I moved to Minneapolis on July 4th, 2002.
I was 22, fresh out of a white suburban Republican home in Omaha, and shaped by a conservative Baptist church that handed me a very small map of the world. I didn’t know how small it was yet. I thought it was truth. Looking back, a lot of it was just armor - ideas that kept me feeling “right” while staying emotionally untouched by other people’s lives.
My first job in Minneapolis was at a bookstore in Uptown. I was one of only a few straight people working there, and I arrived carrying beliefs I’m not proud of now. I’d been taught that homosexuality was a sin, and that even the word “tolerance” was problematic - because “God does not tolerate sin.”
And then I met my coworkers.
They were patient in a way I didn’t earn. They were open to honest questions and real conversation. They were funny and sharp and kind. They let me ask clumsy, embarrassing questions - the “choice vs. born with it” kind of stuff that probably made them want to roll their eyes into another dimension. I’m sure it was exhausting to answer for the thousandth time. But they didn’t humiliate me for being behind. They also didn’t congratulate me for “trying.” They simply kept showing up as fully human, and that made it harder and harder for me to keep people at a distance in my mind.
They didn’t convert me with arguments.
They converted me by existing.
Around that same time, I found a church in Minneapolis that became essential to my growth - honestly, to my survival. It didn’t look like any church I’d grown up in. People of all ages sat on couches facing the center of a circle. The pastor wore plain clothes and sat on a swivel stool, speaking in a conversational tone, like someone who actually believed we were all in the room together.
We didn’t pull verses to support beliefs we already had. We read whole books of the Bible so we could get context - so the text could challenge us instead of being used like a weapon. The pastor would explain each section in layers: what he learned in seminary, then how he personally interpreted it, and then he’d open the conversation to the whole congregation.
We didn’t call them services. We called them gatherings.
People would stand up and share what stood out to them, what spoke to them, what confused them. Sometimes it included disagreement - and disagreement wasn’t condemned or stifled. It was acknowledged, appreciated, held like something real instead of something threatening. All the music and art came from the community. It felt alive. Not a museum of the past, but a space where God might be present and moving now - moving hearts toward understanding and creation in the present tense.
Minneapolis also taught me in smaller ways. Weird ways. Like a Kmart.
I lived a few blocks from one and I loved going there at least weekly. I rarely bought anything. I’d just walk around and browse - paying attention to the energy, observing my reactions, noticing what stirred up in me when the world got bigger than my comfort zone.
In that Kmart, I was the minority. That was new for me. I was also one of the few people who spoke English. And I loved that feeling - not because it made me special, but because it rearranged me. It gave my nervous system a new truth that my beliefs had never offered: you are not the center of the world, and that is good news.
I even brought visiting friends there sometimes, hoping they’d feel what I felt. They were usually underwhelmed. Which makes sense - it was my journey, not theirs. But for me it was a quiet landmark of growth. Proof that my heart had expanded beyond the borders I inherited.
And then there was breakfast.
My favorite breakfast spot in the world is in Minneapolis. It was about a ten-minute walk from my apartment: Victor’s 1959 Café - a Cuban breakfast place inside a little house in Uptown. Back then it was tiny, maybe twelve tables. Victor and his wife ran it, and the whole place felt like a warm, lived-in welcome. The walls were covered in signatures of famous Cuban Americans, and their shirts said: “Eating with the enemy.”
Every Tuesday morning I’d meet friends there for breakfast and long conversation. The food was incredible, but the welcome was the real thing that fed me. It felt like home in a way I didn’t even realize I needed yet. To this day, when I visit Minneapolis, I still plan my trips around Victor’s. I still want to go every morning. That’s how deep it lives in me.
Which is why the last few months have hit me hard.
I know my friends are out there protesting and helping neighbors who are scared - showing up with courage, warmth, and steadiness. Even my old pastor is on the streets daily, documenting what’s happening and fighting for what he calls “the common good.” And it’s strange to feel this from a distance, living in Nashville now, watching a place that formed me go through something that feels so heavy.
I only lived in Minneapolis about three years. But that place - and what it was - forever changed me.
And honestly, I’m scared that what’s happening there won’t stay there. I’m seeing signs that ICE may expand similar operations into more cities, including Nashville. I don’t know exactly what’s coming here, or when. But I keep thinking about what Minneapolis gave me: people who didn’t turn away, communities who stayed human under pressure, neighbors who practiced love like it was a duty and a privilege.
This is one of those times that leaves fingerprints on generations. So many people are being traumatized. Kids are absorbing stress they shouldn’t have to carry. Families are learning what it feels like to brace for the knock, the siren, the uncertainty. And I don’t want to look back and realize I went numb.
Minneapolis taught me something simple and demanding:
Love isn’t a slogan. It’s a practice.
So this is my love letter - and it’s also my confession.
Thank you for widening me.
Thank you for holding me while I unlearned what I thought I knew.
Thank you for loving me through my ignorance and into something better.
And to the people I love who are standing in the cold and the fear right now - protesting, documenting, protecting neighbors, showing up for the common good - I’m with you in spirit. I’m proud of you. I’m paying attention. And because of you, I’m more ready to show up for my own city with humility, courage, and tenderness.
I’m still grateful.
I’m still listening.
And I’m still, always, in love with you.
If a city ever changed you the way Minneapolis changed me, join my mailing list - and reply anytime. I’m listening.
