Dear Sister, You are not a disgrace.

Dear sister who marched on Saturday, taking a stand for women, you are not a disgrace.  There is a place for you here.

Dear sister who marched on Friday, taking a stand for Little Ones, you are not a disgrace.  There is a place for you here.

Dear sister who didn’t march because you were working to provide for your babies or because you were nursing your babies or because you are flat scared of what might happen when that many people get together in one place, you are not a disgrace.  There is a place for you here.

Dear sister who is celebrating this season, you are not a disgrace.  There is a place for you here.

Dear sister who is weeping, truly grieved for what feels like a huge setback, you are not a disgrace.  There is a place for you here.

Dear sister who is overwhelmed, too stressed by the actual real life in front of you to take a stand on political issues, you are not a disgrace.  There is a place for you here.

Dear sister living the American dream—a husband, two kids and a white picket fence, you are not a disgrace.  There is a place for you here.

Dear sister whose family looks different—whether through your own choices or the choices of another, you are not a disgrace.  There is a place for you here.

Dear sister courageously raising babies that you know our world will “other” and judge harshly, you are not a disgrace.  You are not alone.  There is a place for you here.

Dear sister who longs desperately to snuggle a baby of your own, to have what seems to come so easily to everybody else, you are not a disgrace.  You are not alone.  There is a place for you here.

Dear sister who has been victimized or violated, you are not a disgrace.  You are not alone.  There is a place for you here.

Dear sister who looks back and cries for what might have been, you are not a disgrace.  You are not alone.  There is a place for you here.

Dear sisters, all of you, listen hard.

None of us are a disgrace.  None.  Of.  Us.

We don’t agree.  We fuss and pout.  We fight for what we truly believe to be right and can’t fathom how our sisters could disagree.

But we are not a disgrace.

We are loved.  Desperately, passionately loved.

And we are created to love.

Our voices matter.  Our stories matter.  Our babies matter—born and unborn, American and not.

So, sister, love hard.  Yell loud.  Agitate for justice in the ways that you can, the ways that you must.

But, dear sister, don’t let anyone tell you that you are a disgrace.

Uh oh, uh oh, Jesus!

We have a ton of books in our house, but like lots of kids, Little One gravitates toward the same ones.

One of my words for 2017 is “connect,” so I’ve started doing some tasks the night before so that I can spend a few early morning moments snuggling and reading instead of rushing around like a maniac.

So we snuggle, and Little One chugs his apple juice and inevitably, he brings me one particular Bible story book.

I’ve read and paraphrased these stories hundreds of times, I’m sure.

Jesus finding Zacchaeus, Jesus healing Bartimaeus, Jesus welcoming the children, Jesus calming the storm, Jesus healing ten lepers.

Again and again and again.

This morning I was tired.

Mama read it! Little One chirped.

No baby, you read it today.

Ok!

Snuggled in my lap, he dutifully turned each page and “read” the familiar stories.

Uh oh, uh oh, Jesus!

Uh oh, uh oh, Jesus!

Uh oh, uh oh, Jesus!

And, just like that, my two year old nailed the story of the Bible.

The story of humanity.

We are a mess.  Too small.  Too near-sighted.  Too narrow-minded.  Too scared.  Too isolated.

And into all of this walks a Savior who chooses to love us anyway.

A Savior who chooses to walk with us, to redeem the mess a little more with every step we take together, to love and keep on loving.

A Savior who moves us from the uh oh to the exclamation point.

Sometimes all at once and sometimes little by little.

And usually both of these.

 I listened hard in church today, but the truth is I didn’t hear any better explanation of the gospel than the one Little One read to me snuggled in the brown recliner.

Uh oh, uh oh, Jesus!

Who You Are

God I need you, oh I need you.  Every hour I need you.

We sing, and it’s true.

I watch a dear one wipe away tears, perhaps suddenly self-conscious (or maybe not) because no one else seems to be so visibly moved.

I see it here.

Fingerprints of the Creator in our neediness for him.

Imago Dei.

You are the light of the world

We read, and it’s true. (Matthew 5)

Maybe it’s the freshness, the possibility of a new year, but it’s hard for me to listen and not be stirred.

If only we could get this.

If only we could embrace who we are.

Friends, you were created to be light.

You are not here by accident.

You were loved into being by the true Light and you are passionately, ridiculously loved by him still.

His fingerprints are all over you.

Most especially in those places where you cannot be strong, only honest about your neediness for him.

This light is not something that we do, something that we muster up through willpower and resolve.

It’s who we are.

It’s who we’re meant to be.

Friends, you were created to be light.

Go ahead and shine.