We’ve been part of our church for nearly twenty years. We raised our kids there, led Bible studies, served coffee. Jesus was always at the centre of our home — not as dogma, but as love. When our youngest told us she was our daughter, we didn’t hesitate. We said, “We love you. Thank you for trusting us.”

It wasn’t easy. We had to learn new things. But our love never wavered. And neither did our faith. We saw how much it cost her to live truthfully. And we saw Jesus with her — steady, compassionate, near.

But our church didn’t see her that way. First came the awkward pauses. Then long emails, quoting scripture about “order” and “design.” They said she could still attend — but not serve. Not take communion unless she repented. Of what, they didn’t say.

One Sunday, the sermon spoke of “confusion and disobedience.” Our daughter was sitting beside us. They didn’t say her name, but it was about her. That was our last Sunday there.

We left quietly. No drama, just grief.

We still believe in Jesus. Maybe more than ever. His love never changed. We found a small, affirming community. A vicar who sees our daughter as beloved. A place where no one has to justify their existence.

The wound remains — not just from disagreement, but from refusal to see. To listen. To bless.

But we hold on to hope.

We dream of a church that welcomes trans children with joy. That affirms families like ours. That listens instead of corrects. We long for a church that follows the Jesus who touched outcasts and called them whole.

We’re still praying for that church.