Sandy Hook. I'm just not over it.
I opened facebook yesterday to see a picture of two grim looking white kids with their hands wrapped around weapons taller than they were. "Why Assault Rifles?" screamed the caption.
And I'm still stuck on the first word. I can't get any farther than that.
I grew up singing about how we are soldiers in God's army. Six years old, we shaped our fingers into guns and spun around firing at the invisible.
I'm older now. Old enough to have wrapped my fingers around the cold metal of a pistol. Old enough to have stared down a barrel and pulled a trigger. Old enough to know I don't want to fight.
I don't want to see life as a battle.
I believe in beauty. I believe in goodness. I believe in the strength of a calm spirit. I believe in encouragement.
I believe in the power of turning: the other cheek, time, curve of the earth.
And yet, the battle finds me.
I fight the steady tug of the dark. I fight small. I fight tired doubt and chest-clenching anxiety and cynicism and fear of the future. I fight it all.
I step daily onto my battlefield, and I see Quiet, Enough, Faith, Community off in the distance. I push forward, trying desperately to protect my only heart, and as I clash against harsh words and judgement and expectations, I think, Armor on? Armor off?
What if I fear no evil?
What if I lay my sword down?
What if I let all that fear run right through me?
The anticipation of the pain might be worse than the wound itself. It might be that the blood and tears will form a river that will carry me out of the dust and the explosions and the screaming, a river that will carry me to myself.
I imagine myself floating down that crimson thread, a white flag of surrender lying over my eyes. Dying to what I know. What I want. What I dream.
All surrender, swept along in a flow of love-grace, come to rest in that distant place my soul desires.
Shared with Michelle-Hear it on Sunday, Use it on Monday and Laura-Playdates at the Wellspring. and the Soli Deo Gloria community.