Our baby already has a name

Naming things has always been a duty of utmost gravity to me. I named my flip phone in high school (Santiago), each of my cars (Sunny, Sirius, Cherry, Han, Blackavar), my stuffed animals (too many to list, sorry). I nicknamed almost all my friends through middle school and high school (fewer than the stuffed animals but still, I won't bore you). The first time I remember naming something is when we got our first poodle. Her name was Chloe, the name was my suggestion, everyone agreed it fit, and I have been wearing that knowledge like a medal of self-affirmation ever since. 

More recently husband and I have agonized over which name would best fit each of our cats (Pippin, the late Bombadil, Zuko, Princess Peach). Their names are fun and fitting, often literary. But naming a baby is a very different task. Almost a prophetic one.

I don't believe in mantras or manifestation, but I do believe there is something profound about a name. God certainly does. All throughout the Bible He was naming people, re-naming people, calling and commanding and setting apart. It's part of Him knowing us, better than we even know ourselves. That's why naming a child feels different, like it's almost too big a task for my human brain. A person's name is the first thing they claim as a part of their identity; what their name means can inspire and encourage them as they grow up. I learned in elementary school that the name Samantha, translated from the Aramaic, means listener. After that it always seemed to me like a title worth living up to (and here's how we know God has a sense of humor, because it is often a great challenge for me to listen well). 

For the one who does the naming, it creates a sense of connection, of responsibility and pride, that for some reason isn't there until a name is spoken. That's why Zac and I named each of our children while they were still in the womb--to confirm their humanity, their value, their set-apart-ness. That's why we've prayed over each of our children's names, and why we wouldn't just change one on a whim. That's the human explanation for why our second son is named Abraham. 

Abrahamic covenant

The ultrasound didn’t show me

the color of your eyes, the pattern of your hair.

It wouldn’t show those things,

the ones that come with time.

Whether you will like Brussels sprouts 

or playing in the snow.

There is no prenatal personality test,

no questionnaire or list of preferences.

Your existence, enabled in part by my own

flesh and blood,

depends on something else entirely.

Would I take that job if I could?

Pencil in your features like some dystopian geneticist,

gray-green eyes and your dad’s hair.

I’d never have to tell you

not to hit your sister.

You’d never cry over out-of-reach candy.

And I think

you’d end up really boring.

We named you Abraham before we saw you,

a name emanating legacy,

a dream of faith-fed greatness. Abraham.

Presidential, near-prehistoric. Possibility

and promise.

No, I wouldn’t write your story.

The part of me that wants to 

has all the fear, none of the reckless courage

such a name requires.

But God knew you before I did,

he saw your footprints and where they led,

and promised to lead you.

You may not turn out to be

the father of a nation 

but you will be the father of something.

Your life brings forth some newness

some first-print exclusive

never-would-have-thought backstory

written by the only original in the universe.

We chose your name

but I have a feeling

God did that too.

A resurrection story

Last year around Easter, I found myself compelled to poetry by Good Friday, that beautiful contradiction. 

This year, for whatever reason, I was inspired by the time in between Friday and Resurrection Sunday, when all the disciples had to show for all their learning was a dead rabbi and a hostile community. What would it have been like to walk home after Jesus' burial, anything but assured of his resurrection?

In particular I wanted to explore Peter's perspective, and the complex emotions that I'm sure he was wrestling with after Jesus' death. He wasn't just a passive observer of the event. He'd been intimately connected with Jesus, the only disciple recorded as being confident enough in Jesus to say that he was the Messiah. And even after all that drama, all that conviction, in Jesus' time of suffering, Peter had still denied him to preserve his own well-being.

It must have tortured him. Imagine the relief, then, when Jesus came back--not only justifying all the disciples' faith in him, but willing to embrace Peter as a brother and to empower him to share the fulness of the Gospel with anyone and everyone he could. What a comeback story. And what an encouragement to me it is to see Peter's cowardly yet all-too-relatable failure turned so magnificently into Spirit-driven fire. 

Without the resurrection, we're all stuck in our failures. But Jesus defeated death so you too could rise up out of it and become his champion. 

