Cindy DeBoer

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A Movie or a Movement?

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While America salutes and spars over “Barbenheimer,” I decided to circle a different wagon and checked out the Sound of Freedom. And Whoa.

Just Whoa.

Spoiler alert – the movie is about trafficking children for sex and make no mistake about it, there’s nothing “entertaining” or “comfortable” about those two hours and fifteen minutes.

And yet, I loved it. Not in the way I love chocolate, or Paul, or books. But I loved it because it stirred the proverbial hornet’s nest and it’s got us all talking about something far more important than The Bear or high school football.

All the social media platforms are reverberating with posts from the (predominately Christian) viewers who are disgusted and angry about this “atrocity.” Messages like the following abound:

  • Every Christian needs to see this movie!
  • Did you know the “left” didn’t even want this movie made?
  • Watch your children!“They” (traffickers) are everywhere!
  • Stay away from the mall! “They” (traffickers) are all over the mall!
  • This is why I don’t travel abroad!
  • Somebody (else) needs to do something!

By all means, let’s feel the anger and the rage. Rage! Rage! Child sex trafficking is evil at its core.  But honestly, friends, the responses above are based in fear and really do absolutely nothing to stop the hemorrhaging. If creating a raging population is the culmination of this movie, then what good is it really? Awareness is nothingness if not paired with action. We Christians love to get all worked up about things. What we don’t seem to love as much is DOING something about those things.

In the words of the great Lorax: “Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It’s not.”  Dr. Seuss

To be honest, I found myself quite frustrated with this movie mostly for what was NOT said. Where was the call to action? Where was the QR code at the end of the movie that connects us to anti-trafficking agencies? Why wasn’t a list of organizations fighting against child sex trafficking offered up in the credits? At the VERY least, tell us how to donate to Tim Ballard’s own organization: Operation Underground Railroad (OUR).

THIS collective blood boiling simply cannot be the end of the conversation.

This movie needs to spark a MOVEMENT.

Paul and I first heard about the sex trafficking of children about 20 years ago from the founder of International Justice Mission (IJM), Gary Hougan. (In fact, OUR is a fairly young operation and was “made in the image” of IJM). Gary had been invited to speak at our church and talked very frankly about the global crisis of child sex trafficking. Never has a congregation sat so still and so quiet. I was especially shaken by the account of a 5-year-old girl in Cambodia who had been chained to a bed and raped over 10 times a day before IJM rescued her. At that time, our own daughter, Grace, was also five years. I could NOT get past the contradiction that while Grace – all dolled up in her purple corduroy dress and white tights – was learning about Jesus and eating goldfish crackers in her safe and serene Sunday School classroom, another little girl EXACTLY HER AGE was, somewhere in the world, chained to a bed and being raped all day long. I ran to the bathroom to rinse out the puke in my mouth.

Near the end of his talk, Gary said people often approach him after he has shared about IJM and ask what they can do. Some want to fly to Thailand, or Cambodia, or Honduras, or Columbia and raid the brothels with him. They want to “go after” the bad guys. Others want to “love on” the poor children rescued from these terrorists. Fresh with new information that leaves us reeling, some well-intentioned people offer to jump in and try to “fix” it. As the quintessential act-first-think-second-person that I am, that is EXACTLY what had been going through my mind: “Lord, tell me what I should do. I must DO something! There’s got to be a way IJM can use a nurse and an accountant! Send us, Lord! Send us!!!”

But Gary’s last statement was the most pointed of all and it was directed right at me. He said, “The problem is, if you’re not a well-trained cross-cultural lawyer, or if you’re not a therapist with PTSD expertise, or if you’re not a bad-ass private investigator who’s willing to go face-to-face with the world’s worst criminals, then I can’t use you. We just don’t need doctors or nurses, engineers, accountants, teachers, and mechanics.” (Of course, he had to list OUR two professions…) And then he went on: “If you REALLY want to help rescue children sold into sex slavery but you’re not from one of those three very specific professions, then what we really need is your money. The bottom line is this: with more money, we can hire more professionals and we can rescue more people – especially children – who are trapped in the sex trade. If you want to make a difference, just go work hard at the job God has given you and then send money.”

