Love in the Time of Anxiety

Valentine’s Day is upon us, which means cloyingly sweet treats and cards with even more cloyingly sweet messages of undying love have lined the registers since the Christmas decorations departed. For weeks now, every time you bought groceries, you were assaulted by visions of cheery pink and red tins of candy, bright flowers, balloons and cards practically shouting at you: “Buy me, you dutiful slave to consumerism, or incur the wrath of your significant other for not validating this Hallmark holiday wrapped in glitter. Buy me!!!! Buy meeeeeeeeeeee.” *The final “Buy me” in a low, gravely, menacing tone*

And that is romantic love in a nutshell. At least the way it is packaged. Glittery on the outside, but full of empty calories and hot air on the inside! Do I sound like a cynic? Maybe. But I know that when love settles, it looks different. I know that when love says “I do,” it means “I will” endure all things. And that is a different animal altogether.

 a via a href=httpphotopin.comphotopina a href=httpcreativecommons.orglicensesby2.0cca

Real love has grit. Photo courtesy of Photo Pin

If you are married, you’ve probably walked some messy roads with your spouse. And you, too, are aware that while that brand of love doesn’t sell so well in stores…it IS the real thing.

It’s easy to love when everything is shiny and new. What effort does that really take? But to love when it hurts or requires sacrifice…now that is much harder.

A friend recently shared with me her sadness over hearing several stories of infidelity among married couples she knew. “I think it’s our age,” I responded. “Our season of life…we’re not fresh off the boat anymore. Most of us are no longer newlyweds. Many of us have kids. It’s hard work. And some people look for ways to escape when things get tough.”

What happens when the landscape of your lives shifts? One income looks different from two. Your thirties looks different from your twenties. Life with children is different from life without children.

But if love is to last, it must survive through all seasons, not just the easy ones.

Real love, the kind that survives the years and decades of life’s changes and challenges, feels like work sometimes. It’s laundry and dishes, caring for kids, working long hours on little sleep, discovering and rediscovering your spouse’s weaknesses, feeling shock or betrayal or, at times, loneliness. But it is loving regardless.

The other day, I had an anxiety attack. If you struggle with anxiety, you know these are paralyzing. It had been a while since I had been so consumed, but like a sudden terrible and oppressive wave, it covered me in darkness. My mind raced, my fears burst open like a sky full of storm clouds. My fight or flight response lit up. I lost hours to panic. Hours. The day ended, and my body ached. My heart ached. I felt ashamed and empty.

A few days later, sitting on the couch across from my husband, I looked into my lap and told him…”I’m scared. I have so much doubt about so many things. Being a good mom. Taking care of my house and my family…” The list went on. And then Sam did something we don’t always do…because like so many people, we want to reason our way through the difficult times. This time, he offered to pray. His prayer was a powerful prayer. Truly. And his words, along with God’s Spirit, thawed away the sadness and shame I was feeling. I recognized this as one of the greatest acts of love my husband could have offered me.

He could have easily said, “Woman, you are being unreasonable. You are wrong. You’re making my life difficult. Get over yourself.” But he didn’t. He came alongside me and prayed for me.

Sometimes I hate that love is so messy. I would rather be a princess from a childhood fairy tale after the prince has rescued her and taken her for his bride. I don’t want to tend to the wounded. Or be wounded myself. It is humiliating.

I don’t want to wait for miracles. Or give more of myself when I feel exhausted. Or make dinner…again. I want love that is effortless. I want things my way. I want perfection.

One of my favorite photos from any wedding is the one where the couple, declared husband and wife for the first time, nearly dance down the aisle arm and arm on a cloud of happiness. It is an image, beautiful and full of joy. But it is also a fragile veneer. Because while they turn to face the world as two people newly united and shining with promise, they aren’t yet aware of the adversity, temptation and disappointment they will face over the years. Sometimes they will feel like a shell of what they once were. And that is when they will discover they are only as good as their unwavering commitment to God and one another in the best AND the worst of times.

Whatever you do for Valentine’s Day, remember that “Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.” (John 15:13) It is our real sacrificial love for one another that bears the image of God’s infinite love for humanity. That happens when we stay…despite the desire to flee. It’s when we give…despite the overwhelming urge to take what feels rightfully ours. It’s when we love at a time love feels like the last thing we want to do.

Real love doesn’t always sparkle. But it can shine. It can produce brilliant, beautiful things from the pit of our deepest, darkest failures. Real love stoops down to dress our wounds and comfort our bleeding hearts. Real love gets messy. Real love has grit.

