Celebrating our fourth anniversary

To my husband: sorry you have to put up with me. But also, thank you. 

Happy 4 years baby <3 

Marriage Advice

I don't know about you, but 
I never expected marriage to be hard. 
Lots of people said it was, but
honestly, they should have made their advice meaner.
They should have said, 
marriage is raw like a scaled fish,
ready for filleting,
and this person, the one you're marrying,
this person you love more than anyone in the world,
will, very soon, very often be the person 
you struggle the most not to hate. 

No one says that on your wedding day.
Probably because
no one has yet had the guts to put it on a Hallmark card.
The crockpot your aunt in Minnesota sent
definitely did not include that kind of warning. 
So we say, marriage is hard, 
and make sure you eat a piece of your cake.

Marriage is hard, 
you'll soon find yourself repeating. A veteran. 
You've fought about something very silly,
like where he chooses to clip his toenails.
You get it now, why it's hard. 
It's hard, living with an imperfect person.
At some point though, you'll realize
you're no war hero.
Someone else sees you. You exist, to him,
in full, unadulterated reality. And
if marriage is a mirror,
you are far uglier than you ever thought.
You are the inconsiderate roommate
and the control freak,
the excuse-maker, the tally-keeper.
You are the hard in marriage.
It's a miracle you've made it this far.
You almost feel bad for him, that he's stuck with you.
But no one promised him it would be easy either,
so here you are.

And now I love you is less an experience, more an assignment.
To hold him when,
basically, he's promised by his mere existence
to hurt you. And further,
to save him from yourself--
to hate, to kill the ugly in you,
completely losing track of it
in the other. 

My baby girl is eight months old

She is too big. And too tiny. 

Babies are weird, because time with them is both long and short and they seem both young and old and mysterious and familiar.

Because my children are such a strange phenomenon to me, I think one of the best things I can do is write poems for them. I want to remember how surreal this time is, how fleeting, how surprising. 

For my daughter
You aren't real.
You're from a dream of mine,
a memory of a future that used to be 
unattainable,
far-off and ever-changing
like the many professions I aspired to.
My visions of adulthood,
as real to me as the costume jewelry in our dress-up box,
never included the words "my daughter."
A daughter was somehow
a strange thing,
an impossible thing.
How could I muster dreams of a you
that would inevitably be
so like me?
I'd have to know you,
really know you,
nose-to-nose.

It makes sense now
how you seemed not to fit then
before I knew your shape existed.
Discovering you was like
finding a Delorean in a parking lot.

I say the words
"my daughter" now
and they're shaped like you--
just the thought of your smiling cheeks,
so jolly, so soft
like tiny flans
and I could cry about the you
that is somehow both real
and everything I ever wanted
without knowing what I wanted was
you. 

Babies are My Favorite People

Babies really are just the best. 

Pre-motherhood me did not understand how some people seemed to be enamored of every baby they met. Don't get me wrong, I'd known some cool babies before having my own, but I was never very impressed by babies in general until becoming a mother. Now I know the truth: that babies embody many of the good things we adults strive for, or feel we've lost. And they are the purest of us all. 

Our culture is way behind on this. Women nowadays fear fertility. Young people find babies gross, needy, demanding, and inconvenient. Which they are. 

But as adults, it's so easy to forget we were all babies at one point. Our society is full of evil Headmistress Trunchbulls, expounding on the toxicity of the festering pustules that are children while denying they were once, not really so long ago, a little pustule of screams, snot and tears. And in reality, we should all be grateful that someone chose to put up with us in the pustule stage, because for parents it ain't always easy.

Parents have to put up with their children. Parents have to allow their children safe harbor in their home, make food for children to throw on the floor, and find their list of favorite hobbies reduced to a single word: silence. 

Why? you may ask. Why should a fully developed, functioning adult be reduced to a servitor of someone else's needs--particularly a someone who will probably never thank them, even once they learn how to say phrases with more than one syllable?

There are a few good reasons, but all of them pretty much boil down to this: babies are innocent.

Babies have never done anything wrong. On their own, they have no concept of evil. They haven't reached the point where malice becomes interesting to them. No baby will ever want to hurt you.

They're also incredibly self-assured. My toddler waddles around like a tiny drunk, convinced that the entire world loves him. And why shouldn't they? He's a baby, not a pimply teenager or a cynical coworker. 

