I didn’t know it at the time, but I was being thoroughly discipled in Christian Nationalism: the idolatrous entangling of God and country for the sake of power.
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.
It is awfully convenient to believe the right thing to do is whatever you want, at anyone else’s expense. It felt like the lives of the sick and vulnerable didn’t matter. Then George Floyd was murdered.
It’s been a long road, and it’s not over, though it does seem to be changing. And we felt we couldn’t let this moment pass without marking it together in some way.
The loved one is in prison, the hospital, hospice, quarantine, or serving abroad. Some extended families face all of these circumstances at once right now. Yet the scriptures don’t avoid the expectation to feel joy.