Author Archives: PearlS

Twelve Years A Slave and the myth of “getting it right”

On one of our lucky Covid/stay-at-home jaunts to the little free library near our house, I picked up a book I’d always wanted to read. Published in 1853, it is the autobiography of a free, northern-born black man captured and sold into slavery in his thirties. Twelve Years a Slave details the agonizing period of time Solomon Northup endured at the hands of southern slave owners, unbeknownst to even his own family.

I was so moved by the writing, I read parts of it aloud to my children as we swung in hammocks in the backyard and listened to covers of Follow the Drinking Gourd on Amazon music. I edited as necessary for the under ten year old crowd, but didn’t skimp on detail. Northup relates the unending sorrow of slave life in Louisiana, the hopelessness and pure hate sown and reaped along with cotton and sugarcane.

I cleared my throat and called my children to pay attention to the text–I read to them hard labor, the two hundred pound sack of cotton around the neck of a slave, master whipping their backs all day long. The toil and sweat–no matter how fatigued and weary he may be, no matter how much he longs for sleep and rest, a slave never approaches the gin-house with his basket of cotton but with fear. If it falls short in weight, he knows that he must suffer.


The kids’ ears perk up–this is a true story, more captivating than any fiction–and I read more:

His done, the labor of the day is not yet ended, by any means. Each one must then attend to his respective chores. One feeds the mules, another the swine–another cuts the wood, and so forth; besides, the packing is all done by candle light. Finally, at a late hour, they reach the quarters, sleepy and overcome with the long day’s toil. Then a fire must be kindled in the cabin, the corn ground in the small hand-mill, and supper, and dinner for the next day in the field, prepared. All that is allowed them is corn and bacon, which is given out at the corncrib and smoke-house every Sunday morning. Each one receives, as his weekly allowance, three and a half pounds of bacon, and corn enough to make a peck of meal. That is all–no tea, coffee, sugar, and with the exception of a very scant sprinkling now and then, no salt. I can say, from a ten years’ residence with Master Epps, that no slave of his is ever likely to suffer from the gout, superinduced by excessive high living. Master Epps’ hogs were fed on shelled corn–it was thrown out to his “ni***rs” in the ear. The former, he thought, would fatten faster by shelling, and soaking it in the water–the latter, perhaps, if treated in the same manner, might grow too fat to labor. Master Epps was a shrewd calculator, and knew how to manage his own animals, drunk or sober.

My ten year old boy has tears in his eyes. My six year old’s eyes are wide. The latter is the child who came home from his colorful kindergarten class earlier this year and thoughtfully, innocently remarked, “Mom, you know what? The darker the skin, the nicer the person.”

I read on:

The corn mill stands in the yard beneath a shelter. It is like a common coffee mill, the hopper holding about six quarts. There was one privilege which Master Epps granted freely to every slave he had. They might grind their corn nightly, in such small quantities as their daily wants required, or they might grind the whole week’s allowance at one time, on Sundays, just as they preferred. A very generous man was Master Epps!
…When the corn is ground, and the fire is made, the bacon is taken down from the nail on which it hangs, a slice cut off and thrown upon the coals to broil. The majority of slaves have no knife, much less a fork. They cut their bacon with the axe at the woodpile. The corn meal is mixed with a little water, placed in the fire, and baked. When it is “done brown,” the ashes are scraped off, and being placed upon a chip, which answers for a table, the tenant of the slave hut is ready to sit down upon the ground to supper. By this time it is usually midnight. The same fear of punishment with which they approach the gin-house, possesses them again on lying down to get a snatch of rest. It is the fear of oversleeping in the morning. Such an offense would certainly be attended with not less than twenty lashes. With a prayer that he may be on his feet and wide awake at the first sound of the horn, he sinks to his slumbers nightly.

The softest couches in the world are not to be found in the log mansion of the slave. The one whereon I reclined year after year, was a plank twelve inches wide and ten feet long. My pillow was a stick of wood. The bedding was a coarse blanket, and not a rag or shred beside. Moss might be used, were it not that it directly breeds a swarm of fleas.