A baby is the least cynical of all people. They live life ready to be pleased with everything, and when something bad happens to them it's an incredible surprise. We find it odd when a baby cries inconsolably over a tiny scrape on their knee or a dropped sippy cup--but imagine if you had lived the entirety of your life without a single thing going wrong (that you were aware of), and then one day you arrived in a place where things go wrong at least once a day, maybe more. That's quite the adjustment for a little pustule brain.

And that's the other really cool thing about babies. They are dang smart.

Oh, I know, they can't pronounce the letter Q and they think lint rollers are hairbrushes. But they are absolute shamwows when it comes to learning new information. They observe and pick up on everything, then next thing you know they're showing you where they hid their shoe when you've been driving yourself crazy for half an hour looking for it. Who's smarter than who now? 

Not to mention, teaching babies stuff makes you feel smarter. My toddler can't quite get the last of the yogurt off a spoon, but I can do that without even batting an eye. Take that, babies. 

I mean it, babies are awesome. Most of us are just in denial.

Maybe one reason why we tend to be annoyed by children is because a small part of us resents them for their lack of encumbrances. A baby has no problem crying in a public space. You, on the other hand, can't even let yourself have a good cry in the mirror when you're all alone in your apartment--let alone allow another human being to witness your splotchy-faced, tearstained glory. Maybe we all wish someone would just hold us close and feed us, be responsible for our well-being so we wouldn't have to, let us sleep on them and smile at us even when we accidentally yank the hair out of their skull.

We're jealous of babies because we ourselves have lost our baby-ness as we age, and we've become aware of how messed up the world is. In adulthood we stay just as self-centered and entitled as babies, but without the impeccable purity that allows for such indulgences. When I pull your hair now, it's because I wanted to regardless of how it made you feel. When I make unreasonable demands of the cashier at a McDonald's now, it's because I don't care enough to moderate my frustration. The main difference between me and a baby is that I choose to do bad things; a baby may do bad things without knowing what he's choosing. 

In that way, the openness and dependency of babies is humanity in its ideal form. And I think the reason we become worse over time is because, for whatever reasons, our sense of security gets stolen as we age. People disappoint us and hurt us. Life makes us uncomfortable, unfulfilled. The world loses its sheen of newness and becomes bland like a plain pita chip. 

But what if we could rediscover that sense of security? Then maybe our innocence would find its way back to us. We wouldn't unlearn our knowledge of the world's brokenness, but it would be neutralized by our trust in the One taking care of us, who loves and holds us through all our human nonsense. That's why Jesus told us to become like children. 

To overcome ourselves, we have to realize that not only are we dependent on God, but we can depend on Him. And with that confidence we can begin to throw off the burdens of adulthood and become the grown-up babies we were always meant to be. 

  

Easter for the guilty ones

Barabbas is an afterthought in the Easter story, but this year I find myself compelled by his experience. He was guilty of great evil, yet the Jews demanded Jesus be crucified on the cross that had been prepared for him. 

What would it have been like to be the very man who was exchanged for Jesus on that Good Friday? We all are Barabbas in practice, all of our souls exchanged for the one perfect Jesus--but he was granted this intensely personal view of Jesus' propitiation for our sins in a way that no one else has ever known.

I hope he didn't take it for granted. I pray I never will. 

A Good Day for Barabbas

All I can see is the cross.

Lurking behind, looming before me

around and above me,

inescapable.

I know only one emotion now.

Fear.

Fear of dying.

And beyond that, the still more ominous fear

of death.

I know nothing good can await me there.

It is a dead end, the road to it paved

with pain and humiliation

and overshadowed by that sadistic tree.

They will come for me.

They will open the door and speak my name.

Barabbas,

they will sneer. 

They will spit it out like sour wine.

And then will come the real fear,

the slow and masochistic march.

I will see the cross,

feel its crushing weight

cut into my back.

My ears will fill with the sound of my name,

spoken with contempt, with derision.

Never again

will I hear love in those syllables.

I will feel the life within me churning,

writhing as if caught in a snare,

not knowing its escape will also be its downfall.

They will strip me bare

like Adam in the Garden.

The nails will snap shut their jaws

and I will wait to die, blessing and cursing every breath.

The cell door opens.

Barabbas,

they call. The first stone.