After the service, we asked Gary what kind of response he usually gets after speaking to a crowd like this. He looked around at the huge sanctuary (we were a church of around 8,000 – 10,000 at the time) and said, “Initially, there’s significant interest. But in a month? There will most likely be just a few of you still involved. People tend to push hard stuff to the back of their minds which leads to forgetting about it.”

Our family has traveled to Guatemala multiple times with a ministry that primarily focuses on feeding programs for starving widows and children in the poorest mountain regions of Guatemala. The ministry hosts church groups week after week, month after month, year after year to help foster a “marriage” between the “haves” and the “have-nots” in the world. On one of those trips, while winding our way through the mountains toward Chichicastanengo, I had a rare private moment with the director so I pummeled him with questions: “With all the groups you host down here, what percentage would you say continue to stay in touch and support the work here in Guatemala? His answer nearly doubled me over: “Probably less than 5%. Most often, I never hear from the teams serving here again. But we must do all the work to host all these people all year round in order to find that 5% because that 5% represent most of our financial support. Most people just get busy back in America and forget about us.”

Oh, Jesus-people of the world! Let us not get too busy that we forget about these precious children enslaved in sex trafficking!

The Least of These

“Then the righteous will answer Him, ‘Lord, when did we see You hungry, and feed You, or thirsty, and give You something to drink? And when did we see You as a stranger, and invite You in, or naked, and clothe You? And when did we see You sick, or in prison, and come to You?”

The King will reply, “Truly I tell you, whatever you did for the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you have done for me.” Matthew 25:35 – 40

We traveled with our kids to some crazy, off-the-wall, eye-opening places in their younger years. And no matter how young they were at the time – we would follow it up with: “With knowledge comes responsibility. So, now, the challenge is yours, child: what will you do with this knowledge?”

(I know, I know… we messed our kids up good with that kind of talk. But I have no regrets.)

So, dear friends, what are we going to do with this knowledge of child sex trafficking?

We can no longer say, “I just didn’t know.”

Now, we all know.

Set me free, Lord. Set me free.

I believe this movie can do even more than just help children in sex bondage be set free. I believe this movie has the power to set us ALL free.

  • Free from the traps that make us fist-clench our money.
  • Free from the fear that we’ll never have “enough” in our bank accounts.
  • Free from the lie that a 10% tithe is enough. (In truth, American Christians, on average, tithe 2.5% of their annual income. My husband, the public accountant who practices in THE MOST philanthropic county in America where you’d expect giving to be off the charts, confirms this statistic.)
  • Free from the lie that we need a “X” amount of money saved up for a potential unforeseen crisis or for retirement. (Who dictates this anyway? I don’t know, but I know it is driven by fear.)
  • Free from the lie:“If we only had EXTRA cash like so-n-so does”we’d be able to give more. (“Extra”is so nebulous. I don’t consider myself “extra”, but I just counted and I have 23 pairs of shoes. Oh dear God – we ALL have so much “extra.”)
  • Free from the false belief that we can only give generously when we have serious excess. (Let’s be honest, we tend to give from our excess, not our first fruits.)

Oh Lord, set us free from these lies so that we can go forth with ridiculous, EXTRAVAGANT generosity and help these little sons and daughters made in your image to be set free from the tyranny of sex trafficking. Because the actual truth is that we all have too much. Every single one of us can dig a little deeper and give a little more. I wonder if there are any of us that have ever given until it actually hurt? I know I haven’t. And yet, I believe these exploited children deserve nothing less.

WE are God’s plan. He put YOU and ME here on this planet for such a time as this. There is no PLAN B.

Let’s do this, friends. Let’s go.

.