An hour before day light the horn is blown. Then the slaves arouse, prepare their breakfast, fill a gourd with water, in another deposit their dinner of cold bacon and corn cake, and hurry to the field again. It is an offense invariably followed by a flogging, to be found at the quarters after day-break. Then the fears and labors of another day begin; and until its close there is no such thing as rest. He fears he will be caught lagging through the day; he fears to approach the gin-house with his basket-load of cotton at night; he fears, when he lies down, that he will oversleep himself in the morning. Such is a true, faithful, unexaggerated picture and description of the slave’s daily life…

I closed the book and we sat silent for a few moments.

Coincidentally, it feels like last week has also been a good time to sit silent for awhile.

I have no intention of hashing out faulty politics or racial tension, though I think we all can easily stand brazenly and shout for justice. The peculiar vibe I am getting is a collective, internal rage. It is the same I felt as I read Solomon Northup’s words nearly two hundred years after he wrote. Where were the witnesses? Oh Lord, where was the justice?

Northrup addresses the violence in southern Louisiana among white slave owners:
Every man carries his bowie knife, and when two fall out, they set to work hacking and thrusting at each other, more like savages than civilized and enlightened beings.
The existence of Slavery in its most cruel form among them has a tendency to brutalize the humane and finer feeling of their nature. Daily witnesses of human suffering–listening to the agonizing screeches of the slave–beholding him writhing beneath the merciless lash–bitten and torn by dogs–dying without attention, and buried without shroud or coffin–it cannot otherwise be expected, than that they should become brutified and reckless of human life…It is not the fault of the slaveholder that he is cruel, so much as it is the fault of the system under which he lives. He cannot withstand the influence of habit and associations that surround him.

Consider what this man was saying, a black free man, kidnapped and forced against his will to be a slave. He bore a death threat for twelve full years. After twelve full years he was able to objectively tease out the motivations of hateful men. And all it amounted to was systematic hate, hate perpetuating itself.
Today is hardly any different: we are embedded in a cultural system that routinely washes up wickedness and desensitizes us to every cruel action of man. One oppresses the other with their views and opinions, fearmongering and threats.One a victim, one a perpetrator.

What I’ve noticed lately in current events is this unspoken, dangerous rule: Get it right.
Speak up, louder…but not too loud. Actually, don’t speak on things you don’t understand. After all, you don’t really know someone else’s struggle. Support, but don’t overwhelm. Acknowledge differences, but don’t differentiate. It isn’t enough, your apologies and pretentious words of restitution. Show up, just don’t assume you have anything to offer. Broaden your scope, enlighten yourself. Expose your children to others’ points of view and culture. Cultivate sensitivity. Tolerance. Accept the tension, swallow your discomfort. Admit you’re part of the problem.

Get it right.

Please pardon me, truly–we will never get it right.

This is why a perfect man, Jesus, was put to death for our sin. God himself wedged his foot in the door of our system, the one where we lived proud, ignorant lives, and told us to love one another, just as I have loved you.

Purposeful living, where God made us to worship Him with our whole lives, to be the light of the world and lovers of good, kind, tenderhearted–it fails when we take Him out of the equation. We are just a bunch of fools jogging on a hamster wheel of a broken system. We are counterfeit peacemakers apart from Jesus. The hate that simmers under the surface–it lingers as we make up rules of engagement, petty suggestions to get it right. It quickly rips into a monster flame when we stir it up by continually intaking a thousand social media cues and news of disaster and despair. Hate is only ever eradicated at the foot of the cross.

Jeremiah said it like this: we are broken cisterns who cannot hold any water. Our compassion for our fellow man, our love, is dry. We need Living Water. We need a good dose of history, a recollection of how far hate has ever gotten us in the past.

I am grateful I stumbled upon the little old book in the little free library. As the story closes, Northup expresses little more than disdain; he does not pour any extra gas on the fire. He exists in perpetuity as his own witness, the facts and dates, verified places and times and account of his suffering. We read his words to remember and not forget, to awaken ourselves to systematic injustice, yes, but also to the hopelessness of humanity apart from Jesus.