But the next ones fall from their hands.

They want him, not you.

Him

not me.

Who is this man, 

condemned to take my place?

Ashamed, I realize

I do not care.

Him, not me.

Not me.

I am a free man, an impossible 

contradiction,

but I cannot go home.

They may have freed me, but

they will never welcome me. 

My life is tainted by death.

Where else can I go but that inevitable place?

I am drawn to the hill,

the place where he died,

where my blood should have watered the ground.

My blood, not his.

But I am here, I am whole. And he is not. 

Who is he? I look up,

as if Heaven might answer

but when I lift my eyes, all I can see

is the cross. 

We have a daughter!

The ultrasound confirmed yesterday that our newest family member is a GIRL. She is a stunning little treasure <3

Girl

You have always been precious
to us.
A lyrical sound, a spark of golden light,
a treasure we plucked from 
God's outstretched hand.
To me, your existence is a mystery,
near and far,
illuminated and shrouded,
like meeting a stranger you already know.
Like your mama you will be a girl for a long time,
and then a woman. 
Will you bear your own children
someday?
Will the air deliver lullabies to them
from your own mouth?
The world holds so much new
for you
and it will desire your love,
a love that is already spoken for. 
But you'll see beyond the world
to things unimagined.
In my head you smile beneath bouncy curls.
Wisps of your defiant mane flow outward into thin air,
catching the Sun's beams 
for treasures of your own. 

He will be the sure foundation for your times, a rich store of salvation and wisdom and knowledge; the fear of the Lord is the key to this treasure. Isaiah 33:6

No, you can't be a Christian and be Pro-Choice

Many calling themselves Christians disagree with me. They say any number of well-intentioned things, things which come, ultimately, from a love of the world and a reluctance to divide themselves from it. And the "Pro-Choice Christian" answer sounds good to the world. It sounds like empathy, and understanding, and freedom of choice, and freedom from suffering. It sounds like caring. It sounds like love. 

But it's not the duty of a Christian to reconcile her faith with the world, and it's not indicative of faith in God to seek the world's answers. So in this issue, as with any important question, I'm asking God. What does His word have to say about this situation we find ourselves in? What do I know of God, what does the example of Christ tell me about how I should live my life? 

I know that God is omniscient and omnipresent. I know he sees all of us in our individual circumstances and knows us completely.

I know that God loves His creation, and created humanity to be in relationship with Him. I know that apart from that, we will always be lost, wandering in search of a soul-filling love.

I know that God hates evil, in all its forms. He hates the evil that makes us hurt each other in anger. He hates the evil that causes us to seek our own comfort above anything else. He hates lies, and greed, and unfaithfulness, and selfishness, and disobedience. He hates pain. He hates murder. 

I know that in my own sinfulness I have nothing to offer God. I know that it would be just for me to die in my sins. But I also know that God created a way, in Jesus, for our relationship to be restored, and gave me a shining example, in Jesus, of what that restored relationship should look like. 

I know that Jesus is the perfect Son of God. I know that He commanded me to love God, and love my neighbor. I know that He calls me to turn from my sin and follow Him. I know that He chose a miserable death rather than leave me in my hopelessness--that greater love has no one than this.

What does this tell me about abortion?

It tells me that God is a God of truth, not of easy answers. It tells me that the truth is sometimes, if not often, painful. It tells me that all the suffering we experience in this world is because of sin, and because of the evil that lurks in our own hearts. It tells me that my own heart is untrustworthy, and if I listen to every natural instinct I have, it will lead me to destruction. 

It tells me what love truly looks like: 

It is unconditional. 

It is self-sacrificing.

It is moved by compassion. It does not rejoice in the suffering of others, but endures pain in order to do right by others. 

It rejects fear, rejects selfishness, rejects simple and quick solutions. It forgives even when the offense is unpardonable. It forgives even the evil of abortion, if indeed abortion is evil.

God is Love. These three words are true, yet this simple phrase is used by many to justify selfish and sinful acts. But if I truly believe God is love, then I must trust that His answer to this question is better than the one I'd come up with on my own. I must trust that no complexity can excuse evil. I must trust that He sees the situation in its wholeness, and knows what it requires better than I or anyone ever could.