Put that inside your Valentine’s Day card, Hallmark.

Thank you, Jesus, for your real love.

And to my Valentine, Sam, thank you for weathering the storms of life with me. May we always know and value real love.

Photo credits: via a href=httpphotopin.comphotopina a href=httpcreativecommons.orglicensesby2.0cca

Part 2: On the Outside Looking In…The Blessing of Rejection

Soooooooo about that rejection you’re feeling…how could it possibly result in blessing?

I love the passage in Matthew 10, where Jesus commissioned His disciples for ministry and warned them about rejection. His advice to them is a bit shocking coming from the guy who also commanded us to “turn the other cheek.”


“Shake off the dust…” Photo Courtesy of Free Images

Jesus told them, “If anyone will not welcome you or listen to your words, leave that home or town and shake the dust off your feet. (v. 14)” Jesus was urging them NOT to waste time where they weren’t wanted. Perhaps because he knew the disciples would struggle for acceptance the same way we do.

Have you ever tried to foster a relationship with someone who was not ready to receive your love or friendship? Or who was too busy being critical of you?

It might be easy for us to look at one biblical example like this one to justify always walking away when we feel rejected. But Jesus provided other responses to rejection as well–all quite different. For example, and I am skimming the surface, when the Pharisees questioned him and his ministry, Jesus used everything from silence to strong words as his response. Then there was his ultimate act here on earth when he allowed rejection to take Him to the cross.

“He was despised and rejected by mankind, a man of suffering, and familiar with pain. Like one from whom people hide their faces he was despised, and we held him in low esteem…But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was on him, and by his wounds we are healed.” (Isaiah 53:3, 5)

Jesus’ offered responses to rejection on a case by case basis. And because he was Jesus, they were always perfect for the occasion. As deeply flawed human beings, on the other hand, our responses are also often deeply flawed. But I think we can take away at least two things from his example. First, there are many (right) ways to respond to rejection. And second, that it is only through the power and leading of the Holy Spirit that we can know how to navigate each rejection scenario as it presents itself in our lives. (Because we know that it will…See Part I of this series)

I love what Jesus also said in that same passage in Matthew as he prepared his followers for ministry: “As you enter a home, give it your greeting. If the home is deserving, let your peace rest on it; if it is not, let your peace return to you. (12-13)”

So many times, when I feel rejected, I don’t let peace return to me. After wrestling and pondering and trying to fix the relationship(s) or prove myself worthy, I am still not at peace….especially if it seems my efforts have been wasted or, worse, misunderstood. At some point, we have a choice about how to accept the limitations of a relationship or situation. We can allow it to disturb us deeply, or we can do as Jesus instructed and take back our peace…no matter what the outcome.

As it did for the disciples, rejection can redirect us, re-chart our course…in a positive way. If we believe God can redeem any situation, then we must believe this…that rejection can be a blessing in disguise:

Rejection can protect us. Looking back, there are several situations where I wish I would have taken Jesus’ advice to shake off my sandals and leave. I wish I hadn’t wasted valuable time where I wasn’t wanted or appreciated. But, thankfully, I eventually got the hint. And later I realized that rejection was God’s way of closing a door I couldn’t quite close on my own.

For example, there was a woman I started a friendship with at a time I was struggling to find close friends. I was so excited for this friendship until, suddenly, it fizzled out. I never knew why. It bothered me for months. A few years later, I discovered some things that would have made our friendship very complicated and could have affected my family negatively. I truly believe rejection was God’s way of closing that door at a vulnerable time in my life.

Rejection can expand our world. In a very practical way, one home’s rejection would lead Jesus’ disciples to other homes and towns. Rejection can do the same for us. It can not only change our course, but broaden our perspective and our world.

My mother gave me great advice once when she told me…find the girl who feels like you. When you feel rejected, seek out others who also feel rejected. And really that is what we should be doing as believers, seeking out the rejected among us, not making well-worn paths with all the people who agree with us and give us that familiar sense of comfort.

Comfort feeds apathy. Imagine if the disciples had stayed at the same home forever because they felt loved and accepted. Their ministry would have ceased to exist. They would have stopped following Jesus’ command to preach the Gospel!

By the way, it is completely counterproductive to find those other “rejected” people and sit and wallow and lick our wounds together. Though it is tempting to say, “Can you believe how rejected we are? Can you believe what those other people did to us?” Yes, I have responded to life’s rejection this way. But isn’t it much better to find those people and, together, model the kind of love and inclusion you wish to see in others?! What a beautiful way to redeem a disappointing situation!

