But this little plot of land, where my son swings from oak branches beside the bayou . . . where we make mashed potatoes for three instead of twenty-three . . . where I call home . . . is much more than just a settler's trophy. We live in Caddo territory, or so it was before the Treaty of Cession of 1835.
To be a true steward of a truly hospitable home means we must remember that sacredness.
As someone who has been in advocacy work for a while, I’ve begun to wonder how much all this 'righteous anger' accomplishes if we don’t learn to examine our own ethical choices as well.
Even though I am not a climate scientist, I recognize that the climate crisis is an existential threat impacting all of creation. As a woman and a person of faith, I have a unique responsibility to act.
The journey ahead is complex and rightly so—filled with both triage and rehab efforts, insurance claims and bucket truck parades, adrenaline highs and compassion fatigue, questions about climate change and environmental refugees, retelling the story, and sharing the load again and again and again.
Rains and snows came when they were supposed to, bringing much needed refreshing to our community and land. Now, we are in a prolonged drought. We are in a national sacrifice zone with the nation’s largest methane hotspot hovering overhead.
Imperfect, abnormal, disabled in the eyes of the world, “despised and rejected of men,” it is they who meet life with the indomitable strength of the divine realm, while I faint and falter before every obstacle.