Sow with a view to righteousness,
Reap in accordance with kindness;
Break up your fallow ground,
For it is time to seek the Lord
Until He comes to rain righteousness on you.
Hosea 10:12

Playgrounds and Dirty Diapers: You versus the World

In my previous post, I recounted the story of Joshua, Israel, and the defeat of Ai. I skipped over Jericho, and its miracle story of walls falling down before their very eyes. It is very interesting to me to read these old stories with a perspective I didn’t have as a child. I have mentioned it briefly, how Old Testament stories tend to mirror our spiritual journey. Every story–every one!–correlates to faith living. As a kid, I loved the story for the story. There was no need to moralize the adventure; I would read it again and again for pleasure. I am amazed how God reels a small child in with story and a grownup with wisdom. The Word is truly as shallow and deep as a body can plunge, forever exactly what a person needs to read at any given moment.
In the book of Joshua, the Israelite warriors move into unfamiliar territory. God was giving them the Promised Land. However, foes and great cities stood in their path. They were hot off forty years in the desert, but Jericho–and as we see it, the world, stood in their path. And it stands in our way today.

Earlier this year, on a nice afternoon in February, I sat outside the building where the kids take music lessons. Two kids played on the scrappy playground on the property, an ignored, humble area with gravel and trash spread evenly. Once again, I kicked myself for not having brought a garbage bag to pick up sticks. The place could stand some attention, and I didn’t have much else to do while biding our time. I wandered along the fence, corralling bocce balls with my feet and debating the overall safety of the place.  The fence itself was nice, six or eight foot, wood and whitewashed. I noticed some painted trellis material had been tacked above the fence height, making the barrier a total of twelve feet or more.

This didn’t trigger any warnings in my mind, and I pleasantly put myself to work. Then I spied something. A large white lump in the shadows merited a closer look. Upon quick inspection, I determined it was an adult diaper, used and discarded, and most likely having been out in the elements for a couple days.

No, I realized, this isn’t the safest place for children to play.

On the other side of the fence is a memory care unit, it turns out. An elderly man has been tossing his diapers over the fence for years–this is what the lady at the front desk of music lessons told me. She was embarrassed. I was too. I was pretty certain this didn’t fall in her job description, but if I’m being honest, neither of us wanted to pick up the soiled pants. She was sorry indeed. They had added the extra fencing above the original to deter him. It was no matter. Apparently the old man was a regular Tom Brady with zero couth and zero memory.
It certainly changed my perspective on things. For one, I will do better at screening playgrounds. (For another, who is to say we won’t be the ones pitching diapers some day?)

The world is, I think, suddenly feeling scarier to a lot of people just now. Perhaps we just never thought there was much risk in living, in stepping out into places that seemed safe. A playground with play things is for children–isn’t the world also our stage? We become used to, and take for granted our freedoms to walk around without fear. Maybe we have just fooled ourselves into believing nothing bad could ever happen to us, or that, truly, there is good in everyone. Who would specifically target another human being with hate crimes? Who really harbors murder, envy, and rage inside them? Who would actually send a filled diaper over the fence without warning, possibly hitting an unsuspecting passerby?

Yet this is what fills our news and conversation. Can you believe this? What in the world is going on? We blink and stare, shell-shocked, like we didn’t realize we actually lived in a world that is an enemy to God’s people.

I’ll be honest–right now I am smack in the middle of a very liberal (I mean this as opposed to conservative) city that is on the verge of rearranging public education as we know it. They want to make it safer, healthier. I guess I just naively thought involved parents who love kids was the answer. I’ve been, as best as I know how, trying to clean up the proverbial playground and dodge whatever crap balls keep getting tossed over the fence in my direction. I wanted to follow Jesus in this here world, keeping my eyes on the prize. Secondarily, I hoped we’d have the added effect of changing things for the better. At the very least, we would be respectable whistle blowers, protectors of the less privileged. We would be grassroots voices, building from the ground up and weathering the highs and lows. We would stand for justice and noble causes.
But I’m finding out the world doesn’t care about how responsible I am. The world is not waiting for wonderful human beings (if there was such a thing) to step up and just be strong and courageous (though it definitely takes being strong and courageous to affect change). The world that hates a moral compass and is power hungry will not pause for my opinion. It cares not for the poor or disadvantaged, the child who needs a gentle touch.  A whip is cracked over the backs of both cowards and the brave-hearted. Whom might they subdue with their fear tactics? Whom might they incite with their eat or be eaten ideology? How can they live like gods and establish their own system? Can smooth talk convince us they have our best interests in mind?

On the surface, it appears I’m left with two choices: get off the playground or fall in line with the rule makers, or in other words, come to the point of agreeing with the world itself.