Rejection reminds us we walk among the wounded. We’ve heard it many times: Hurt people hurt people. Wounded people look to strike before they fall victim again. Do you know someone like this? They become hollow and angry. While it is easy to become defensive and distrusting, it doesn’t help.

If we step back from a situation that has wounded us and recognize the other person was bleeding first, the situation becomes a lot less personal. In this way, God can teach us too look beyond the offense and straight to the need, which is where real ministry can happen. I still haven’t consistently figured this out for myself. I would much rather pull away and resent someone for their abusive behavior than love them as God calls me to love them. But when we can do the latter, it is a true miracle that brings about powerful change…if only in us.

Rejection can teach us REAL love. Contrary to the popularly accepted notion that inclusion and tolerance equal love, they aren’t the same thing. There are plenty of situations where we refuse to accept something about someone…but we don’t stop loving them. This is probably the hardest kind of love, but it is still necessary. And we are called to do it. Jesus loved those who betrayed him, persecuted him, beat him and nailed him to the cross. Real love, the kind without strings, doesn’t just happen. It takes work. And discipline. And the power of God in you. But it IS possible.

For every abandoned child, every lonely man or woman and every bullied and battered soul, God offers a refuge. He offers something better if we allow our rejection to lead us to Him. His perfect plan didn’t include these bitter rejections. But sin collapsed the beautiful harmony of Eden and sent us spiraling into darkness. The whole world aches with longing for love and acceptance. God allowed His son to walk through the worst possible rejection…all the way to death on the cross…to provide the only true way to freedom and acceptance in the arms of our Creator.

There are rejected among us…everywhere we go. If we pray for deeper understanding and greater generosity toward others, loving them without the expectation that we will get something in return, then we do what Jesus did–we take rejection and turn it on its head. We give love the chance to win, and we allow our pain to become a blessing to us and to others.

If you enjoyed this post, but missed Part I: Here it is!


If you like this post, please share it with friends via email, Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, etc. Just get it out there! 😉

I would love to meet you on Facebook (Jessica Fisher) or on Twitter @jlaurelfisher.

 Also, click on the follow my blog option for email updates!

Part I: On the Outside Looking In…When We Feel Rejected

We aren’t on the playground anymore, but feeling left out doesn’t always sting less just because we’re older. Even into adulthood, there are plenty of opportunities to feel like you’ve been picked last or, worse, not picked at all. Sometimes the people we love the most reject us. They misunderstand or judge us, and we feel the distance. That can be the hardest form of rejection to accept…

Accepting rejection. Hmmmmmm. Now, that’s a thought. Because rejection is going to happen. And we can’t force inclusion…as much as the hounds of political correctness try. So how do we accept it?


Ever feel this way?

The hard part about rejection is that when we are standing on the outside looking in…it can bring up that negative narrative in our minds that we aren’t good enough. And such a narrative may be very rehearsed for us, because we have carried it around our entire lives, like a mixed tape from an old boyfriend we just can’t seem to throw away.

A dear friend reminded me this week that feelings of unworthiness and rejection can become so familiar they bear a strange comfort for us. We can use them as a security blanket when we want to lick our wounds.

I’ve shed my share of tears over feeling rejected, but I’m also learning some powerful things about it. Because if I stop feeling sorry for myself long enough to learn something, I find that being rejected can sharpen instead of cut me.

First, it helps to remember that Jesus was rejected. As that same dear friend reminded me the other day, Jesus has incredible compassion for my hurt feelings. He loves me and embraces me. But more than that, he understands. Because he was rejected, not just at the cross, but throughout his short life on earth.

It also helps to ask some heart-searching questions about rejection and the role it plays in our lives, like:

Why is “being accepted” or “included” so important to us? (This may apply generally or it may apply to a very specific situation.) Well, we’re human. So there’s that. But could it also be that we are placing acceptance and inclusion above other things that matter more? For example, I am experiencing an area of rejection in my life from people I have always sought to please. BUT, part of that rejection comes as a result of choosing to live independently of their approval. It stings when I feel they don’t understand or when I am on the outside looking in, but I have made the conscious decision to please the Lord first. Sometimes the desire for approval pulls us into all manner of dysfunction, because we would still rather do the wrong thing than feel the sting of exclusion. But this will almost always result in compromises we regret later.

