I’d been watching the Capitol insurrection unfold for about ten minutes when he ran into the kitchen. His stomach hurts. I give him the most empathetic look I can muster while keeping my hand on the mousepad. Children, it seems, are always complaining about mysterious ailments, but people breaking the windows of the nation’s most precious building is not an everyday occurrence. I am determined to watch history as it happens.
Some people think I’m a liberal. Whether this is true is not important, although, it’s not true. In a divided country, living in the middle is misunderstood and often unacceptable. What does one do with a woman who is opposed to abortion and capital punishment? For gun control and religious freedoms? For proudly flying the American flag and for bending a knee? For vaccines but against most mandates? For Jesus but not Bible verses on protest signs.
There is a lot of worship music playing at the Capitol today and a lot of violence. Though I am a dichotomy, I can’t wrap my head this one.
My son returns fifteen minutes later, announcing he’s done playing outside. My forehead is in my hands. I do not look up. By this time my husband is home for lunch. I can hear the crackly cheering and yelling on his phone as it moves between our kitchen and upstairs, competing with my computer speakers. Our kids have so many questions and I find myself crying, “This is a bad day for America! You don’t have to worry, but I am very, very sad.”
Soon, my son begins to cry too. He is curled into a ball on the couch, moaning, “It hurts so bad.” I’ve ignored the signs long enough, and my digital trance breaks.
Hours pass between the bathroom and the couch. My phone vibrates and dings—the chatter on multiple text streams vies for my attention but an even greater crisis grows in my arms. Our son, with his fragile and complicated medical history, is writhing in pain. Something is terribly wrong.
We show up at the emergency room armed with information. We’ve already made calls to a physician friend who thinks it’s bowel obstruction, a complication from scar tissue in his abdomen. After the ER doctor listens to my theory, he raises his eyebrows. “That’s a big conclusion to jump to,” he says. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
Sometimes, what appears obvious to some is not for others. We hold varying degrees of information, and vastly different perspectives that play into our core beliefs.
Hours later, after the morphine and the CT scan, I work with a team of nurses to hold my son down while they shove a tube up his nose and down his throat. The intestines are twisted. Obstructed. We’re doing the only thing that can be done to possibly avoid surgery. The doctor is embarrassed he was wrong, and I am simply relieved to be right. “It’s not cancer,” I whisper. Anything is better than a return of the enemy, and so I tell myself all will be well.
But that night, as I flip and turn on the hospital couch, I see a terrible vision. There is a Grim Reaper outside the door to our room. The image is fleeting but terrifying. I sit up straight in my sleeping bag and look at the monitors. Nothing beeps abnormally. My son’s chest rises and falls peacefully. I have no indication his life is at risk so what does the vision mean? Do I need to brace myself for tragedy?
The next morning the Capitol steps are still littered in broken glass, trash, and discarded protest signs as the nation wakes up with more questions than answers. But I am more unsettled by the night’s lurking visitor.
I decide to ask God where He was, and he gives me a picture. On our side of the hospital door, Jesus is pressing firmly. The Grim Reaper, visible through the window, is not moving but Jesus keeps both hands against the door anyway. He is ready and resolved on my son’s behalf. There’s no aggression in his face; He is the image of peaceful resistance.
Our son’s intestines heal and we got home after a few days. The Capitol gets cleaned up and fancy for an inauguration some thought wouldn’t happen. That winter, hospitals fill and then empty; vaccines are scarce and then overly available. In it all, we continue to argue about who is in charge, and who should be in charge, and if doctors are right or wrong. “Common sense!” “Science!”
For almost two years, fear has been our collective, persistent enemy. Each side believes the other is worried about something they don’t need to be worried about. Each advocate for the political candidates they think will use their power to make the worries disappear. We’re a nation believing the Grim Reaper is right outside every single one of our front doors.
And maybe he is. When I think of how the devil works, his greatest weapons are lies. He sows seeds of danger—made up and real—and he lets us believe that hope lies in our American freedoms. He whispers that we must arm ourselves with weapons and protest signs, to take back what is rightfully ours.
I never thought to ask Jesus where He was at the Capitol that day. I’d imagine many people would like to believe He stood as a protestor, breaking down doors to stop a steal, while others picture him calmly resisting in the same manner he displayed in our hospital room.
While I can’t know for certain, I don’t think Jesus was fighting at all. When I picture Jesus on January 6, I imagine him right in the center of the crowds. He is not prideful, but he stands confident. There is no yelling for a particular side, and no concern on his face. His arms are outstretched, and he says, like he does so many times throughout Scripture, “Come to me.”
Do not be afraid, little flock, for your Father is pleased to give you the kingdom. Luke 12:32
Photo by Kyle Mills on Unsplash