God sees every struggling mother. He sees her in her pain, in her terror of the unknown, in her hopelessness and doubt. He sees the woman he knit together in her own mother's womb, fearfully and wonderfully, grown into a mother herself and fearful of what that means. God sees in her the broken heart that has led her to this choice. He sees in her the possibility for strength, bravery, and beauty that He will give to her, if only she could reach out her hand and take it. 

And God's sight does not end where ours does, with the veiled outline of new life, impossible to grasp fully because we are so limited by our eyes. God sees the new life budding inside every mother's womb. He sees a new child, one whose every cell is numbered and known by Him. He sees that child, in all its unfathomable smallness, and loves him or her with the same love that caused Him to visit a womb Himself, in the form of the baby Jesus. 

If you believe what God has said, that humankind has been created in His very image, then you must include every human being in that image, as He does. God--Love--does not look with disdain on the smaller, the weaker, the more vulnerable. He does not dismiss the humblest of us. He does not ask of what use we can be to him, in our imperfection. He does not measure our worth by what we can be, or what we will become; rather, He measures it by what we are--loved with an eternal, unconditional love, and created in that love to be a part of His story. 

Created, in that love, to be saved and redeemed for no other reason than that it pleases Him to love us fully and completely.  

Jesus gave his life for us when we were at our worst. He called us friends as we sat around his table, plotting to betray him. He chose us and saved us, rather than leave us in our misery. How can we, then, as recipients of that incredible grace, demand that our very children die for us when they are at their most innocent? How can we deny them the same love that Christ demonstrated for us when he went to the cross? How can we take the life, in brutal and murderous fashion, of a precious human being, created in God's own image? 

There is nothing, nothing of the strong, faithful, self-sacrificing Christ in abortion. There is nothing of Him in the fear and pain and selfishness that drives many women to seek the destruction of their offspring. There is nothing of faith in that choice. Abortion is the very antithesis of the life-giving hope that Christ has given us.

So no, you cannot be a Christian and support abortion. 

You can wrestle with the complexities of human suffering, you can question how best to help those who are struggling with unplanned pregnancies. But you cannot claim Christ and abortion in the same breath without lying about one of those things. 

This question will divide us. It will separate us from the world, and sometimes from each other. But that is what Jesus said would happen as time went on--those faithful to Him would be revealed by their fruits. And abortion is not a fruit of Jesus' death-conquering Life. It is a fruit of Satan, of sin,
and of the evil, corrupted world we live in. 

Anything that is of darkness is not of God. And as followers of Christ, we are called to love only the things of God. To call an evil thing good, to make room for it in your heart, to support and cheer for it, is to deny Jesus. Without Jesus we walk in blindness, but once we have been given the Spirit of new life in Him, and our eyes are opened to the truth, we are still accountable to love and seek that truth. 

A choice, then, lies before us. Faith or fear? Hope or cynicism? Jesus, or abortion? It can't be both. Choose wisely. 

It's that time of year...

Every summer, it seems, I feel compelled to write a lament poem for the sad reality that I do not live within strolling distance from Lake Superior. 

Through the Wardrobe

I don't live here.
Here I'm just a tourist.

I live somewhere else,
somewhere the morning emerges out of mist,
the air washed clean by crystal waves.
I live there,
crossing the blade edge between this world
and one yet discovered.
I walk in and out of time.
In my little house among the trees
life moves forward
green and warm like a cup of coffee.
But across the way, the hours dissolve into minutes
into seconds and milliseconds
mixed in with pebbles on the shoreline.
Sitting there I can almost taste eternity,
see the light just beyond the clouds,
feel its warmth, even as the chill wind stirs the waters.

God's Spirit moves over Lake Superior. 

Pro-life is pro-choice. Pregnancy is pro-woman.

