I simply have not had the words.
I last published on May 24th—before I learned about Uvalde. The children slaughtered. The willful inaction of law enforcement. The parents detained as their babies died. This was after the malicious hunting of innocents in Buffalo, NY, targeted for being Black. This was after the damning Southern Baptist Convention report, confirming the calculated suppression of justice and recompense for abuse victims.
All of which were after something else and something else and something else. We are a world riddled with violence and tragedy. I don’t think we were meant to bear all of this.
In my body, there is constant fatigue and distraction; deep sleep evades me. In my mind exists a keen lack of focus, an inability to set goals, and constant criticism for not doing more, producing more, accomplishing more.
The chorus in my head for the last month: some people will begin their day, but not end it. They will be taken. Is this the day that my sons begin but don’t end? My husband? Me? In the shadows of my mind are echoes of “do not fear,” and “no matter what, God is on the throne.” Morbid thoughts. Doom. Fatigue. There was an active shooter about 1.5 miles from my house. He was shot dead before he could kill any children. I guess that’s a victory?
“Do not fear.” Tone matters: when the angels spoke these words, when Jesus spoke these words, were they indictments or encouragements? Were these words sympathetic or accusatory? Was fear something for the faithful to empty themselves of before proceeding, or were they, moment by moment, experiencing fear but choosing hope? And of course, beyond the tone is the bedrock question: does God even care? We have good reason to fear—look at the state of the world! God is in the comfort of the throne room of heaven, with all power—what does God know of fear? We are here, resting less, paid less, paying more for less, terrorized, exhausted by the choices of those who use power not to heal, but to hoard. It feels as if God is also hoarding healing.
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