Organizations that fight against sex-trafficking (click link to access website):

International Justice Mission

Operation Underground Railroad

Sacred Beginnings

My Magnum Opus: The Parenting Marathon

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Not my actual legs

I recently volunteered at a triathlon and discovered many interesting things about these athletic beasts. Besides being insane for paying actual money to brutalize their bodies and not knowing the difference between fun and pain, I noticed that at the finish they usually fell into one of three categories: 1) The nonchalant. “Yeah, I just finished a triathlon. No big deal. I’ll probably do it again tomorrow. 2) The triumphant – “Woooooo Hooooo!!! I f****** finished!!! Hey mom – take my picture!!! And 3) The Puker. No explanation necessary.

Well, I just finished my own marathon of sorts and I see that I am clearly from the third category. I am a puker.

Last week, our fourth child moved out for the final time and now it’s just me and Paul again. It’s been 30 years since it was just the two of us and I truly feel as if we’ve just completed a 30-year marathon – running, running, running as if our life depended on it and pushing our minds and bodies to their utter limits.

I remember the day we took our first newborn home from the hospital like it was this morning. We pulled into the garage, turned off the car, and shut the garage door behind us. I looked at Paul, then into the backseat where baby Andy was all nestled comfy-cozy in his way-too-big car seat and said, “Oh shit. Here we go.”

We were so young, naive, and impulsive and I still can’t believe the good people of Zeeland Hospital felt that just because we were able to produce the proper car seat, we were able to care for a CHILD!!! But, despite our inhibitions, we unbuckled the kid, brought him inside and gave him our best effort.

Then in a flash there was baby number 2. Another flash and a blink later came child number 3. And right in the middle of diapers and sippy cups and horrific sleep schedules, we thought it’d be a good idea to adopt a child. And wham – there she came – on a TACA flight out of Guatemala in 2001. We were still relatively young and naive, and our impulsivity had only gotten worse – but at least now our resume included parenting 3 other children.

The years went by like a melting ice cream cone on a hot July day. I licked and licked and tried to savor the taste of each delicious lick – but life melted away so quickly, I’m afraid I’ve already forgotten some of the taste.

Last week was so weird. The day we moved the last child out for the last time, we returned home to a nearly unbearable quiet. I flashbacked to when little children would come running to the door to greet us whenever we came home. I felt a deep ache in my soul knowing those days are fully, completely, dreadfully behind us.  Paul and I stood in silence for a few moments as neither of us knew what to say.

We also didn’t know what to do. We didn’t know if we should run upstairs and have loud sex, have a solemn moment of prayer and build a commemorative altar from the kids’ college binders, or crank up some fantastic Queen and Bon Jovi and dance on the living room furniture.

Nothing felt right.

Except maybe a nap.

Or puking.

All I know for sure is I am not well – something deep inside of me is still longing. My head, my heart, my soul, my entire body aches and most days I feel like puking. We’re definitely going to need some time to recover, process and debrief this 30-year parenting marathon.

Some days I feel like stealing away to Figi, or Tahiti, or the Galapagos Islands and just stare at the ocean for about 30 hours. One hour for every year of parenting. And when I’m done with that I will cry, shout – no, SCREAM into those seas or to whomever else will listen (God?) for the absolute audacity of time to move so quickly. Can’t you do something about that, God? Do you not know that I am dying and I don’t have time for wasted time? Do you not know that I need more of it? Can you slow it, kind sir? Please, for the sake of the sick and the suffering, can you slow it down???

Standing in our quiet living room that post-marathon day – heaving and gasping for air as I “puked” all over Paul and the floor – I realized parenting may have been the hardest thing we’ve ever done (or will do), but it is nevertheless our magnum opus – the best we have to offer the world. We just completed a 30-year-marathon of birthing, raising, and releasing HUMANS into the world!!! We lived as large as we knew how to and gave those kids a hell of a ride all the while screwing up some parts of it royally. But one thing I do know: If I should die soon, I will not regret having poured myself out for those four kids and teaching them that, above all else, we ultimately live to give God the glory for every single one of our gifted breaths.

Well, now that I’m done puking, I guess I’ll make dinner.

