There are women Heaven calls early.

Not because they are ready, but because they are willing.

Kathryn was one of them.

Not perfect, not polished—but wholly poured out.
A woman of flesh and flaws, cloaked in grace, draped in conviction.
A vessel cracked in places, but spilling the Holy Spirit wherever she went.

She did not ride into ministry under the banner of perfection.
She carried her scars into the sanctuary and let them weep beside the miracles.
She didn’t preach herself.
She wept, she trembled, and she pointed—always—to Him.

Among the many who gave themselves fully to God
Beyond the matriarchs of the Bible
And the polished giants of modern platforms—
I chose her.

Not because she wore strength like armor,
But because she bled vulnerability in public.
Because she trusted—too much—
And when men misread her softness, she stood anyway.
She let her heart be mishandled,
Yet never let it grow callous.

I didn’t choose her for her flowing gowns.
I chose her for the gospel stitched into every hem.
She didn’t dress for applause. She adorned herself for adoration—of the One who called her.

I didn’t admire her for flawless love stories.
I loved her for walking away from what grieved God,
For returning to the altar when the cost had already scarred her.
She pressed past scandal, past whispering saints and skeptical elders.
Because purpose pulled louder than shame.

She never claimed to be a man
But she ran among the stallions.
And I—like her—have learned:
This altar was built with prince-sized measurements.
Scriptures have been wielded to tame the princess,
To harness the prophetess,
To rename the lioness.

But still… she yielded to the call.

She whispered, “Yes, Lord.”
While they said, “Sit down.”
She stood,
While they reinterpreted Paul.

And oh, how she danced with the Spirit.
How she ushered thousands into belief.
How she wept, not for adoration,
But for the aching souls still waiting to be healed.

She was controversial, yes.
But truth-tellers often are.

She was misunderstood.
But Jesus was, too.

So when I grow up in this calling,
I won’t ask for her voice or her platform.
I’ll ask for her posture—
That bowed heart, that tear-stained obedience,
That resilience wrapped in silk.

Let me carry her torch.
Let me preach from my fractures.
Let me pour where I have been emptied.

 Kathryn ran her race
As a daughter of fire,
A herald of healing,
A lioness in her Father’s Kingdom.

Now, may every woman who reads this
Rise—not as her copy,
But as for her continuation.

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