  Pregnancy is a positive good. 
        That this statement is controversial is in itself a tragedy.
But that’s where we are now, and I think it’s because women, in general, have lost touch with their roots.
Interestingly, though the feminist movement has absorbed multitudes of women into its ranks over the past century, femininity itself seems to have lost value to our society.
Meekness is equated with weakness. Subtle, patient guidance loses every time to domineering, aggressive bossiness. Cultivating a peaceful home offers no economic return. Loving submission and service are seen as outpourings of an oppressed spirit, rather than a grateful heart. 
And the most feminine quality of all—mothering, that act of nurturing one’s own offspring, giving of oneself, laying down one’s desires for the good of a dependent child, is now seen as an affront to women. Mothers, we are told, are held back by this degrading natural process.
Men, being free from this biological process of bearing children, are naturally freer than women, and women should seek to shed the oppressive garment of childbearing and become more like men—aggressive, demanding, rational. Children are parasites, burdens, thieves and freeloaders, and women can only elevate themselves by pushing their children downward. Abortion is necessary to ensure the equality of men and women, because women can only be empowered if they are able to do everything exactly like men. Women should put themselves first, in all things, and we should applaud the self-interest of successful women.
And so we are encouraged to grow up, to be our own heroes, to break tradition and seize control of our own destinies. Young girls, so often instinctively drawn to baby dolls and playing house and making cookies in pretend kitchens, are indirectly told that those desires are wrong. That their innate femininity is a curse they need to break free from, so they can have a career, see the world, make history.
The result is a society of women who are so disconnected from their innate feminine desire to mother, to nurture, it is hardly a surprise that they are willing to treat their own helpless babies with such callous disregard as to destroy them through abortion. 
But what if mothering, nurturing femininity was seen as an asset, rather than a weakness? What if our unique ability, as women, to bear and rear our children, is the legacy we are so hungry for? What if our natural desire to mother can be our biggest feminine strength, no matter our stage in life?
Pregnancy and motherhood come with responsibilities, that’s for sure. Becoming a mother means leaving some selfish and childish desires behind. But responsibility is a mold that can shape us into something beautiful. 
You are here because someone is your mother. No matter where you ended up along the way, you began inside your mother, and she carried you until you were ready to see the world. That kind of self-sacrifice, no matter what other flaws your mother may have, was a gift to you—the opposite of selfishness. Becoming your mother, in that uncertain beginning, was for her the first step toward the kind of love no one can even quantify. Whether she chose to see that journey of love through the rest of your life or not, whether she chose herself over you in years to come or continued to love you sacrificially, the very act of bearing you was one of love. And that, in itself, is a good, good thing. A miraculous opportunity, one that only a woman can take—and one that should never be wasted.
In the end, motherhood is defined by choice, but not in the way we tend to see it now. Becoming a mother is not always the deliberate and thoughtful act that it should be. A mother doesn’t always choose her child in the way that one chooses a car or a house. Before a child is created, you are not a mother; as soon as that individual human life erupts inside you, you are a mother, and you make every choice thereafter as a mother—even the choice to terminate that child’s life. 
The real choice in mothering, then, lies in how we respond to motherhood when we receive it. Will we choose to love, to grow, to accept the responsibility that comes with our womanhood, to open ourselves up to the beauty and the life inside us? Or will we choose to abandon that gift and deny its possibilities? 
Some say that in terminating a pregnancy, the mother is only saying goodbye to the possibility, the potential of a child. This is not so.
In reality, there already is a child existent, vibrant, new. The choice to terminate only eliminates the possibilities that await that child in his or her future. It doesn’t erase your child. It doesn’t erase your motherhood. It simply ends a process that could have been the beginning of everything good in your life, and leaves you bereft, the mother of a dead offspring. It takes away all future choices. 
The choice to embrace a child, then, does exactly the opposite. It gives way to the future and all its forks in the road. It proudly accepts the mantle of motherhood, rather than trying to hide it. It denies the selfishness of fear and replaces it with hope. It makes a mother stronger, more loving, more selfless, more in tune with every good thing we are made to be. It gives the child a chance to choose his or her own path. 
In abortion there is only one possibility. In the life of a new baby, there is nothing but possibility ahead. Embracing life, then, is actually the most pro-choice you can be. 
       To the woman afraid to have her baby: you may get an inkling of it now, but you have no idea the untouchable, all-forsaking love you are capable of until you’ve held that child in your arms. There is no strength stronger than that of a woman whose love enables her to give up her life for her child. There is no human force more empowering than the love-fueled courage you will find within yourself as you contemplate the life growing within you.
        Don’t give up on your motherhood. 

Saying goodbye to our Bombadil

This is a story about my sweet kitty boy. Rest in peace, precious Bubby.

A Bombadil-shaped space

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The new kitten signed her name

on this word doc.

Prowling across the keyboard

to claw her way up my shirt

and bite my face. I almost forgot,

kittens tend to leave marks,

though they’re the kind that heal on their own.