My lungs still hurt and I need to take a lot of deep breaths before we get back up again and relace our shoes for whatever God has next for us. For this moment, I need to just sit for a bit. Not Figi or Tahiti or Galapagos. Just here in Grand Rapids for a bit.

Just a bit.

I’ll get up shortly. I’ll get up.

Life isn’t waiting for me. We have much to do! We have to revisit the things we used to enjoy when it was just the two of us, we must help Syrian and Central American – and now Afghanistan – refugees!! And the Hondurans, the Haitians, and Lebanese as well!!  We have no time to waste to share ALL the necessary things with our adult kids before we lose our minds and can’t remember the things. We need to spread love to our neighbors in our struggling neighborhood, and rock this grandparenting gig, and give our best gifts to our local urban school and church, and give my mom the best possible finish to this life and at least a million other things.

No, we’re no longer running the child-rearing marathon, but I sure as heck don’t want to hang up my “running shoes” yet either! Although we now run just the two of us and are navigating the course with a stupid lung disease, a few more aches and pains, and at a much slower pace, we still beg of God to help us “strip off any weight that slows us down and especially the sins that so easily trips us up. And let us run with endurance the race that is set before us.” (Hebrews 12:1 NLT)

Time to run our next marathon, Paul. Let’s get after it.

Leave It Broken

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When we bought our hundred-year-old crack house we discovered that somewhere in its history a previous owner made an egregious err in personal assessment and believed themselves to be “handy.” They tackled a variety of home improvement projects such as brick laying, replacing windows, updating trim and doors, installing sinks and faucets, and building closets. However, I’m almost certain my 6-year-old nephew could have done a better job.

We’ve had snow leak in through the ill-fitting windows, faucet levers that scrape the wall, crumbling brick and leaking roofs – all due to this “handypersons” handywork. We have gaping holes in our baseboards, incomplete and mismatched trim boards in every room and doors that were hacked down at the wrong angle in an attempt to accommodate unlevel floors.

Check it out:

Clockwise from top left: 1) Insulation peeking out because “handyperson” didn’t know how to cut the brick to reach the wall 2) Drywall where handyperson measured once and cut twice 3) How our “handyperson” paneled with wainscoting 4) Hard corner to tile – so “handyperson” filled it in with caulk.

I’ve seen young children make living room pillow forts and back-yard tree houses with better craftsmanship.

Initially, we figured we’d fix everything and be DONE with renovations once and for all. But as soon as the home was functional (as in, an operational kitchen, a door to the bathroom, and a place to flop a mattress) we were so exhausted from all the fixing-upping, that we simply halted the projects. We figured we’d wait a few months, restore our energy and excitement for a “completed” home, and then finish things.

That was 6 years ago.

It hasn’t been a matter of money, nor even enough time or energy. What’s held us up is this:

It’s extremely difficult to keep fixing-up your home when some neighbors are heating their home with their stove.

It’s hard to justify spending money on crown moulding and matching doorknobs (it’s not even arguable that these things are frivolous) when you pass multiple homeless people on your way to buy the materials.

It’s gut wrenching to spend about $800 on any project on our home when we’ve learned of multiple neighbors being evicted due to inability to make rent (typically around $800 in our neighborhood.)

We’ve repeatedly had the dilemma of choosing home improvements over “life improvements” of others.

So, six years later, our home is still not done.

Just because we can afford something doesn’t make it right.

**********

More importantly, in addition to the ethical battle of money stewardship, we noticed that waking up each day in a home marked by broken things, unfinished work, imperfections, and missing pieces, has helped to remind us that we live in an imperfect world, inhabited by imperfect people with imperfect lives.

The entire WORLD is broken and unfinished and only Jesus can fix this mess. So we began asking ourselves, why should our home reflect anything different?

In our former homes – both our country estate custom-built “dream home” and our downsized 70’s ranch in the burbs – everything was pretty, polished, working and stylish. We were very much in control in those homes and felt we had essentially achieved perfection. No brokenness, no problems, no worries.

