We sit quietly for a moment. Then Jeff says, “One of those states has made it legal now to abort while a woman is giving birth. Right up to the last minute.”
I nod, wincing. “Yeah. I saw the headlines."
“Yeah,” Jeff says.
We sit here. What else is there to say? He pulls up a video on his phone, and we watch a clip from a presidential debate a few years back. We listen as one candidate predicts this day would come. He warns the nation that if we keep walking the road we're on, we will live in a nation where it will be legal for infants to be ripped from their mothers’ wombs.
I nod. I shake my head. It’s hard to react. I’m used to the world. I know how evil it is. In my head, I try to add up the equation of a time in history when so much is being accomplished for justice, and yet this.
It leaves me feeling numb. Jeff grabs his coffee cup and gets up to head to the kitchen. “But at least they saved the endangered moth, I guess.”
He gathers his things to leave for work. I meet him at the door to kiss him goodbye for the day. He says, “I love you a lot. Go be good.”
I squeeze his arm. “I love you a lot, too. Go make the world smile.”
Jeff leaves. I go get in the shower. I’m thinking about the video of the presidential debate, replaying the other candidate’s response in my head. I don’t know why we have to listen to arguments or read position statements when we can just look at their eyes. See the way they smile. But then again, I’ve lived in darkness. I know what it looks like. I recognize it when I see it in other people.
I turn off the water and pull back the shower curtain. As I’m reaching for my towel, I say, “Lord, I know I’m supposed to be praying about these things, but how? If all the prayers of all the people who are most closely tied to all of this aren’t enough, then what good is my prayer going to do?”
“Please help us, Father. We need You so much. Please heal this place.”
In my mind wells up a message I just received on Facebook earlier this morning, from a woman who attended small group last night. Just wanted to say a quick thank you again for sharing your stories last night. I still feel built up in hope this morning. My heart breaks.
“I know, Lord,” I sob into my bath towel, “I know that’s why, but it seems like so little compared to so much.”
The Lord doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. I stand with Him and cry for a few minutes. Naked, clutching my towel to my face, shoulders shaking, nose running all over the place, because these are the moments. We are only human, and the Lord is with us. I just got done telling a young lady in jail yesterday about how Jesus weeps with the sisters of Lazarus, knowing full well He’s going to bring Lazarus back to life (John 11:1-44). God hurts with us when we're hurting. He knows how evil the world is. He cries over it with us. Even though He knows full well He'll restore everything in the end, He cries, too. And these are the moments.
“I love You, Lord,” I blubber through the tears. “I love my Jeff. Thank You, Father… thank You for this sweet, sweet life You’ve given us."
I get done crying and finish drying off. I step out of the shower and blow my nose for a long time. I get dressed and get ready to start the day—because that’s what He has given us to do for today. Go be good. Go make the world smile.
Thank You, Father.