I know I must reject both options.
God gave Joshua a pep talk prior to Jericho:
No one will be able to stand up against you all the days of your life. As I was with Moses, so I will be with you; I will never leave you nor forsake you. Be strong and very courageous. Do not let this Book of the Law depart from your mouth; meditate on it day and night. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged. The Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.

Then the people crossed over Jordan, and Joshua circumcised the people–a painful, clear reminder that they belonged to the Lord. After forty years of manna in the desert, they ate their first breakfast of Wheaties in Canaan–God was fortifying them for the battle ahead. Their minds were filled with songs of victory, their bodies strong and ready.

And God gave them marching orders:
See, I have delivered Jericho into your hands. March around the city for six days. On the seventh day, march around the city seven times, with the priests blowing the trumpets. When you hear them sound a long blast on the trumpets, have all the people give a loud shout; then the wall of the city will collapse.

Jericho didn’t stand a chance. The world doesn’t stand a chance. It will be annoyed when we march around it in quiet circles, obedient to Jesus and no one else. It will hold a haughty fearlessness in the face of God. It will laugh in our faces, thinking itself invincible, insurmountable. It will stand until the bitter end, when it crumbles to dust.

At the end of His earthly life, Jesus assured His disciples they were meant to live in the world down here. This must have been a tough pill to swallow. The Romans weren’t exactly chummy with Christian converts. The Jewish leaders also had a bone to pick. Jesus prayed for the new believers to stay unified and strong–like a red rover team. Don’t make a big fuss–I’ll send the Spirit to be with you the whole time. Hold hands. Stay on the playground till I come back.

In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.
John 16:33

We are Israelites, marching. We are the Spirit-filled believers in the New Testament. We are living down here on this dirty ground, our hearts circumcised, our bellies full of God’s word, fortified for the struggle, knowing full well the walls will fall. The victory is already ours. We aren’t supposed to get used to this playground as our final destination, but we are meant to stay put.
This means we’re in the firing line, ducking and dodging.

I cannot help but look around me and wonder–how exactly does this mean we ought to be living? Right now, right in the middle of uncertainty, stay-at-home orders and potential civil unrest–what is my next move?

School still puzzles me. New rules will certainly hamper our freedoms if we do public school the way it is being proposed, but I have a few months yet to hem and haw on that decision. I know I can’t run off the field, but I also know I cannot change the system.

A friend of mine told me about her church in southern Colorado that has not stopped meeting on Sundays.
“It’s mostly an older crowd,” she says. “They all sit a pew apart and they’ve decided to forgo fellowship time. Oh, and they each have to bring their own crackers and juice for communion.”
We chatted about the arrangement and agreed the reason they haven’t been reprimanded is because they have no internet presence. They don’t stream services, post devotionals, or meet on Zoom. In other words, they aren’t running out into the line of fire just to get attention for exercising religious freedoms. No social media, no stock in what the world thinks about them is key to safeguarding their liberties. They refuse to toss their pearls before swine. There is a quiet defiance that speaks Jesus louder than any flashy neon marquee.

I love the example they are setting–but will others follow suit? It occurs to me–most people won’t be satisfied marching around the walls, quietly and patiently waiting for God to dismantle them. The world has too easily become their playground. They enjoy the games, the frolicking on the edges, the public attention. They’ve become accustomed to the loud, the lewd. They’ve made a game of catching dirty diapers and throwing them back over the fence. They think it is quite fun; possibly even the very purpose to which they are called.

Friends, this world is not our home. Take a good look at how you are behaving on the playground. Are you playing with filth, are you gathering sticks when your heart ought to be silent, your eyes focused heavenward? Who knows, maybe we are closer to becoming like the first century believers than ever before. Perhaps we will soon be sneaking along the edges of this here world, burying treasure under the trash, quietly waiting for the walls to fall down.
Knowing the victory is already ours. Watching for our faith to become sight.

 

Liable to Destruction: how to stand a chance against your flesh

This weekend I became the owner of a minivan.
One might think this was long overdue–we’ve got four growing kids we’ve been toting around in a Honda Pilot for six years. The five-foot ten year old had to fold his legs under his chin in the third row seating, where fresh air cannot penetrate, void of headrests, foot space, and possibly airbags. The second row situation wasn’t much better–a crowded, two carseat affair with another child squeezed in the middle, his elbows resting on his belly button.
But we had put a hundred thousand miles on the rig, and even if she was faithful and uncomplaining, the seating arrangements were not in our favor. It no longer seemed kind to make a growing boy risk a migraine with every trip.