In those dwellings and environments, it was much easier to forget about the pain and suffering in the world. It was easy to pretend (albeit subconsciously) that the world wasn’t broken. It was fun to live like that – without daily reminders of a suffering world. I often justified those “perfect” dwellings by asking – What’s wrong with making our homes a haven to rest from the weary world?

It seems to me that the only reason having a (near) “perfect” dwelling could be wrong is if it causes us to forget about those who are in desperate need of God’s love and care and/or if we ever forget that WE (those who believe in Jesus) are God’s plan to meet those needs (there is no plan B).

So if you, like me, love to watch HGTV and love to design, improve, and fix-up your home, maybe we should rethink things a bit.

Maybe we don’t need to fix everything to where it all looks “perfect.”

Maybe we should stop striving so much for beauty and completion.

Maybe we should let heaven be the only perfect home and accept some brokenness and imperfections in our earthly homes.

Maybe the broken things will actually help us stay tuned-in to the brokenness of our world and remind us to ask God for our role in its healing and restoration.

Maybe we should leave some things broken.

Is it really such a wonderful life, George?

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I don’t remember when the tradition started, but our family watches “It’s a Wonder Life” every Christmas Eve. “What is it you want, Mary? What do you want? You want the moon? Just say the word and I’ll throw a lasso around it and pull it down!”

We know ALL the lines and would drive you nuts were you to watch the movie with us.

But much to my chagrin, George Bailey could not cheer me up this year. I even shed tears (tears of jealousy perhaps?) that George could be so happy amidst his turmoil. I ooohed and ahhhed at all the right places, but what I really wanted to do was throw my cold pizza at the TV and give George and Mary the big middle finger. All I kept thinking is, Is it really such a wonderful life, George? Even now, four days into 2021, I’m not feeling it.

Because of my stupid lung disease, 2020 and its lousy leech the COVID virus reeked some serious havoc on our family. We are all angry, hurt and still flailing around trying to find some footing in this madness. Okay – I’m sorry, family – it’s mostly me who is mad, hurt, and flailing around. I’m mad that my shitty lung disease makes me extremely vulnerable should I get COVID. Which in turn makes me mad because I fight so hard against LAM and take all these stupid drugs and suffer their stupid side-effects and yet some “Karen” who got a D+ in high school science still insists scientists the world over don’t know what they’re talking about so she will not wear a mask to the grocery store and is probably going to give me COVID which I’ll die from. I’m mad that a silly little virus will probably take me out instead of this respectable lung-sucking, incurable disease I’ve valiantly fought for years. I’m mad my college-aged kids have had to forego plans and dreams and move home instead and now I have to listen to Band Camino and Billie Eilish and watch TikToks and eat kale. I’m mad at them for having friends – friends they actually want to SEE – which exposes me even more to COVID dangers (They are 19 and 22 for Pete’s sake – who doesn’t want to hang with their friends at that age? What kind of witch am I???) I’m mad at my husband for working so much and seeing so many clients which also increases our COVID exposure (Even as SO many have lost work and cannot pay their bills! I’m the lowest of sinners.) I’m mad that no matter how many times we calmly discuss what is “safe” behavior and what’s “foolish” and what’s a “risk worth taking” and what’s “asking for it”, the four of us still fight about COVID and never quite land on the same page. I’m mad at friends who see it all differently than me and gather all willy-nilly with their families and friends and post the most gorgeous pictures with everyone’s hair and makeup done up just so. (I don’t even know what makeup is anymore and I think I ran out of real shampoo sometime in July). I’m mad that COVID forced me to quit a job I loved and left me bored as a fly on horse shit (I would imagine that would be a very boring way to spend a day, anyway). I’m mad that my poor daughters have such an angry mother and I worry that if I die, their last memory of me will be me sobbing on the sofa with matted, greasy hair wearing the same sweatshirt and sweatpants for the 11th day in a row and watching reruns of Fixer-Upper.

This whole sucky-year and the pain and division and loss left in its wake is just NOT the way things are supposed to be. And I’m mad and losing it.