Is it a relationship worth mourning? As children and teenagers, inclusion feels necessary at all costs, because we think being on the outside says something about us. But as adults, we begin to understand that rejection does not need to be personal. In fact, it often says more about the other person than it does about us. Sometimes we are so busy wondering why someone is rejecting us, we don’t stop and consider whether we should really care. I mean, why mourn a relationship with someone who doesn’t accept you or appreciate you for who you are?

Have we spent too long nursing our hurt feelings? I know the sting of rejection. And I’m not saying those feelings aren’t real, but at what point will we decide to stop giving them so much time and energy? It is difficult, because feelings surface, and that safety blanket is always within arms reach.

A few years ago, when I struggled with being included in a circle of friends I thought I rightly belonged, I wasted a lot of time questioning myself and them and then pacifying my feelings. Self-pity felt better than making some important decisions that would have stopped giving the situation so much power in my life. When I finally let go of my need to nurse the hurt, God revealed important aspects of this particular rejection that taught me a great deal about myself. (More on that in Part II of this post series…)

Is inclusiveness always realistic or necessary? All-inclusiveness works well on a cruise. But we can’t always expect people to be all-inclusive. Besides, not all exclusivity is unjust or harmful. Countries, governments, cultures, families and close friendships all have aspects of exclusivity that are healthy for survival. Our marriages, for example, are pretty exclusive. And we consider that a good thing, because it is!

Don’t misunderstand me. I believe, especially as Christians, we should not be exclusive in our dealings with others. God warns us against favoritism (see yet another future blog post). A church body (which is made up of individuals!) should be warm and welcoming to all types and not exclusive in their fellowship. BUT, we cannot force inclusiveness. We can only encourage it by word and example.

But then there are still those deep, heartbreaking kinds of rejection that should NEVER happen. And yet they do. Because we live in a fallen world. Many people were driven to the feet of Jesus as the result of devastating personal rejection. The woman caught in adultery. The demon-possessed man. The little children the disciples hushed and scolded. And Jesus was a the perfect example of loving inclusiveness.

I think it’s important to note, Jesus had a band of twelve close friends, so from his example we learn that the opposite of exclusivity is NOT the elimination of close relationships. It’s forging those close relationships while also making ourselves available to others. Jesus engaged and accepted anyone of any social or economic status, gender, age or situation. And his inclusiveness extended to the cross where he died for ALL…even the worst of sinners.

Feeling rejection on whatever scale can begin a beautiful process of learning how to courageously and compassionately model God’s brand of inclusiveness to others. When we stop nursing our own hurt feelings, throw away the safety blanket of unworthiness and allow Jesus to teach us the better way of dealing with our pain, we can find freedom and wholeness. We can begin to accept that we won’t always be accepted! And rejection loses its once powerful grip on us.

For Part II of this series: Go here!


If you like this post, please share it with friends via email, Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, etc. Just get it out there! 😉

I would love to meet you on Facebook (Jessica Fisher) or on Twitter @jlaurelfisher.

 Also, click on the follow my blog option for email updates!

Pressing In

The mantle of struggle can get heavy. Very heavy. Last June, when I experienced my second miscarriage, a dear friend of mine responded with “Why won’t life relent?!” It had been a particularly tough year, and it didn’t stop there. But … Continue reading


This is a condensed version of a post I wrote in response to the Sandy Hook shootings last year. I am reposting it today in memory of those beautiful children and the teachers and faculty who lost their lives. One year later, our thoughts and prayers are with the grieving families and devastated community.

There are no words. Not for something like this. But…when you are a writer, you need words.

One day, while rocking my son to sleep for his nap, some words did come to mind. And they began to fill the dark hole blasted open by the headlines of a gunman’s rage. So as any writer does, I let the words pour through me and out of me, each one illuminating the darkness a little more like newly fallen snow.

Words like…


Why did it happen? Why does evil persist? Why can’t we name it, call it out, before it accelerates, knocks us over, takes away those we love? Why can’t we stop it? Why does God allow it? Why the suffering? Why children?!

But…we don’t always know why. Or how. Or when. Or who. We don’t always know their names until it’s too late.

Madmen don’t advertise their darkest plans. They just simmer slowly and silently to a boil, hating until their hatred makes victims of other people–unsuspecting people with names and lives and promising futures.