Saturday

The world was ending.

more precisely,

the world had ended yesterday

a few hours after noon—

the visible simply took time

to catch up

with the invisible.

The Truth, invisible to so many,

still cloudy, even to his closest friends,

had been marched to his death

only yesterday afternoon.

His body,

heartbreakingly human,

lay lifeless, empty as a shattered vessel.

His blood had been red as it poured out,

no more extraordinary than a loaf of bread.

What was it he had said? 

For you I am broken, drained. 

Remember me always.

And as he passed the bread Peter had thought,

I would sooner forget my own name 

than You.

But he had been wrong. In weakness he’d failed

even while praying for the courage to fight.

Now his one hope, his redemption was gone,

hidden away in a tomb

whose stone, rolling to seal it,

had lodged itself in his throat

and would never be exorcised.

Don’t be afraid, he’d said. I will return.

But it couldn’t be true. 

Even if it were,

surely Peter had soiled his portion.

That wine-red blood was on his hands.

And the rooster had crowed his death sentence

even before they had condemned his Christ.

What sacrifice could cover the shame 

so real to him now, 

so much more piercing than any fable of forbidden fruit?

No, the golden hour had passed.

They had killed him,

and he had died like any man.

The dawn of that Sunday

Peter’s mind was an island,

a sheer, desolate crag.

A place no miracles could grow.

Blasphemer or coward, he’d earned

his reward. 

Someone burst in the door–

doors still existed, even in a world at its end--

Mary had been running.

She stood, eyes bright with tears,

catching enough breath to utter two words.

Two words,

and Peter’s legs couldn’t take him fast enough.

Two words:

He’s alive. 

Happy Easter!

Pregnant again

Yes, we are having another baby! Our new baby boy is 17 weeks old and growing! 

And yes, this is a good, good thing. 

My husband and I are blessed with three children now, two who have been born, and we couldn't be more grateful for the love and support we have found over the last couple years in starting our family. 

After the first baby, a lot of things are different, and one thing that's stuck out to me in this most recent pregnancy is the change in tone when people find out. 

I just want to say this isn't a complaint. I'm very excited to have another new baby join the club, and I don't need others to validate me because I know all new life is a gift from God. But it's weird how the negativity seeps in further with each new addition. People will be happy for you, but there's a wariness to them. A fear that maybe this time the new baby won't be a blessing but a burden.  

I'm past the point of wanting people to say different things. Everyone's going to say something, and I shouldn't expect them to shape their though process to what fits my worldview best. There's been plenty said to me by the few people I told about this pregnancy early, and all of it varied widely--even though everyone in my life we shared our news with is supportive and wonderful.

I said before I don't want to expect people to change their words to suit me, and that's true. But I do think the way we talk about things matters. It matters because our words shape our perceptions more than we'd like to admit, and the words we hear from others operate in the same way. In our society we're accustomed to labeling children as a burden. When we Christians, who should know better than anyone what a blessing a baby is, who follow a God who has never said anything but positive things about children, start to absorb this worldview, it comes out even when we are happy about a pregnancy.

That's how you end up congratulating someone on a new baby and in the same breath saying,

"Children are expensive." 

"Pregnancy is traumatic."

"When are you going to be done?" 

"They'll be so close in age, you'll be exhausted!"

"Bet your husband is planning his vasectomy already!"

"I'm just glad it's you and not me."

These are all things I've heard people say to expecting moms (most of them to me) upon their pregnancy announcement. As if they feel compelled to temper their joy with a dose of reality. And I've been guilty of the same thing myself. Why do we feel we have to do this? 

I think life so often disappoints us that we feel the need to buffer our happiness with a layer of doubt. We stop ourselves from diving in to the joy of life because we don't want to be taken by surprise when things are hard. We project our own fears or struggles onto other people because we don't want them to suffer. We fear that if we experience joy too fully, it might seem to others that we don't see their hardships. 

This kind of thing is not only unhelpful, it's dumb. I say that from experience. It's dumb not to allow yourself to appreciate blessings, for any reason. It's dumb to let your anxiety taint the joy of others. It's dumb to look at a good thing and, because it isn't easy or because we live in a world full of bruises, to say that it might actually be bad. Good things are good, and they can be good even here.