I have now slept 5 days straight – as in ALL day, AND ALL night. I don’t know if it’s a bad LAM week, or COVID, or depression. Knowing my luck, I probably have the effing trifecta.

I know this is shocking. I’m usually happy-go-lucky, full of optimism, hope and cheer. You’re supposed to read these blogs and feel all rainbows-and-unicorns-sprinkled-with-Jesus euphoria. Somehow, my excessively toothy grin and obsession with things like shiny bracelets and exclamation points make people expect joy and optimism from me.

I’m sorry, not today, bub.

I am lonely and in need of commiseration. So I sat down and read the whole book of Lamentations tonight. Then I read Job. Jeremiah, Job and I wallowed in self-pity together.

And then it hit me – there is a REASON those books of the Bible exist! God could have kept them out of our canonized scriptures, but he didn’t. He knew that there WILL BE seasons of lament! Sometimes that is all we can muster and sometimes, like these current times, it’s just enough.

To be honest, I’ve not been very happy with God this past year, have you? I mean, if God is supposed to ONLY bring us peace, calm, reassurance, happiness and gratitude – well, then, he failed miserably this year. And if I believe I am entitled to THOSE emotions because I follow God, after a year like 2020, it’s only natural I’d be left with anger at God because it feels like he abandoned me.

But reading those laments in scripture felt like God saying to me: “Oh no, Cindy. You’ve got that all wrong. There is definitely a time to mourn and be sad and even mad at me. It’s okay. I can handle it. Just like Jeremiah cried out for his people, and as Job cried out for his health and family, you, too, may certainly lament all this loss and hardship.”

I suddenly realized I am, indeed, George Bailey – but I’m still in the MIDDLE of the movie! My ice-cold hands are clutching the railing of a high bridge over troubled waters and I’m in the MIDST of crying out to God!!!

My angel Clarence simply hasn’t showed up yet.

And then I knew that this is the place I must wait. Instead of deliverance, I must pray for patience. I don’t know how long God will make me wait on this cold bridge, but I know Clarence will show up. For now, I wait and lament.

This is what Lamentations is all about. The cry in the wait. The cry without answers. The cry alone in the dark.

I am not feeling ridiculous optimism and joyful anticipation of 2021. I know that’s what I’m supposed to say to you as I wrap up this blog. But I’d be lying. I just know we are definitely allowed to lament – even encouraged to do so. And because I’m old and have been down so many, many hard paths before, I also know lament doesn’t last forever.

I know this, because I know how the movie ends. In fact, I know it by heart. I know that Zuzu is sitting on George’s shoulder and she hears a bell ring on the Christmas tree and says, “Look daddy! Teacher says every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings.”

And then George winks and the credits roll while everyone sings Auld Lang Syne.

It’s okay to lament now, because we know how the movie ends.

The Pond Scum Exchange (Why voting matters less than you think)

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When we bought our sucky crack-house we thought the fantastic view of the zoo/park across the street might possibly redeem the pitiful structure. However, the park struggles financially and some things have become a bit of an eyesore. All summer long our park pond has looked like this:

Our neighborhood Facebook group recently debated the park pond problem. The back and forth went something like this: (Oh, a little caveat, our neighborhood isn’t exactly BIG on polite and edited language – so I just **** the swears like a good Christian and you can just say them in your head because Jesus doesn’t read minds… {insert eye-rolling})

Neighbor 1: What the f*** is wrong with the pond in the park? It stinks, it’s ugly and looks like Shrek should live there.

Neighbor 2: I think the new zoo/park president f***ed the whole place. It’s his fault.

Neighbor 3: What do you know about the president? He’s a great guy and has done a lot of good for the zoo/park.

[And then an argument ensued with about 10 more posts from an additional 10 neighbors and easily 20 more swears]

Neighbor 4: I think it’s a tax issue. We’re being screwed. The pond in the park on the north side isn’t covered in scum. They need to use some of our f***ing tax dollars to improve this side of town! We’ve been effed by the city.

