On inhabiting the darkness

I called Representative Lamborn this morning, as I so often do these days, this time to express my disappointment that the American Health Care Act passed through the House yesterday. And was met on the other end of the line by a mansplainer who interrupted me to tell me how I was wrong.

It was bound to happen eventually, I suppose. I'd just been so pleasantly surprised by the abundant friendliness and courteousness of all the other Lamborn staffers I've talked to.

I'm no stranger to mansplaining, but today it hits me harder than usual. Today, when yet another innocent brown child has just been senselessly murdered. When people with mental health conditions can have guns, but not health care. When our elected officials are sexual predators. When we're slowly killing our mother earth, and by extension, ourselves. When our vulnerable populations are voiceless. When our structures and systems are inherently violent toward marginalized communities.

I am just. so. angry.

In a season of springtime, of new life and new birth, I find myself still entrenched in the desolation of death and darkness.

While reflecting during Holy Week a few weeks ago, hearing again the story of the crowds clamoring for Jesus' crucifixion, I was wholly aware of how passionately we still riot for the death of goodness. We cry out for the murder of Christ in our world, here, today. And I wish I believed that we know not what we are doing.

On Easter morning, it felt like an extreme act of will to choose the joy of the resurrection. I feel so distant from the abundant hope and triumph of the living Christ. The weeping of the night is still in me and around me.

Today, on a gorgeous spring morning, I'm listening to this song, wanting so desperately to see the morning dawn.

If you, too, are spending this season in the night -- know that I am with you and for you.

Morning will come for us someday.