In early September, the kids and I were in Texas for a visit, and I wrote this as a caption to a pic I snapped while I hung out with a girlfriend of mine who was going through some tough stuff.
I believe with my whole heart
that we were made for deep, connected, belly-laughing, ugly-crying community.
A village of perfectly broken people to sharpen us,
develop our empathy,
foster our creativity,
holler for us in season of joy
and lock arms with us in seasons of struggle.
A web of love and admiration and respect
that will launch us into life
and catch us when life's junk gets us down.
I'm so thankful, down deep in my soul for my people.
It's true. Every word of it.
I've been wrestling all my to-dos in to submission so I could find some time to write a post on the vital role community plays in my life. I've been turning over all my thoughts, kneading them into one cohesive mass like bread dough. But now... I thought I was ready. I was. But when I sat down today to actually get my thoughts out, I kept seeing faces in my minds eye. Faces of people I don't even know. Pictures I've seen over the last few days, brown eyes like mine, blue eyes like Aubrie's, green like Jace's. And community turned into a subject that meant so much more.
Last night, scrolling through facebook and seeing videos, articles, and observances people have posted I was struck by the tone of the comments that went with them. Some angry, argumentative, bitter. Others compassionate, sad, even hopeless. I thought about replying to a few, or even posting my own opinion, but after a minute, my conclusion was that it doesn't matter. Writing a post on facebook doesn't matter. My opinion doesn't matter. It doesn't. Because it does nothing to help the situation. So then, I thought, "What can I do to help?" Pray. From last night:
There's so much hurt.
Rivers feeding into oceans of tears that have rolled down the cheeks of people.
People that Jesus loves.
Tears caused by people.
People that Jesus loves and died for.
I wouldn't even begin to assume that I know the steps to right the wrong.
I don't.
But I know my job.
Love God.
Love people.
Tragedies have a way of dividing as we try and categorize good and bad.
My very human brain wants a solution that makes sense.
My very human heart floods with emotion.
And I'll pray.
For wisdom to infect the minds of those in positions of leadership.
For mothers, fathers, sisters, and brothers that endure the terror
incessantly while I have the luxury of scrolling through Facebook.
For the hearts that are tender and hurting.
For the families deeply mourning a loss- of loved ones, of safety, of
homes, of the hope of tomorrow- that my privileged ears will never hear
about because the media wasn't there.
I don't have a solution.
But I have a heart to pray.
It's not that I think my own village is insignificant or diminished because of the news. They're just as important. Their joy. Their trials. My people are important. We hold each other up in the most beautifully imperfect way. My weaknesses are made stronger because of their strengths. And it's an honor to hold the vivid hurt of another's heart and, with the love of Jesus, be a help. Burdens are lightened when they're shared with other hearts, made bearable when we're able to look to our left and our right and see people walking through the deep valley with us simply because of their love for us. Being human. It's a condition we all share.
My village. They're going to help raise my children. They'll be lamp posts, gently lighting the path for my littles. My people are going to keep me sane when I'm at the edge. They'll tell me they've been there, or laugh about how they will be there eventually and we'll share a glass of wine and dance it out. These precious people will be the ears that hear the crazy that comes out of my mouth and will be the gentle rain that puts out the fires of marriage and parenthood that will inevitably come. And then I'll return the kindness. Human. Good. Bad. Gray. Complicated. Loved.
Romans 12: 4-8 says:
"4 For just as each of us has one body with many members, and these members do not all have the same function, 5 so in Christ we, though many, form one body, and each member belongs to all the others. 6 We have different gifts, according to the grace given to each of us. If your gift is prophesying, then prophesy in accordance with your[a] faith; 7 if it is serving, then serve; if it is teaching, then teach; 8 if it is to encourage, then give encouragement; if it is giving, then give generously; if it is to lead,[b] do it diligently; if it is to show mercy, do it cheerfully."
We're different. But together, we're best. As I read that passage, I can name the people in my circle that fulfill these different roles and more. But then, again my mind shifts and I think of the greater body. The Church. Us. We. We're better together. Stronger when our voices are lifted as one as we seek wisdom, ask for the mercy we don't always feel towards others, and receive the grace that none of us have earned or deserve. My village is important. And so is theirs. My people are loved fiercely by The Lord. And so are they.
I have zero answers. I'm hoping that sometimes there's wisdom in, "I don't know". I hope there's some redeeming maturity in admitting to the lack of experience or knowledge to form a solidly educated opinion of a situation. I'm holding out for the opportunity for growth rather than the death of conversation that can happen when thoughts saturated with feelings (and not enough facts) are haphazardly disguised as discussion points.
I'm still hopeful.