We never knew you as a kitten.

You forced your way into our lives

one cold, bitter January day.

We didn’t want you.

You hissed

and bit with strong teeth

and your claws were like dragon claws.

But then we thought,

nobody else would want you either.

You didn’t want us

or our bumpy-hummy car

or the gray striped meanie who awaited you,

hissing and swatting.

But you did appreciate your new big litter box

and the view from the sliding glass door.

You spent your first few days with us

curled in the corner,

tip-toeing around your new sister,

looking over your shoulder with every bite from your food bowl.

No one touch me, you said.

I’m done trusting anyone. 

And we were okay with that. Our reward was you 

not living in a glass box anymore,

you blinking lazily at us

with those icy blue eyes,

you allowing me to give you a bow tie,

the finishing touch on your tuxedo.

The first time you slept on our bed,

you appeared like a ghost in the middle of the night,

gone by morning.

The distance between us on the couch

closed slowly

until one day you curled up against my legs.

I could’ve cried.

When you sat with us we’d barely breathe

lest we break the spell.

You were our anxious boy,

the sour patch kid of cats.

The hard-shelled protagonist

with a mysterious backstory. We named you Bombadil

because you were impossible to quantify.

A walking contradiction,

distant and tender,

fierce hunter, pathetic beggar

cinnamon roll and stretchy dough.

Grouchy, wizened, playful and patient.

You would’ve liked the new kitten

because she’d be afraid of you,

properly, like a kitten should be. 

Don’t worry, she hasn’t replaced you.

I still hear you scratch at the window,

still expect to laugh at you 

trotting alongside the car pulling into the driveway,

still see you in a pile of laundry

that in the shadows

could be you, stretched out long in the heat.

We didn’t deserve you, 

but you made us your home anyway,

even as you knew

you were too adventurous for this world.

If you get the chance,

between walkabouts among the stars,

Tell God to scratch your chin

for me.

Bombadil (8/4/18-6/1/21)

Fall weather

 

October makes me think about school. And school makes me think about trees and songs and coffee and walks with a boy I (secretly) loved and goodbyes I thought were inevitable. Thank God I was wrong.

October snow
It snowed that day,
the quiet kind of snow, the kind
that feels like dandelion fluff
floating on the wind.
Outside was white and gray
and red brick
and green grass tips
and October. I wore a black dress
and leggings, because of the snow
and a smile
because of the snow and the boy
who wanted to walk in it with me
even though he and the snow
don’t get along.
I said he’d learn to appreciate its beauty.
He said maybe.
It was cold, but we only felt it
against our clothes.
The snow smelled clean
and slowed the space around us
as our feet swept up dandelion fluff
on the sidewalk.
I said I didn’t feel
any strangeness between us.
We had been friends from before the beginning
of things.
He smiled. A dangerous thing,
that smile. Like a flame had been lit
behind his eyes.
It was beautiful and real
and sad,
like the snow on his eyelashes,
like the air on a late October day,
like his warm hands around mine
and finding excuses to stay
just a bit longer.
Time taunted us. We couldn’t
stay. Not forever.
So we created forever in that moment,
in all the unfilled spaces of our lives
in every glance reluctantly hidden.
Our words spelled love
in every way but one.

He was worth the cold and I
was worth the snow
and we were worth the pain
of letting go.

Check your privilege

This one is for you, Facebook Christian.

If you’re a Christian and you’ve made a habit of calling down God’s wrath and judgement on sinners and non-believers, you need to check your privilege.

Who are you that God is so pleased with your behavior? Were you not, before salvation, a wretched sinner just like that abortionist you’ve condemned to Hell, just like that pedophile you’d love to see castrated, just like that racist homophobe you think should be beaten and branded, just like that robber you gleefully warn about the loaded firearms you keep next to your bed, which you would use to kill them without hesitation?

Who were you, before Christ? Nobody. A depraved, lost and wayward soul. And what did you do do earn his grace and compassion? Absolutely nothing.

Nothing. You have been freely given the grace and forgiveness of God, through Jesus, and you did nothing to earn it, nothing to deserve it, except be unfairly and unjustly and unconditionally loved by the one whose name you now use to speak evil against those who don’t know him. You are saved through no fault of your own.