Names are words. Proper words. Names of the living. Names of the dead. Names that once brought joy and now carry with them, deep, heartrending sorrow. Names of children and adults. Names attached to faces and stories. Names of “ordinary” people turned heroic. Like Victoria Soto, the young teacher who hid her students and saved them, but lost her own life. Or Kaitlin Roig, who told her students she loved them all, so that gunfire wouldn’t be the last sound they would hear–“I love you” over a hail of bullets.


It’s the very best word and the one I leave you with today.

Love your kids. Love other people’s kids. Love one another.

I’m not talking about a warm, fuzzy, politically correct, washed-out, passive kind of love.

I mean the real, raw love – the kind that has to get tough sometimes. The kind that sacrifices, disciplines, gives everything. Because if we truly love someone, we pull them back from the brink. We keep them from feeling forgotten. We don’t let them hurt themselves or others without intervention. We don’t let a day go by without telling them how much we care.

Love is a choice that allows us to move freely and powerfully. Love makes us matter to others. It heals. It chases away regret. It offers hope.

Love defies words.

And despite the evil that still exists in the heart of man, LOVE will remain the greatest agent of change…and the best word…in the world.

“And now these remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.”


There are no words. Not for something like this.

But when you are a writer, you get to the point where you need words. It took me three days to form any cohesive thoughts about the Connecticut tragedy. I heard bits and pieces of news reports. I tossed and turned at night, my mind looping an endless reel of images – some from the news, others I had imagined, but none that made sense. And every morning, my first thought went to the victims’ parents, if they had slept at all, waking to a new and horrible reality. The sun had risen. They were alive. But their precious babies were not. And nothing would change that. It is hard to imagine such pain. And impossible to describe it.

There are no words.

I am among the millions on the perimeter, looking in but helpless to understand, explain, sympathize or comfort. No solution surfaces. No political agenda feels appropriate. There exists a gaping wound and a deep sense of sorrow and hollow rage. But, no way to stop the bleeding. I have feelings that don’t even really belong to me…but I feel them. And they defy words.

But today, as I rocked my son to sleep for his nap, some words did come to mind. So, as any writer does, I let them pour out of me. When you are a writer, you write. Not because you have the answer. But because writing brings some relief from the burgeoning pressure of chaos in your mind and in your world. If you can take your words and order them, it provides the tiniest sense of having done something. So at the risk of appearing narcissistic for writing about how this affects me…it is the only voice I have. I cannot write for anyone else. So I write. I assign words, however tangled and inept. I ask questions, though they hang suspended, with no clear answers in sight. And I pray my words, no matter how small or insignificant, might bring some comfort to someone, somewhere – even if they do no justice to what has been done.

I will write about the words forming questions that won’t stop circling my mind.

It’s not that I want to know. The idea of actually knowing horrifies me. So, why am I trying to connect the dots? Do I need to understand? To find something redeeming or comforting in the madness? Maybe I do it, because I am a mother. And I hate the idea of anything happening to my child that I cannot comprehend, explain or dissect. I regain a false sense of control by collecting all the facts and piecing them together. I become a sort of forensic scientist, searching for answers. I comb through the details until they are dust. This way, I can decide the best approach, the best solution. I ask my baby, “What hurts?” Because then I can kiss him there, and he knows I know. Only, these were not my children. And they are no longer here to comfort.

What were the last words they heard? From their parents? From other students? From their teachers? Did he speak to them? Did God speak to them in that moment? Those words were more important than anyone knew.

What did they see and feel? Where were they standing or sitting or hiding? How quickly did it happen? How much of what was happening did they understand? Were their acts of bravery we will never know? What would I have done if I were there? What could I have done? What object could I have moved in front of the door or thrown at the shooter? What did the parents do while they waited? How did they hold on? How could they bear the weight of their own bodies when they found out their child had been lost forever?

Around that last horrific question, my mind gets stuck, spinning like a broken record suspending the same word or note. I might as well be asking – What if people walked on their hands? What if a spaceship landed in my backyard? What if the earth stopped rotating and the universe turned upside down? Things that seem ridiculous and impossible. Questions that don’t make sense. They don’t have plausible answers.

The word WHY looms large.

Why did this happen? Why can’t we identify evil? Why can’t we call it what it is? What kind of person plots so sadistically without anyone knowing? And, why do we think more dialogue or stricter laws will be game changers? I know we must do something. And even if that something is unsuccessful, at least we can tell ourselves we tried. But evil men don’t take part in meaningful dialogue. And they don’t follow the rules. They don’t wear t-shirts that advertise their darkest plans. They just simmer slowly to a boil, while the rest of us go through our lives without a clue – imagining we are safe.