Our mindsets need to change on this. Yes, having children isn't all rainbows all the time. Nothing is. That doesn't mean every child isn't a masterpiece handcrafted by God. 

If motherhood has taught me one thing it's that I can't control everything. I actually pretty much control nothing. And any time I start feeling it's my responsibility to ensure that everything is the way it should be for my babies, God sees fit to remind me that ultimately it is He who takes care of all of us.

He's taken care of me my whole life, and He takes care of my children. 

He takes care of the children whose mothers don't. Who've been abandoned by their fathers or shunted into the system. He watches over every soul on this earth, the forgotten, the lonely, the impoverished, the enslaved. He knows their circumstances better than even their parents could. And He loves them better than anyone. Children are precious to the Lord, their Creator. So how can I see them as anything but precious, a thing to be cherished, a gift to be in awe of every day?  

Not every mother can see this, or has ever even heard this truth about her children. But we followers of Jesus are ambassadors of His truth, His light. We should take this responsibility seriously, not using our words to discourage, but to uplift. 

You're worried a mama you know is going to have a hard time--so what? It's the perfect opportunity to ask her if she needs anything. To come alongside her and let her know you love her and her baby and want the best for both of them. To not discourage her by saying something negative. 

Next time you speak to a mama, encourage her. Affirm that her baby (or babies) are loved and created for a purpose. Rejoice with her! Let God open your heart to her. If she has needs you can meet, give generously to her family. We don't have to let joy blind us to need--we should joyfully participate in the will of God to meet those needs. That way, we don't keep our joy hoarded away, not to be shown. Instead we get to share it with others, and point to the One who makes our joy complete. 

God does answer prayers

June 24th is the new favorite holiday of all pro-life people. A poem for the occasion:

Finally, an Answer

Is this the first one:
It feels like the first real victory,
the first time we rallied
and overcame the enemy.
It feels like the first day in decades
we've breathed clean air

But is it, really,
when for the light to get here
it had to travel quite the distance,
one point in history to the next,
too far away to see at first,
now blindingly here,
leaving behind
a trail of undaunted footsteps.

Every domino set, a victory.
Every step forward, a battle won.

No,
when God was silent
He was not absent--
He was there, baton raised
breath poised,
kinetically focused,
never hasty.
Our lens is a pinpoint;
our frame too small
to realize how short our time is,
how infinitesimal the gap
between silence and sound,
between earth and sun.

So in the darkness, still I will thank Him
for the speed of light. 

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. 

  

All is vanity?

The past weeks in our communities seem to have been plagued by evil. Maybe it's just my childhood innocence shedding its scales, but it seems to me that the older I've gotten the heavier the weight of grief and loss in the world has become. Some days I sense a burden of things inexpressible by any language. 

Since my children were born, I've only felt this angst deepen. I know this world is passing away. I know that darkness must increase so that when the light finally banishes it, the glory of that moment will endure forever. Though this is true, I also know that even as darkness grows, hope will too. Hope will never be out-shined by darkness.

So this is my charge to you, fellow pilgrims: seek beauty, hold on to hope, have faith, be brave. Go outside in the springtime. And listen to your mom <3 

Solomon's despair, revisited

Mom said write a poem about a rose
when all I can think of is the world's
love of death.
She said,
go outside where things are still green,
somehow,
and be reminded that not all is death,
not all is lost in darkness.
There is a vivaciousness
in the vibration
of the air.
There's a residue that lingers, persistent
long after words have faded
into ink on a page.
There is life amidst this dying,
a new Spirit that brings buds to bloom.
So in the end,
a rose, or a poem, is not a frivolity.
No fleeting beauty is meaningless,
but it comes like a fragrant breeze
through a still room,
stirring whispers of long-suffering hope. 

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. 

Snow and what it teaches us

It's almost springtime, and every year as winter slowly edges out the door it leaves behind a reminder of the One who created the seasons.

Even slush is a sign from God

When snow comes down,

crystal-white and clean,

it settles in flawless formation

against the world.

