Talk is Cheap

So many people argue about whether abortion is right or wrong.

So many people are wasting their time.

I always go back to this: “Then render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s…” – Jesus of Nazareth (Matthew 22:21).

The government’s going to make decisions. Some of them will be vile and poisonous and champion the cause of Satan and present this package with a crisp white bow on top.

We’re not to be fooled. But we’re not to cause chaos because of it. We’re to be in the trenches, loving and aiding those who are bereft and find themselves in a position that they can’t even fathom breaking through.

Because we have the power of God within and us and a host of angels at our shoulders, we KNOW that this moment, this idea of a whole world, a whole life changing is not a mountain that can’t be climbed. But they don’t know that. And that is why the church is to be the church, never to condemn but to sit side-by-side women who have found themselves in a position they never thought they’d be in. We are to pray for those who have been viciously attacked and offer a servant’s heart.

The law will be the law. But we will be the people of God.

And when we sit bickering at one another about what that means, we waste precious time helping those we feel we’re fighting for in the first place.

The second part of that verse? “…and to God the things that are God’s.”

We are to give God what is His, which is us. We are made in His image. If we were to truly do this, give EVERY part of ourselves and aspect of our lives – our sexuality, our bank accounts, our parenting, our jobs, our social lives, etc. – our world would be one in which the idea of abortion would be obsolete.

But we don’t live in a perfect world. We live in this one. And like Christ redeemed the broken, we too, have that opportunity. He didn’t do it by shaking His fists and opinions in people’s faces. He did it by ushering in the Kingdom of God, an upside down kingdom that begins on bended knee.

I will serve the brokenhearted and the scared. The lost. And not because Cesaer requires it, but because God does.

As It Should Be

The twins are two men I’ve stumbled upon during my daily outings. Well, not literally. They’re always safely stored within the confines of a 1980’s Nissan Vanette and are looking at me like I have no business looking at them.

But let’s be fair about that and break down the facts:

  • They drive a 1980’s Vanette. I know I’ve already mentioned that, but I think it’s worth mentioning again.
  • They are grown men who always sit in the front and passenger side seats. This seems like a non-issue except for the fact that…
  • …they’re twins and wear the exact same outfit.
  • I always see them as they’re going in the opposite direction of me, which means I get a full shot of them practically being the same person, wearing the same outfit, and sitting in a van roughly ten people on this planet have ever actually owned.
  • They wear expressions on their faces as if they are any other people who don’t look exactly the same, roaring through the side streets of our sleepy little area in a machine that takes me back to the days of fanny packs and crimped hair. It was a simpler time.

Another fact: they only ever didn’t wear the exact same outfit just one time. It was the first time I saw them after my dog passed away. I like to think it was their way of grieving with me.

I told Ava about The Twins. She didn’t believe me until she fortuitously saw them cruising towards us one afternoon. She was in disbelief.

“How…”

“I don’t know, Ava. I just don’t know.”

And then there was Matt who is used to my natural gravitation toward fancy. But Matt being Matt didn’t blink twice the first time he saw them.

“Looks like that thing’s running pretty well,” he choked out, solidly ignoring the fact that two grown men roughly his age were coming at him in matching v-neck sweaters with white undershirts slightly peeking out.

“I’ll say,” I said, stifling a mini panic attack.

I think about The Twins way too much. They’re an anamoly. A weirdness to my day that would only be made weirder if they didn’t exist. I know in roughly a few short hours, I will see them careening toward me on Dixieland as I head to the gym. I am already mentally preparing myself to keep my face straight and eyes somewhat on the road. And I’m ignoring the short conversation they’re probably having with each other this very second:

“Time to go see that weirdo in the maroon Honda Civic.”

And everything is as it should be.

Like Marie Kondo, Only Meaner

There’s a very small and beautiful Japanese lady called Marie Kondo who goes into people’s homes, helps them assess what’s needed in their life and what isn’t, and then has them say a deep and heartfelt goodbye to all of the personal items that once had a place in their existence but have long since wreaked havoc on the state of their affairs.

She’s basically me if she came with a set of matches and an affinity for the phrase, “Do you really need that sweater seeing that we’re all gonna die one day anyways?”

Matt and Ava have learned how to hide their things. It really is a glorious art to find that pair of sweatpants with the knee in the hole and the waistband that’s too tight, scrunching itself into a neat little ball in the closet as if I’m some well-mannered Japanese TV host with a penchant for sparing people’s feelings and who doesn’t enjoy the smell of burning fleece.

I just feel that stuff is stuff. To tag a sentimental value to something seems almost foreign to me, save for the few trinkets from close friends and family that actually mean something. But gathering stuff for the sake of stuff gathering is akin to the man storing surplus grain in the larger barn he builds so that he can take a load off, pop open a cold one, and enjoy the feats of his labor (Luke 12:16-21).

Oh but then spoiler alert: he dies.

I have to ask myself daily where my treasure is. I have to light my own match and hold it close to the things I think I own. I own nothing. I am a steward of God’s good graces. I am merely borrowing my home and my car and my dog and my daughter and my husband and all the other things that surround me that reflect an erroneous semblance of safety.

There is nothing safe about this world. Remember that. I’m not saying there is no joy, no hope. Oh gosh no. WE are that joy and that hope to a barren world that thinks it knows better. Which is why it’s so important to burn the mental ties to anything that keeps us from being salt and light.

The more tethered we are to “our” treasure, the less valuable we are to others.

But the more we light the fire to the ties that hold us to worldly thinking, well, we lift up and away, feet dangling, eyes toward heaven.

The Problem With Eating People

There’s been an internal damage done within the hearts of people.

And now, we’re hell bent on eating them.

You might have heard about this phenomenon, the one where we’re so angry with rich people, we become inclined to swallow them whole. Or perhaps chopped up into fine little pieces smothered in ketchup.

I’m not sure how the process is supposed to go. I only work here.

I find that sort of thinking completely shortsighted, obviously. And if I have to pile it into any specific category, I suppose I’d go with an old favorite: “the pile of malarky where I have to stop being a human being to others and let my lying feelings determine my fate.”

You know, my favorite category.

There are rich people. There are poor people. There are black people and white people. And straight people and gay people and people who are one day a her and the next day a him.

There are people who can’t see and others who can’t hear and some who do both at the same time like Hellen Keller. There are people who love dogs and people who love cats and people who made an entire childhood out of torturing God’s creatures. And there are people who lean towards the good and others who lean towards the bad.

And guess what?

We’re all sinners.

To ascribe our precious feelings onto another soul buried in a meat sack is a waste of time. Time not wasted would look like this: knowing the truth, knowing what’s bad and what’s good and loving another human anyway. Because we aren’t to judge. We ARE, however, to clothe and feed and humble ourselves even before the ones who spit on us. Even before the ones who are making this life just a wee bit unbearable.

We are not to eat them. Jesus didn’t eat people. Remember that.

Every single one has a heart that beats, and I might be going out on a limb here, but none of them taste very good.

So take your own bleeding heart and wipe it up. Stick a band-aid on it. And realize, it doesn’t look much different than anyone else’s.