Ballots and Stones

Typically, I remain relatively quiet about politics, and even now as I type these words, I question their purpose. Our society has been ineffectively divided into a shouting match between two echo chambers, and for my part, I prefer to ignore the hatefully frivolous cacophony. When it comes to politics, I know my beliefs, but I also know that I am ignorant about the experiences of many others, so it is not my place to dispute lived truths.

Yet, here I am… burdened in a way that compels my preferred catharsis— the written word.

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” John 1:1

I hold fast to a single truth that I have come to know as existing beyond any experience or circumstance. And that truth is the Word. And it is the reason for this attempt at lexical reprieve.

The Word has been misinterpreted, manipulated, and weaponized within both political echo chambers, and I can no longer abide the resonant truths that are so blatantly disregarded:

• The Word is not an entity that can be owned, purchased, or employed to advance the fallible schemes (or agendas) of man. To compare the Word to a candidate or to defend a platform with decontextualized Scripture completely denigrates the purpose, power, and message. I try to harness my judgment, but I am overwhelmed with an urge to turn over tables in the vainglorious temples of social media when I see posts that (at best) reduce the Word to a political platform… at worst, the Word is used to ostracize, alienate, and “other” those with whom Jesus would share His grace and His table. 

• The Word is not a stone. The Word itself is a seed (Mark 4:31). While many of us are drawn to the apparent strength of a boulder, a seed is more powerful in ways that we cannot fathom (also Mark 4). A boulder may be attractive in its large size and potential impact on the landscape, but a seed produces life and generates more seeds to continue a cycle of change that will always outlast the cracked earth. Many of us desire a legalism etched in stone, or affixed to classroom walls, but that is not how the Word was written or intended to be preserved (e.g., Hebrews 8:10; 2 Corinthians 3:1-6). The Word lives and breathes in the hearts of those who love Him. Attempts at legalism are a return to the systems that Christ died to deconstruct. 

• The Word does not use fear to gain favor. “Fire and brimstone” may be real concepts, but they are not and cannot be an impetus to faith. An invitation to faith is through love—a humble, selfless love that is attentive but never anxious (Matthew 25:1-13). When fear is employed to gain favor, whether it's fear of an adversary or fear of the future, those of us who have accepted the invitation to faith should know better. We have examples of those who were elected by fear throughout the Old Testament, and yet, we fall for the same fear-mongering tactics over and over again. Fear is a silent invitation to the “othering” that can quickly devolve into a covert hatred— which is antithetical to the Word, which leads me to my final truth…

• The Word does not cast stones. One of my favorite vignettes from the life of Jesus lives in John 8. Jesus is the only one qualified to cast stones at a woman caught in the act of adultery, yet He refrains. It is the only instance in the Scripture when the writer tells us that Jesus writes, and I long to know what word(s) He traced in the sand as He undoubtedly drew the attention of the crowd away from the woman in her moment of shame. He met her at eye-level in the dust, and, perhaps, traced her name in the sand, as He extended grace instead of punishment. The Word is still the only one qualified to condemn (though many have eagerly taken on that role), yet, to all of us, His hands remain open. I wonder if that is why we filled his palms with nails and blood— because we wanted the judgement, the closed fists, the stones that He refused to cast. If the current political landscape is any indication, we (inclusive of both political parties and many, maybe most, westernized churches) would crucify Him again.

With these truths in mind, I beseech those still reading this cathartic litany, to cast votes, not stones as we approach this impending presidential election.

An end note... I love our church family very much because of the love that is so generously shared within the congregation. My hope is that this message does not inspire further dissent, but instead, urges those of us who love the Word to consider our civic responsibilities in light of these truths... and to pause before posting or adding to the cacophony of our chosen echo chambers.

The Eve of Two

 Dear Esperanza Grace, 

On the eve of your second birthday, the sisters of Joy and Grief once more hold hands. Grief reminds me that the sands of time are constantly and quickly slipping through my pinched fingers at the center of this hour glass. Joy reminds me of the precious grains that I have yet to know in my grasp. 