Blades of grass become tiny daggers,

houses turn into gingerbread

and daylight into a galaxy of stars.

No one can say it isn't beautiful,

that first crisp crunch through the sun-hardened crust of frost.

No one can say it isn't just as delectable

as bread new-birthed from the oven

It's the crumbs we regret.

The slush on the side of the road,

the gathered leavings,

stale as the word gray.

The snow turns from glistening diamond to coal dust

blackening our lungs,

the dirt it had covered so cleverly

churned up by the movements of the world

Too soon, we say.

Too soon the snow goes sludgy,

too soon the bread goes stale.

Unthinkable, the idea of a purity

that lasts.

But

if we could have the snow washed clean again

then anything might be possible.

A Long-Awaited Treasure

Not so long ago, I was just sitting down to write my son Salem's birth story. Now he's almost 15 months old and here I am again, writing his little sister's. (The scene is very similar, actually, except for a few significant details: there are two cribs in the nursery now instead of one, and while one tiny baby sleeps on my chest, my firstborn is now too much his own man to ever do more than sit next to me on the couch for a few minutes. I'm using my phone, not my laptop, to draft this post, because toddlers have devious little fingers that can't be trusted with laptop keyboards.)

Lydia Zahava was born on February 28th, 2022, one day after her due date. 

She had spent the entire month previous playing practical jokes on me. Night after night I went to bed with mild contractions, thinking it couldn't possibly be that much longer until she finally decided to come out--and every morning I woke up, still pregnant and incredibly tired of it. By the middle of February my body felt so cumbersome that my husband started helping me into and out of bed without me needing to ask. I started avoiding the stairs in my house at any cost. I grew increasingly touchy about acquaintances' well-meaning inquiries of "how much longer?" and "no baby yet?"

I expected the end of my second pregnancy to involve less anxiety than the first, but in reality it was more excruciating--probably because of my expectations. I felt I should be more prepared, should be able to easily distinguish between real labor and a Braxton Hicks contraction. I thought my labor was sure to start suddenly, since my body had already been through the process before--and this is what I wanted, for things to simply happen. But these expectations kept getting disproven left and right. I told people sardonically that the feeling was like knowing you were going on a road trip soon, but not when you were leaving or where you were going--only that you had to be ready to leave at a moment's notice. 

One night as I treated Zac to my millionth rant on the subject, he stopped me and said, "Have you been praying about this? I haven't heard you mention God a single time in this whole conversation." To which I replied, "Get out of my face with that convicting nonsense."

Not really. But that is kind of how it felt. To be honest, I didn't want to talk to God about it because I thought I could predict what He'd say: that I should be patient and trust his timing and let go of my expectations. As much as I wished I could be patient, I was also tired of being placated and admonished. But I will begrudgingly admit that Zac was right to point this out to me. 

So I decided that I would just start complaining to God. Every morning I nagged Him with the same request, to finally meet this baby, knowing that one of these days that prayer would be answered with a yes. I stopped ending my prayers before they began. I told God how I was feeling. And He did not give me what I wanted--but He did also show me how okay it actually was for me to not get my way. Every notion I had about the perfect timing got chucked out the window one by one. We made a plan to induce on the 28th, a Monday. It was an unsavory choice for me, the last resort I hadn't wanted to worry about. But every day I got a little more comfortable with being proven wrong. 

Not that I gave up very easily. I still paced my living room like a caged tiger and danced around my kitchen and recklessly drank chamomile tea in the hopes that the little lady might catch my hints. 

She did not. Or if she did, she decided unequivocally to ignore them. By the 27th, Lydia's due date, she was no closer to moving herself out and I had been sufficiently humbled to no longer feel like inducing was somehow beneath me, like it meant I was giving up or admitting to my desperation. In other words, I got over myself a little bit. 

The day itself was a beautiful day. The night before, my parents came by our house to pick up Salem for his very first sleepover, and I didn't even cry after they left (I got that over with before they arrived). On Monday Zac and I got up at 5:45. I had predicted only restless, anxious sleep for myself--if any--but far from being anxious, I was relieved. That morning did indeed feel like getting ready for a road trip--a road trip that promised the best souvenir ever. Nothing was rushed. The car seat buckled in, the go bags stuffed in the trunk, the tiny polka dot dress for Lydia all ready for her to come home in style. The week's forecast was practically summery, so much so that I boldly left the winter weather car seat cover at home. 

