Longest post I’ve ever written, but here is is, nonetheless. #sorry
I think I can speak for a lot of Americans when I say this election has me just flat out mad.
I’ll be really honest with you and tell you that I hate that I am angry.
In fact, it wasn’t until a few hours ago that I was even honest enough with myself to admit that I am mad. It’s not because I am ashamed to show weakness or a flaw in my character. I have struggled to admit I am angry because anger is a place I have hardly ever lived in. It’s not my native land. And to be angry, at least to me, means that I have lost control of something external and it’s under my skin. Not my favorite feeling. Not my favorite emotion.
I’m angry that my newsfeed, no matter how much I weed through it, is filled with articles filled with bashing, misconstruing, and tactless banter.
I’m angry that I have no answers for my teenager when she asks who her daddy and I are voting for, because for the first time in my adult life, I literally don’t know how to answer the question.
I’m angry that in order to vote for what I believe in so many certain areas, I have to vote against so many other things my conscience hates.
I’m angry that our real options have been taken away, slowly. We fell for it. And we somehow didn’t see it coming.
I’m angry that our temperamental society has stooped to a new moral low by playing the “Well, HE did it, so…” game.
I’m angry that we are dealing with six of one, half dozen of the other… and everyone and his brother wants to dictate to my own decision making abilities exactly which six is the worst.
I’m so angry that we have raised a group of people who weeded through 324,000,000 Americans to find these two candidates, but then cry, complain, fight, and kick our feet in tantrum because we got our way.
I’m angry that we’d rather sit on our comfy couches and tear down our Republican neighbor with a smartphone than lift a finger to ask them, face to face, the questions that really count. I’m angry that we’ve snowed ourselves into believing that by shredding our Democratic co-workers around the water cooler, we are making a difference in the big scheme of our country.
I’m angry that less than a week later, the 900 dead in Haiti have been removed from our headlines and election drama is all we consume, left to right.
I’m angry that it’s gotten so ridiculous, our candidates don’t shake hands.
I’m angry that we’d rather see our candidate win than America win.
I’m angry that the parties of my childhood are gone and I have little faith that either one has my children’s futures at heart, but are narcissistically seeking a win.
I’m angry that our “enemies” are no longer terrorists, but our opposing political party.
I’m angry that we can’t disagree. And I’m BEYOND angry that if I disagree with your platform, you assume I don’t love America as much as you do.
I’m angry that we are so dadgum condescending to each other. I hate the venom in our words. I hate how deep the hole is we are drinking from. Our water has been poisoned. And yet, we keep drinking it by the gallons.
Every time I feel guilty for feeling angry, I remember that Jesus was angry too. He once ransacked the temple, where the people He loved were being taken advantage of and being made to believe the lie that they had to buy their forgiveness. Jesus was livid. He stood on tables and shouted and knocked over crap that didn’t matter with whips and muscle. He wasn’t the least bit apologetic in His anger.
And today, neither am I.
And though I wouldn’t be so prideful to compare my rage to the Son of God’s, I am a mother.
And just like how His rage stemmed from a heart that was hurting for the people He loved, mine is angry for my children.
Consider this my kicking over tables.
Remember the saying, “If you can’t beat them, join them”?
I’m not interested in doing either one of those things.
I’m interested in standing on my moral ground without casting stones at yours.
I’m interested in putting my hand over my heart with pride when I see my flag waving.
I’m interested in loving my neighbor. Not “tolerance,” “acceptance,” or “being amicable.” Love.
I’m interested in looking like Jesus. Not like a Democrat or a Republican or Libertarian.
I’m interested in picking up the pieces of this shattered glass and seeing what the mosaic will look like on the other side of this chapter.
I’m interested in what my heart says, not what Shep, Anderson, Rush, or Brokaw says.
I’m interested in the Star Spangled Banner, the Constitution, and my two kids having pride in their chest when they say they’re Americans.
I’m interested in puppies. Not donkeys or elephants.
I’m angry it has taken me so long to step out of the anthill we’ve kicked over.
If we ever want to sit on our front porches and wave at our neighbors again, we have to start somewhere.
I’m angry enough to start waving hard.