I grieve and rejoice because your love for me will change in ways that I cannot control or predict. I suppose it's the inevitability of Adam and Eve's eviction from Eden. You, too, someday will make a choice that is "not me." It may be choosing to consume something that I consider "unhealthy;" it may be choosing to spend time with a partner or friend, rather than me; it could be neglecting to do something I asked you to do. The story of Adam has become all the more heartbreaking in light of my love for you because I know that I will never stop wanting you to choose me. I will never stop loving you. Yet, our love is not sincere unless you get that choice again and again and again. And therein resides the Gospel.

We live in a society that frequently confuses love with comfort, but comfort is predicated upon condition and circumstance.  Love is neither conditional nor circumstantial. It is the tension of equal and opposing forces held in equal esteem. Comfort can role play as Joy, but Joy is only known when held alongside Grief. Love bears these sisters in equal measure.

This evening, Grief said "good night" to one-year-old Espy for the last time. In the morning, Joy will hug two-year-old Espy for the first time. 

And love holds all of these precious grains of sand in gratitude.

I love you, Espy Grace.

Always,

Momma

Week 1

Week 81

It Brought Me To You

I lost count of the pregnancy tests when the count exceeded my age... that was around the time that the anxious anticipation which buoyed my first years of hoping turned into desperation and masochism. I knew the outcome, but a plastic stick offered irrefutable evidence. 

Infertility is divisive. Infertility poisoned the relationship between my mind and body. The feeling of distrust still lingers at times. While my womb seems unwilling to hold a baby, poisonous lies seem to eagerly occupy the emptiness. 

Infertility is lonely. "...She just doesn't get it because she's not a mom. How old are your little ones?" I was babysitting, and I took the kids to Chick-fil-a when a friendly young mom struck up a conversation with me in the indoor play place. While my honest response made us both uncomfortable, I much preferred these unintentional provocations to the intentional isolation I experienced from a few individuals I considered friends. As time wore on, and my womb remained empty, I was sympathetically excluded from a handful of baby showers. While I know that the intentions were pure, the poisonous lies became all the more voracious as I bought baby gifts to be given without any occasion for exchange-- she knows you are just one pair of delicately wrapped baby booties away from falling apart. She knows you are nothing more than this grief, and the world is capable of greater joy when no one has to tiptoe around you and your sterile egg shells.

Infertility is humiliating. It's fluorescent lights, prescription hormones, and a thousand indignities sheathed by an ill-fitting hospital gown. It is frightening how quickly indecencies are normalized when longing becomes desperation... yet, I paid for it over and over again. Thousands of dollars paid to defile what I once held as sacred. Any romanticized notions of life's conception were shed with the undergarments that I neatly folded and hid beneath my purse. I paid to be medically violated by nearly a dozen doctors and physician's assistants on a routine basis, but hiding my undergarments felt important every single time. During one appointment, the doctor walked into the room as I was still undressing. As soon as he politely excused himself, I cried in my humiliation. It feels silly and shameful admitting how much I grieved the loss of that final sense of dignity. I suppose when I couldn't hold my dreams, my grasp on other things, including my sense of dignity, tightened.

Infertility is deceptive. You are required to control everything while in reality lacking control of what matters most. It's carefully planning every detail from diet to weekly appointments, daily prescriptions, and controlled cycles. It's being told that you must wait on hold for the next available operator, but you cannot engage in any other endeavors while you are on hold because the operator could pick up at any moment, and if you're not ready with paper and pen, you will have to enter the queue, yet again. Inevitably, you get disconnected a half dozen times. You can't jump the line, and you may or may not actually connect with a live person eventually. It could be days, months, years, or never, but if it's never, you get to call in six more times for a reduced rate.

And Yet, as impossible as it felt, infertility is where I found my faith again.

Jesus is restorative. He is working to heal the broken trust between my body and mind because He knows me intimately, and He sees what I cannot fathom-- that I am fearfully and wonderfully made (Psalm 139:14).

Jesus is near. He does not find my grief burdensome. He meets me and stays by my side even when I elect to cover myself in darkness (Psalm 139:11-12). 

Jesus is restorative. He dignifies me through grace. He lost His dignity to buy back mine. He knows what it is to be humiliated, and yet He endured so that His grasp on me could become secure and eternal.

Jesus is faithful. He used infertility and grief to create a way to fulfill His promise through adoption. He knew where the journey was leading. He saw our daughter, and He formed her with us in mind. He knew every detail and delivered her in His perfect timing (Psalm 139:16). 

I am grateful for my infertility because it brought me to you.