What creates such men? Is it absentee fathers? Neglectful, selfish mothers? Amoral societies? Godlessness? Violent images? Abusive histories? Mental disturbances? Overly permissive parenting? A growing sense of anonymity in a celebrity-driven culture? Satan himself?? What the hell does this?!?!?

Names are words. The names of the living. The names of the dead. The name of their killer.

I wish they didn’t list the shooter’s name among the dead. It makes him sound like a victim. Maybe he was a victim of other things in his life, but he chose the way he died. And that does not make him a victim of his own shooting. I wish they didn’t even mention his name. He doesn’t deserve the media spotlight, even if he can’t appreciate it. Who else is out there wondering how they can become less anonymous by out-doing him? Why does the media plaster killers’ faces and sensationalize stories? Is it worth it? Do we really gain anything from dissecting his life on national and international television? What do we learn except that he is a mad man?! Not even a man, just a sick, sick boy.

Other words come to mind…but I will refrain from using them.

Instead, I focus on the names of the children and the teachers. A first name and a last, two words that represent an entire life – six years of it or 57.

They came to school or work another day, unaware of what they would face. Victoria Soto hid her students and saved them, but lost her own life. Kaitlin Roig told her students she loved them so that gunfire would not be the last sound they would hear. She survived, and those little babies will never forget what she told them. Three words – I love you – from an ordinary person.

Now, there’s a word – ORDINARY.

We don’t value “ordinary” people the way we should, especially people who pour into our children – from mothers to fathers to school teachers and Sunday school teachers and daycare workers. We try. But, we get so distracted by wealth and progress and success and celebrity and politics and “more important” jobs and careers. The anonymity, the sacrifice of caring for children, appeals to us less and less. But childhood is where we form so many of our beliefs about the world and humanity. Our experience as children provides the foundation for a promising future or presents incredible obstacles we must overcome. Talk about power and influence – those words rest in our ability to be ordinary.

As I rocked my son today, I traced my finger from his forehead to his chin. I brushed back his hair. I rubbed his back. I have heard many parents speak of doing this with a new and hushed awareness. Those activities that are habitual and ordinary in nature have become sacred again. It’s not that we love our children more, it’s that we are reminded the fragility of those little souls, the brevity and uncertainty of life and the power of our ordinary, everyday love for them.

LOVE. It’s the very best word.

If we could harness the power of love, we might solve all the world’s problems. But what makes love so precious is it cannot be mandated or coerced or collected or stored for later. Sure, it may be instinctual for some – but, even parents have chosen not to love their children or act out of love for them. Love is always a choice. And it is always a powerful one.

I’m not talking about a warm, fuzzy, politically correct, washed-out, all-we-need-is-love, passive kind of love. I’m talking about real, raw love – the kind that has to get tough sometimes. The kind that sacrifices, that disciplines, that gives everything. Because if we truly love someone, we pull them back from the brink. We keep them from feeling forgotten. We don’t let them hurt themselves or others without intervention. Justice is motivated by love and necessary to it, because love always protects.

I want justice. I want a solution as much as the next person. I want answers. I want words to make sense of this heartless act. But every solution feels flimsy. No law, no weapon, no information, no institution, no dialogue, no one-size-fit-all solution exists. Not that we don’t reach for something. But, we must accept the uncertainty of each day. And that is uncomfortable and terrifying, especially when we love someone so much.

I hold my son, and I try to live without fear. I try to surrender. I try to accept that love is risky, because people can lose what they love. God lost what he loved – his son, Jesus, the answer to our hearts’ deepest cries for love and value. Jesus came to this earth and took all the sin and evil upon himself. He died a horrible death, knowing full well he had the power to stop it. But he didn’t. Because he loves you. And me. And all those precious babies. And even the horrible man who ended their lives…

Those are my words. I don’t own them. They belong to all of us. And they don’t make the pain go away.

What are the words we speak? What power do they have over us? Over our children? Over the stranger beside us in line? And do we live our words out in our actions?

I want to leave you with that last and most powerful word, LOVE.

Love your kids. Love other people’s kids. Love one another. Love is a choice that allows us to move freely and powerfully. Love makes us matter to others. And we can always choose to give love, so we can always matter. We are never anonymous when we love. Loves makes the biggest difference, one person, one child, one life at a time. And it is, and will remain, the greatest agent of change…and the best word…in the world.