Still, I have a hard time pulling the trigger in these instances.

When I was a kid, people were often puzzled upon seeing our family’s living arrangement. My parents were not asceticists in the traditional sense; we were sort of pleasantly used to doing things the hard way. It was impossible to explain our shabby dwelling to the curious, taking “pride” in our low position. Good people would up and ask–outloud!–why my dad didn’t finish a house project. Wouldn’t a responsible, loving father finish the remodel? Why was it one tiny step at a time? Where was the urgency? Why couldn’t he care enough to  make his family comfortable?

The mere suggestion of neglect made my dad bristle. I do think he certainly intended to finish whatever house project was on his list, but it incensed him. It was an arrow aimed and shot at his character. Inevitably, the energy for the project would wane, or more likely, the funds would shift to a needier place.
I never understood. I hated it for so long. I didn’t see the harm in having flooring or walls with electric wires neatly tucked inside. Why did we have to suffer the cold in winter and the heat in summer? There was a reason I never experienced camping as a child–my own home offered its own survival challenge. It was not super enjoyable to live so rustic and basic–why would we up the ante and willingly sleep on the ground?

Like most kids, I didn’t value their perspective until I walked in their shoes, a grownup with my own children, realizing that comfort is its own beast. Spoiled children (spoiled adults!) are impossible to please, and the root of a bad tree is nearly impossible to dig up. Seating ourselves at the head at the table and demanding more service, more food, is a recipe for petulant whiners. Life is not physically comfortable for many people in this world, and it is okay. It is more than okay–it is actually an honorable way to live. A Christian can, and ought, to choose to buck cultural expectations in favor of outrageous counter-lifestyle. It is what Jesus did, even when his daddy owned a cattle on a thousand hills (Psalm 50:10)–he had no place to lay his head (Matt. 8:20). Extreme obedience and self-denial. This is what my parents have taught me.

This attitude has followed me into adulthood, though I can’t say I’ve always been grateful. From childhood, I’ve been trained to ask why? while the world says why not? Obviously, why not is so much more pleasant. Why not is an indulgent lover who asks how can it be wrong if it feels so right? It’s a second piece of pie, unlimited, sky’s-the-limit, I’ll-call-it-a-blessing, I-probably-deserve-it green light to my desires. Watch that show, drink that wine, relax! Why not pats me on the back and says to take it easy. If it is applauded, accepted, a result of hard work paying off–don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Why not helps me justify the extra bedrooms and bathrooms in my house. Why not puts vacations on my credit card and signs the check to buy new things, like a minivan.

Why feels like an enemy to a Why not sort of person. And vice-versa.

But see here–the Word condemns self-indulgence and pride. Jesus warned it would be a tough row to plow for the believer. It would take some gumption and sitting down to count the cost of following Him. One of our most threatening personal enemies is our very own Flesh, the skin we’re in. We are supposed to live in fear of sinning.
Those who continue in sin, rebuke in the presence of all, so that the rest will also be fearful of sinning.
1 Tim. 5:20

In Greek it is more aptly put: we are to have a sin phobia.

This is a bit tricky for me to explain. We aren’t supposed to be afraid, right? We’re supposed to lean in, fully confident, saved-by-grace…yes? Isn’t the power of Christ enough to conquer the sin problem? But ay yay! the flesh. We’re stuck in these persnickety, selfish bodies, the same ones we love and hate. We are torn, over and over.

I see in my members another law waging war against the law of my mind and making me captive to the law of sin that dwells in my members. Wretched man that I am! Who will save me from this body of death?
Romans 7:23-24

Obviously, even pious Paul is wrecked by this sin in the flesh dilemma. And he wants us to be wrecked, too.

Rewinding to Old Testament times, after Moses died and Joshua was left to lead the Israelites across the Jordan River into the Promised Land, he was ordered to be strong and very courageous. We know this verse–it’s a fave of the Bible-thumpers. We embroider it onto hoops, we hang it on our walls. But it is prefaced with a strong admonition to obey and meditate, day and night, on the Book of the Law. Keep it front and center, God was warning Joshua–you have no idea what enemies you’re up against. Their success was dependent upon it–taking every caution to obey. Their success was not dependent upon being strong and courageous.

