This evening, we watched the movie, Belle. It’s based on a true story. It broke my heart. It’s a beautiful story. It’s a victory story. The trouble is the victory was won in 1779 and we are re-enacting similar battles, one relationship at a time, everyday.
In fact, this very evening, the local news featured a city man who strung his porch with blue lights for the holidays in support of the #policelivesmatter movement. #Policelivesmatter seems to be a response to the #blacklivesmatter campaign which has competed since Michael Brown’s and Eric Garner’s deaths, though the news story focused only on ways one might identify with #policelivesmatter. As my husband pointed out… There has never been a problem with a failure to honor the fallen in the line of duty.
In the film, the beautiful thing is that everyone did what they believed was right. The truth prevailed and wrong was defeated. Perhaps it was a fairy tale and I should leave it at that and go to bed (it’s quite late).
I can’t. I want to go on my face in front of the God Who Sees (El Roi. Ya boi, Elroi. lol.). To wrestle Him until dawn. To demand He bless me and my family.
To meet the sunrise.
I will have to be prepared to speak to something. I don’t want to. When we went here, it was only to become a family, not an activist. Hate that word. I don’t want to be naked, again. The only one exposed and vulnerable. The only one being told, “You’re wrong. Let me help you understand your experience, in terms with which I am more comfortable.”
Yet, I want action. Need healing. God’s proof of Himself. Sorry. I know He owes me nothing of the sort.
I’m stiff-arming Him on the work of the call. I have to speak. In one relationship. At a time. Doesn’t matter how many people are standing around qualified to initiate the same discussion. Same credentials.
My call. My bucket. My waders. My shovel.
My blog posts run cryptic. I don’t really know why. Probably so they aren’t specific and measurable, so someone can’t read an old post and say, “Hey! How’s it coming on that commitment you made back in blah, blah, blah.”
If I’m honest (are we ever really?), I know why I’m cryptic. I write to find out what I think. The kabillion unpublished posts are proof of that. I publish to dare to say something scary. I guess I rarely do. I think I’m being avant garde and the feedback is that I’m being winsome and safe and, sometimes, even deep. I tend to scare up the kindest readers.
I mean to say, I’m cryptic because I don’t want to identify anyone in particular because I have to do business with my self and my responses. Not take take account of another person’s business. I have to reckon my call to speak in a loving, honest, incisive way. If someone recognized themselves and took offense (it’s happened), maybe they didn’t notice that I left it not with their problem, but with my responsibility. As a child of God, I’m responsible to speak the truth in love, to those who are going a way that will hurt themselves or someone else. No matter the potential cost to my personal comfort.
Love is more than comfort.
Worth the work.
And the wait.