To most people, when you say the words "in labor," the images that come to mind are hardly placid ones. Most people would not envision a pleasant day spent playing made-up word games with one's spouse, watching Marvel movies on TV, and cracking jokes with two nurses as they bustle around checking monitors and hooking up bags of fluid. But that was how we spent Lydia's birthday. The only low points in the day were getting a disgusting IV placed in my right forearm, and trying not to picture the epidural needle going into my back as I squeezed the life out of Zac's hands. 

I will never be ashamed of getting pain medication during labor. With Lydia, and Salem as well, once I had the epidural I was able to rest and really enjoy the time spent anticipating the birth. I can remember both days as peaceful, even restful, preparation for an exciting change. 

In total, I was in labor for about 9 hours. At 5:15 pm, my doctor arrived to interrupt our scheduled programming of Avengers: Endgame, and it was time to push (we did finish the movie afterward, ha). I was so grateful that this moment came before the nurse shift changed, so that the two nurses who had helped make my day so peaceful were the ones there with me when Lydia made her appearance. 

She was born at 5:41, weighing 7lb 15oz, measuring 20 inches long and looking, somehow, just like her dad. In the end she couldn't have made it easier on me. 

We named her Lydia Zahava. Lydia was Zac's choice: in his words, the prettiest name for a girl he could think of (and fitting, because it actually means "beauty"). Zahava is a name of Hebrew origin, from the word zahav, meaning "gold." Lydia Zahava, because of what a treasured gift she is to us, and because our prayer for her is that she will learn to find her worth in the beautiful identity that God bestowed upon her when He created her. 

I spent the next day in the hospital with her, just the two of us, since Zac, husband and dad extraordinaire, had to be at work. My mom brought Salem to see us during the day, and I loved watching his sweet, clumsy fascination with his new little sister. We brought both our babies home on the evening of March 1st. 

This time around, the wait was certainly the hardest labor, but our precious Lydia is well worth it. She's truly adorable, a little angel who looks just like her brother when she's sleeping and makes the tiniest squeaking noises whenever she stretches out her limbs. She's had no trouble at all stealing the hearts of everyone she meets--except maybe the cats. 

Welcome to the world, sweet girl. 

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. 

Christmas in August

On the one hand, I wouldn't mind if God took his time with the whole end-of-the-world business. Mostly selfishly, I think of my children and the world they will grow up in. I want them to live in peace, free from the trials I know are coming, whether 100 days or a thousand years from now. I want to play with my grandchildren.

Sometimes I pray God's mercy would extend just a little bit longer, just enough. 

But then I'm reminded that this world, precious though it is, is not the goal. And more than anything I want my children to know that too, to claim their place in the world Jesus is making for those who trust in Him. When He comes to deliver us to that place, no past trial will ever tarnish its shine--all the things we've suffered here on Earth, big and small, will only serve to sweeten our joy on that day. 

May we be ready when He comes. It's going to be something else. 

The Best Day Ever

It'll come on suddenly.
All at once the lights will go on
like the man in the moon just flipped a giant switch
and it'll seem amazing to us, then,
how any of us were able to see before,
how dark and dismal things really were.
The earth will shout,
"There He is!"
and the roar will be a thousand waterfalls,
a million rockets sent into space,
and looking around we'll see each other 
as we always should have been,
dust folded into the shape of life,
everything healed and whole,
all the old things forgotten.
Your whole life has been one long Christmas Eve.
Sometimes the morning seemed
so impossibly far
the darkness so deep
outside your window,
and you don't remember falling asleep
but once you did, of course,
it came in an instant.
And now here you are, on the Christmas of all Christmases,
His light more dazzling than any tree,
and you'll smile so big,
you'll think your face should be hurting.
But of course nothing hurts now. Nothing will ever again.

A fearful world needs courageous people

We live in a moment of fear.