Neighbor 5: You’re a f***ing socialist. You want all the neighborhoods to look the same and be treated the same.

[And another argument ensued with more jabbing back and forth and more swears]

Neighbor 6: I heard it was because of climate change. Something about f***ing with ecosystems and sh**.

Neighbor 7: Are you f***ing serious??? Climate change is such a f***ing hoax from liars who just want to keep us scared and controlled.

[And yet ANOTHER argument ensued – multiple posts, more swears, more name-calling, more hurt]

Neighbor 8:  You know what? I have a kayak and an old swimming pool surface skimmer. I bet if 2 or 3 of us went over this afternoon with our kayaks and pool skimmers we could have that pond cleaned up in about an hour. Anyone with me?

[Crickets…]

**********

Why I Want To Be Neighbor 8

Despite our constant affinity for social media bickering, I think ONE thing we might all agree on right now is this: Our political climate is heated, toxic, and dangerous – perhaps the worst in America’s history. It’s certainly the worst of my lifetime.

And, unless for some sick reason you enjoy fear, peril, and instability, I think we all long to have the bickering, back-biting and fear-mongering stop. We long for peace and unity and a country we can be proud of. We long for a time when both Democrats and Republicans and everyone in between can share thoughts, ideas, hopes and dreams in a civil way with a glass of wine and lots of grace. We long to be a country where diversity is not only tolerated, but even celebrated. That I would not mind if your opinions are very different from mine – because you and your opinions help make me be a better me.

We long for November 3 to be done already so people will stop telling us how wrong we are.

The thing is, from all that I’ve seen and heard, the degree to which we attach importance of the presidential election seems to be inversely proportional to the degree of our involvement on the most pressing issues at stake. Another way to put it: those who are most likely to be vocal about the election to the point of demonizing “the other,” seem to be the least engaged in solutions.

Right now, I know many people who are: working to help the homeless, serving in underserved and underfunded schools, mentoring children and youth from troubled homes, praying for every person entering and leaving abortion clinics, serving at the local and state level of government where many of the decisions that directly affect us are made (like allocated abortion dollars – it’s FAR MORE of a state-by-state issue than a NATIONAL government issue – please read THIS if you believe the president has much say in abortion-related outcomes), serving those held in border control facilities by offering free medical care, working in Central America to decrease violence and expose and eliminate corruption so people won’t feel compelled to flee, coordinating racial reconciliation groups in their neighborhoods, bringing donuts and notes of encouragement to their local police precincts, volunteering at local food banks, building homes for Habitat for Humanity – and so, so many others…

And you know what all these people have in common? They are too busy DOING the things that America desperately needs that they have no time to spend on social media or elsewhere complaining about the problems and arguing over which person in some lofty seat of over-emphasized importance will best fix them.

They grabbed their kayaks and their pool skimmers and GOT BUSY!!!

In this unbelievably polarized political environment, our little neighborhood “pond-scum exchange” serves as a powerful reminder that the number one way we can bring change to the world is NOT by – as many falsely believe – making sure you vote for the “right” candidate, but to actually

BE THE CHANGE.

Mercy Triumphs Over Judgment

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Surrounded by several precious friends who were part of our church small group and all ten years my senior, I had no business piping up about graduation open houses. The ladies were bemoaning the fact these events are a ton of work. As a young mom with only two elementary-aged kids at the time, I had no wisdom on the subject whatsoever. However, I was such a punk, I let those lovely ladies know that the wisest amongst us (presumably, me…) would never stoop to such a ridiculous, wasteful and unnecessary cultural trap! I let them know it was a huge waste of time, money and energy to obsess over painting the garage, updating the landscaping, buying new patio furniture, string lights, table décor and yard games, spending hours arranging the most Pinterest-y photo displays that no one looks at, and cooking expensive impressive foods for the throngs of friends and family who’d really all prefer to spend their Saturdays elsewhere. No, we, the smart parents, will forego the event, save the three thousand dollars and just hand the savings over to the undeserving grad (I mean, is high school even a REAL accomplishment these days???) and call it even. “It’s all a stupid game of competition,” I said, “And we’re not playing it!” Voila!

