in mind. You’re not confused. You’re called. You’re not extreme. You’re anointed. And you’re not hard to love. You’re just not for the spiritually lazy.

Keep building. Keep praying. Keep doing the work, on your faith, your mind, your finances, your body, your legacy. You are a woman becoming. And becoming is never comfortable.

But it is holy.

With ink-stained fingers and a heart half-stitched,

Calliope Orford