Fear is inherent in our culture; we breathe it in as we walk outside. We speak it into our relationships. We cower before it in the public spaces where we should be able to be free. 

It's part of the natural human condition to be fearful--what's unnatural is the transcendent ability to overcome fear and even defeat it. To replace our visceral, human fears with focus, with confidence, with hope. It is unnatural to believe that's even possible.

But to the Christian, it is the reality of everyday life--or at least, it should be.

And yet many of us still remain trapped in our fear. Fear of our peers. Fear of injury. Fear of failure, censure, death and sickness. We watch movies and read fairy tales about daring heroes, but none of the real life we consume seems to fit that model. What we see in our media most often reflects the basest degeneracies of human life: destructive speech, violence, addiction and anger. Babies and children are murdered, abandoned and hated by their parents. Innocent people hurt while evil people seem to flourish. 

Evil is real in our world, which is why we have always needed courage to meet it. But courage isn't a ready part of our vocabulary anymore. It's one of those lost Old English words Shakespeare used to use, but which now have no real meaning. 

What is courage, anyway? 

It's not the absence of fear. Actually, it's just the opposite--it's the presence of fear, and the defiant choice to push forward through very real danger, because what you're heading toward is worth the pain, or the ridicule, or the suffering. 

One thing fear gets right is that this world is full of danger. We need fear, in a way, to let us know when we encounter that danger--but if our fear doesn't move us toward courage, it's defeated us.

So what do you need, in order to find your courage? The kind that doesn't tarnish, that doesn't quail before hardship, that stands up boldly and says no to evil, no matter the cost?

You need to believe in SOMETHING.

You need to believe in God.

Believe that God is good, that He is active, that He is never listless or lethargic. Believe that He will help you achieve the good He has purposed for you, and for this world. Believe that He will be your courage when you need it.

Believe that God, his holiness and love and truth, the eternal hope we have in Him, is worth anything and everything. 

When you believe that, you become invincible, and everything becomes possible.

When you know in your heart that God is the ultimate good in the universe, when your soul is at peace and confident resting in His truth--the only truth that exists--you will never want to be silent, shrinking away in fearful darkness, ever again. You will take up the cause of the Kingdom with a hope that wells like the ocean inside of you.

This isn't about politics, though the more I think about politics the more I hear this message, the message of hope and courage. In reality nothing in life is about politics--politics are always about life.

And, Christian, your life is more than right or left, socialist or capitalist, individual liberty or common good. Your life is for God--the God who is above all things things and yet can be found working among them. Your life is meant to ask the question, what is God's purpose for this moment?, to seek the answer eagerly, fearlessly, hopefully. 

To find and grasp the truth of God, the truth that He whispers in lonely moments of prayer, the truth written for us in His Word, the truth He has woven into every aspect of Creation, done out of love for us and joy for a good, good thing. God's truth is love, and perfect love drives out fear.

When you know the truth, fear will find no purchase in you. Any fear that gains control over you only does so because you are holding on to it, rather than fixing your attention on God. 

Jesus said it, and I believe it. Fear of the world will destroy you--but fear of the living God will empower you to do great things.

So do not be afraid of them. For there is nothing concealed that will not be disclosed, and nothing hidden that will not be made known. What I tell you in the dark, speak in the daylight; what is whispered in your ear, proclaim from the housetops.
Do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Instead, fear the One who can destroy both soul and body in hell.
Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from the will of your Father. And even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. So do not be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.

More existential poetry

As a historian, it's both hard to believe in destiny and hard not to. 

Teleology

I feel tight somehow,

dough rolled into a spiral and no room to expand. The oven turns on.

I am compressed like a black hole. I am immeasurably tiny

and vastly inevitable. Where is all this gravity going?

and where did it come from

The universe has rules. Everything exists to do just that

and no history could have ever been any different, or else it would have happened.

If things could be different they would

but rules make the world just like they make up our bodies.

We exist in the space between ice and water,

lava and stone

the future solidifying into the past, as quickly as it passes us by

like the cows on the side of the road,

still there in our minds even after we reach our destination. 

Can destiny be applied retroactively?