I was 62 when I came out — a widow, a grandmother, and a lifelong churchgoer. I’d arranged flowers, taught Sunday school, run coffee mornings. Jesus had always been my anchor — steady, present, kind. When I realised I was gay, it wasn’t a crisis. It was clarity.

At first, I told close friends. Then I brought Sarah, my partner, to church. We sat quietly. No one said anything unkind. But the warmth disappeared. The greetings stopped. People I’d known for decades avoided eye contact. My vicar asked if I’d still come to Bible group, like I’d become a problem.

We kept going. Not out of stubbornness, but because it was home. Or it had been. The pain wasn’t rejection — it was erasure. Nobody shouted; they just looked through us. Invitations dried up. Conversations ended. The message was clear: you can sit here, but you are not one of us.

Still, I didn’t leave. Because Jesus hasn’t. I still find Him in candlelight and quiet prayers. I still believe in the Gospel that welcomes the excluded, that calls each person beloved. And this is still my church — built by people like me.

I hope for a church that doesn’t look away. One that blesses love, tells queer stories, sings songs written by LGBTQI+ voices. I hope it learns to listen before it judges, and to welcome without conditions.

Until then, I’ll stay at the table. Because it’s mine too.