Praise God that he is merciful and provided a way for us to know him–that while we were still sinners, he died for us. Praise God that we didn’t have to earn it, because God knows we never could. Praise God for the freedom from the burden of sin that we’ve been so graciously given, and the new life we have in him.

And shame on you, Christian, for denying that reconciliation to others, for condemning and judging, for doing anything but hope against hope, as Jesus does, that all who now walk along the path of destruction might find redemption in this life, and one day share the golden-paved streets of Heaven with you. Shame on you for self-righteously anticipating the Day of Judgement, when your enemies will finally get their comeuppance, rather than praying fervently that the ones you should hate will be saved before Jesus returns in glory.

It is ungodly to rejoice in the punishment of sinners. We should be grieved to our core at the idea of someone coming face to face with God without the atoning blood of Christ to cover their sins. We should be grieved, not only because Christ is grieved, but because that could have been us. It could’ve been you. But you came face to face with the love and mercy and grace of God here on Earth, and you were saved, a privilege many will not claim.

Now is the time, Christian, for us to love boldly, unfairly, unwisely. Now is the time to proclaim the mercy of God to all who so desperately need it. Now is the time to remind ourselves exactly who we were and who we’ve become–and to make the heart of Christ our own.

Judgement will come. Do you await that day with gleeful, selfish anticipation, or do you use it as motivation to love more, to shout the name of the Lord from the mountaintops, so that the forgotten of this world will hear and be changed?

I’ve been guilty of selfish thinking lately, too. Many days I’ve found myself overwhelmed by the world, praying that Jesus would simply return and make it all go away. But every moment we have here on Earth, every evil we must endure, is a mercy for all those who have yet to find salvation. So this is my prayer this morning: Lord Jesus, delay just one more day so that more might come to know you.

But, beloved, do not forget this one thing, that with the Lord one day is as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day. The Lord is not slack concerning His promise, as some count slackness, but is longsuffering toward us, not willing that any should perish but that all should come to repentance. -2 Peter 3:8-9

An open letter: to the person I can't forgive

I’ve never had this problem before. I’m a very forgiving person.

To me, grudges take too much energy to maintain, and they serve no purpose except to make the holder angrier still, bitter and vindictive.

But I have a grudge against you, one that’s been pretty easily buried for the last couple years. I don’t see you every day. I don’t see you ever. I don’t have to think about you.

But when I do… I’m still angry, and I’m struggling to understand why.

I thought I forgave you two years ago. Two years ago, when I was in college and you were my professor, when your words ripped through me like a hundred barbed arrows, unexpected, harsh, and cruel.

When you went after me with accusations and bitter words.

When my friends defended me, and you used their support to label me a troublemaker, a rabble-rouser, an insignificant and inexperienced child who would never succeed in my future if I didn’t learn proper respect. When my only crime was asking questions that made you uncomfortable.

The memories of those weeks, tormented by the thought of being under your thumb, terrified of speaking in class because of your venom, bring tears to my eyes even as I write this.

I’m still angry. And I’m still hurt by what you did.

Those horrible weeks went by, a new semester started, and the conflict between us was supposedly settled. I saw that you were trying to leave it behind, and I struggled to re-enter your classroom with grace. I struggled not to judge you, not to remember every evil word you’d said to me. I struggled to see your humanity, your own pain, your own brokenness that had led you to treat me this way. I struggled to forgive.

And you never apologized.

You never saw me for who I truly was, in those moments when you wielded your power over me.

You never knew the anguish you’d caused, the tears that consumed my nights, the trauma I relived every time I came into your classroom, every time your name was spoken in a conversation.

You never knew the desperation I felt, enough to seek help from another professor, just so that I wouldn’t have to meet with you alone again. You never knew the strength it took for me to meet your eyes and say hello to you in the hallway. You never knew how hard I was trying to let it go.

I don’t think you ever realized how much you hurt me, and I never had the chance to tell you.

I never had the chance to say, “you have hurt me deeply,” and see how you’d respond. I never even had the chance to say that I forgave you, despite the pain you caused me. I never had the chance to get any closure. We never had that chance, and I’m pretty sure we never will.

I want to let it go. I do. And contrary to what you might feel if you ever read this, I don’t hate you. I love you. I want you to know you are valuable, you are not your mistakes, you are loved by your Creator.