Dr. J.V. McGee draws correlation between the first three enemies faced in the new land and spiritual enemies we face as believers today: The great city of Jericho corresponds to the world, which can only be conquered by faith, patience, and following day-in, day-out marching orders. The Gibeonites represent Satan–a sneaky trickster that’ll stop at nothing to deceive us and gain access to our treasure. And Ai–that little town who seemed so innocuous–is our flesh.

A blip on the screen–a story often forgotten by the Sunday school crowd in favor of Jericho–Ai is the story of the second city conquered by Israel in the Promised Land. Hot off their victory over Jericho, Joshua sent out a small committee to spy on Ai. When they returned, they told Joshua it didn’t seem like any big deal. Don’t get everybody worked up. Just send a few good fighters up and the city will be ours. Unfortunately, they were wrong. Ai was ready to crush them. The Israelites were suddenly scared out of their pants. So much for being strong and courageous! Joshua and the other leaders spend a day with their heads bent to the ground, moaning and groaning about how they should’ve never crossed the Jordan.
And God says this:

“Stand up! What are you doing down on your face? Israel has sinned; they have violated my covenant, which I commanded them to keep. They have taken some of the devoted things; they have stolen, they have lied, they have put them with their own possessions. This is why the Israelites cannot stand against their enemies; they turn their backs and run because they have been made liable to destruction.”
Joshua 7:11-12 

A greedy fellow named Achan had taken some goodies from Jericho for himself, and God was not having it. He was not taking the blame for the trouble they were having with this particular enemy, Ai. Because there was sin in the camp, God said they made themselves liable to destruction.

Oh, friends. Why-Not people don’t stand a chance against the flesh. And God will not lead you to victory in your life, no matter how “strong and courageous” you are, if you’ve departed from His Word and made yourselves liable to destruction. It’s as simple as hiding your greed inside your tent, padding that bank account for your why not pleasures, and pretending life is just ducky.

The Ai story does have a happy ending, once the sin problem is dealt with (spoiler: stoning and burning is involved, but this is exactly why we ought to have a sin phobia). The Israelites divided themselves and ambushed the place–they fooled the Ai people into attacking and then retreating, so they were caught in the middle and defeated. When it was finally over, Joshua stood in front of all of the Israelites and read to them the Law they had been given.
It was the only way to remember that victory comes from obedience. From maintaining a sin phobia, a why approach to the flesh. And from continual meditation and eating on His Word.

Over the phone, I still confess to my dad and mom, my truest, longest confidants: My whole life has been me telling me ‘no’.
They understand perfectly. They have been at it longer than me, giving a hard ‘no’ to worthless endeavors, trash TV, a nice home, vacations, expensive clothes. They have eschewed the spotlight, glory and glitter, because they refuse to let the flesh win. We all agree–it is, by far, the hardest thing to do. We’re in these bodies that crave comfort, rest, ease, a controlled environment, coffee. It takes more energy in life to say no to myself. It takes some spying, some tactical study. Physical and mental toughness and counting of the cost. It isn’t pleasant. It’s still war. But when I’m not saying no to myself, I’m never moving forward. I’m stagnant, withering, blaming and critical. There’s no victory without a battle.
Thank God He hasn’t asked us to do it alone. The victory rests upon our obedience, and He’s already spelled out the strategy for our success.

We bought that Honda minivan, maybe six years after we should have bought it–mostly because I thought I was asking a why not question. We were uncomfortable, yes, but discomfort serves its purpose. You know I’ll forever be reminding the long-legged back-seaters to not complain. I’ll remind them how it was before, in the Pilot. At least now they’ve got functioning windows and headrests. We made our move out of necessity, and there’s some promise in conquering flesh when we realize we can outlast our desires.

The funniest thing is this: we bought the Odyssey from a BMW/Mercedes-Benz dealership. It was a smoking online deal–turns out no one shops for minivans from a luxury car brand. I laugh every time I pass by the temporary tags on the back, stuck in a license plate frame boasting BMW. I’m not a BMW girl, but I guess now I’m a minivan with BMW plates girl. It doesn’t make sense. It is absurd. But we aren’t trying to make sense, are we?

We’re trying to trick that flesh into retreating. We’re slaughtering those lies–that what other people say matters, that why nots are a better place to live. That beauty cannot be found in submission, that wonder and worship are flashy and fleeting.
We dig in our heels and never underestimate the enemy.