Three hours later in fit-full attempt at sleep, I realized how reckless my words had been. I suddenly realized that one of the sweetest ladies in my group actually had a child graduating that spring and was in the very midst of planning his graduation open house.

Me and my big mouth.

It took all my courage to call her the next morning and apologize. (Is there anyone who LIKES to be wrong and LIKES to apologize??? How I dreaded that phone call!) I told her I had overstepped and it was uncalled for. I apologized for talking about something I knew nothing about and that I had no business judging others for their decisions on that issue.

And you know what she said? I’ll never forget it:

“Cindy, don’t worry about it! Not for a second! Your words maybe stung for a second, but you know what? I know your heart and your heart is good. When you know someone well and you know they would never intentionally hurt you, you just let stuff like that go. Don’t worry about it. You’re my dear friend and I love you. I forgive you.”

Mercy. Lord have mercy. She offered me mercy.

Oh, precious friends – what if we offered the same thing for one another today? Why are we throwing words arounds like darts to the people we know and love the most – people with whom we actually DO life together – and wounding one another with our words? What if we actually trusted the goodness of those that we know and instead of resorting to name-calling and assigning evil intent, we simply doled out mercy like ice cream on a hot summer day?

What if we stopped letting Rachel Maddow, Tucker Carlson, Chris Cuomo and Sean Hannity (or ALL the many opinion-based news outlets) tell us who is “evil”? What if we raised our collective voices and said, “NO! You sucker-punch pundits – you don’t get the right to tell me who my enemy is. These people here? These people are my family, my friends, my co-workers, my neighbors, my fellow church goers – I KNOW these people and I KNOW THEIR HEARTS!!! And YOU, you talking-head who knows absolutely nothing about these lovely people in my life, YOU don’t get to tell me they are “evil.”

What if we raised our voices against those who are trying to divide us and said: STOP IT, YOU RATES-SEEKING OPINIONATED LOUDMOUTHS! (Friends, if there is ONE thing critical to putting an end to divisiveness in America, it’s that we learn and understand the difference between news and opinion pieces. Most mediums claiming to share news are, in reality, pure opinion and they are simply fueling the fire that stirs in the belly of their favorite fans. It’s a ratings game and our intelligence must rise above it, quite honestly.)

Remember when our kids were young and they’d tell us they wouldn’t play with “so-and-so” because all the other kids said she was “weird” or “stinky” or “mean” or whatever nasty label nasty kids give to the “so-and-so’s” of the world? Remember that? What did we tell our kids? Did we say “Yeah, that’s right. We don’t mix with the “so-and-so’s. Stay away from her, for sure!”

No way.

Instead, we bent down low, close to our child’s face and spoke plain and clear to ensure they understood us and said, “Don’t you pay ANY mind to what the other kids say about “so-and-so”! Do not judge other kids based on what a few loudmouth kids have to say! Do NOT be a follower! Make up your own mind! Get to know “so-and-so.” Sit by her at lunch and share your food with her. Talk to her and EXPECT to find the good in her. Never listen to the bullies.”

Never listen to the bullies.

Oh my goodness, Americans! If kindergartners can do this, so can we!!! Let’s not listen to the bullies! Let’s listen to each other’s hearts! Let’s give each other an attentive listening ear and even if at the end of the conversation we don’t see eye-to-eye, we still say to each other:

“Don’t worry about it. I know your heart, and your heart is good. I cannot be hurt by your words or even your actions, because I KNOW YOU AND YOU ARE GOOD and you would not intentionally hurt me. I will give you MERCY.”

Even when Washington DC can’t bridge the great political divide, I know WE can.

Peoples of America: We DO NOT have to accept this narrative of division.

We can CHOOSE MERCY.

“This is what the LORD Almighty says: ‘Administer true justice: show mercy and compassion to one another.’ … Judgment without mercy will be shown to anyone who has not been merciful. Mercy triumphs over judgment!”    Amos 7:9