I want you to know I see you, and I’m sorry for the hurts you’ve had to carry. I’m sorry for the anger that seeped out along with my honesty, in writing this letter to you. I’m sorry I’ve ever spoken ill of you when I should have spoken with love.

I’m sorry I’ve been so angry with you for so long. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to let it go.

I think maybe the only way for me to start forgiving you is to be honest about how hurt I really am, and have been, for so long.

And I don’t need you to apologize to me, not anymore. I don’t need you to feel like you ruined my life. I just want you to understand and know yourself more deeply. I want you to make peace with yourself and with God, like I rely on His grace to do every day.

I want you to understand me better, and to know I’m trying to love you the way Jesus does, that even though my heart feels hardened against you, I’m asking God to soften it. To help me grow past my own sinful anger and pride.

You’ll probably never read this, and that’s okay. But the words we speak and write matter, so here are my words for you: you are forgiven. Even if it’s a conscious choice I have to make whenever I think of you, I’m choosing to forgive you. I hope you can forgive me.

Samantha

The Best Day Ever

There’s a lot of cynicism about weddings and marriage out there, and sometimes for good reason. People sometimes behave terribly. It only makes sense that in some cases, people would make marriage look like a terrible idea. Or like it takes all the fun and flavor out of life.

I haven’t been married all that long (8 months last Saturday, actually), and I’m sure there will be many days in the future that I mark as significantly good days. But the memory of my wedding day will always be one of the most purely happy and tranquil memories I have. I definitely have no scruples at this moment about saying it was the best day of my life.

Not only because I achieved a lifelong dream and married my favorite person, but because the entire day I was surrounded by my best friends, and I genuinely can’t remember a time I ever felt less stressed. Which, if you know me, is a pretty big deal.

Most of my wedding day was spent preparing for the actual wedding. We had an evening ceremony–7pm, to be exact, which was our coy way of refuting any responsibility for serving our guests dinner. Instead, there was a dessert bar, replete with every good kind of sweet (and some rice pudding, which I guess some people like).

The chocolate-covered strawberries, decorated in white sheaths and smart tuxedos, had been picked up the day before, the chocolate swan was awaiting its place of honor right next to the 3-tiered, lemon-curd-filled cake, everything had been baked and packed neatly into various cute little candy dishes.

All the decorations–the jars which would hold the floating candles for the centerpieces, the greenery, the tablecloths, the pew bows, bouquets and boutonnieres, were set aside far in advance, most having been hand-picked and arranged by my mother, sister, and me over the last 3 months. Mom’s dress from her wedding 26 years ago had been altered, the princess sleeves removed, the train trimmed, and was hanging, freshly steamed, on my bedroom door, ready to be worn once again.

Having the whole day before the ceremony meant that even with all the preparations, we could still take it easy. I woke up that morning at 7:30, after a surprisingly good night’s sleep, and spent some silent time praying. My friend Mimi and I met for tea and donuts at Lamar’s (the best), and from there she came to my house, where I set about steaming her light gray bridesmaid’s dress. Not something I would generally do for fun, but any moment spent with Mimi that weekend was a treasure, because I hadn’t seen her since we walked at graduation together, and she had plans to spend the next year studying abroad in England.

She had flown to Omaha from Mackinac Island, probably the second most beautiful place in the world, just to be in my wedding.

Early in the afternoon we headed to the church to get everything ready. All my bridesmaids were there to help. Taylor brought her bluetooth speaker for the necessary tunes, Sarah–in true Sarah fashion–arrived with arms and purse overflowing with every imaginable party snack, Emily (honorary interior decorator of my life) gladly took charge of any decoration that needed her attention. My sister Julia did most everything else (she, along with Mom, deserves much of the credit for making this wedding happen).

We had so much fun together, prepping and snacking and taking weird photos of each other. I’m so blessed to have shared my wedding day with those women, who make me feel supported and loved and witty and like I deserve to be happy. They are the friends that got me through the tough days, the long studying sessions, the endless bus rides, the event-less summers, the monotony of muggle life.

Julia, Emily, Taylor, Sarah, Mimi–you are the reason (besides my husband) that August 4th, 2019 was the best day ever. And I can’t wait to be there with each of you on your most special of days.

(Everyone except Emily, that is, because you found and married your true love years ago, you old lady. But here’s to the special day you’re anticipating now–I’m so happy for you.)

Cheers to you all, my lovelies. I love you