Fix it, God: The weight of motherhood in a broken world – The Presbyterian Outlook

I don’t know how we do it anymore. 

I don’t know how we send our kids to school with a prayer caught in the back of our throats, calling on a higher power for them to make it home safely. I don’t know how we can manage another day of scraping our knees on the altar of hope, willing that this time is the last time. I don’t know how many times I’ve cried over children who aren’t mine and asked God to comfort their grieving families. I don’t know how we do it anymore. 

Come, Lord Jesus. 

I write this as I’m currently nap-trapped by my 7-week-old baby boy. He won’t start school for another five years, but I am already thinking about the active shooter drills he will participate in. How he will learn to sit quietly in the corner or closet of his classroom while his teacher does their best to keep him and everyone else safe and alive. How he will learn to still his body and quiet his noises so he doesn’t attract attention to his hiding place. As his mama, I have no idea what that’s like. I only ever had to practice a fire drill. 

I live in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, and our schools have been back in session for 18 days. Eighteen days of making new friends and playing on playgrounds. Eighteen days of eating lunch with their buddies and learning new things. Is 18 days even enough time to learn how to hide in your classroom? 

Fix it, God. 

I cannot imagine the horror of losing your child to gun violence. I cannot imagine the worry that our children feel at school, a place where the only thing they should be worried about is if it’s pizza day in the cafeteria or if it’s going to rain during recess. 

I cannot comprehend how we, as a nation, can continue to let things like this happen. I don’t know how we, as Christians, can offer our prayers without actively fighting to change the system that keeps us praying for the safety of our children. The only prayer I know to offer at this point is a repetition of “Come, Lord Jesus.” I’m tired of praying for families who have lost their loved ones in tragedies that could have been avoided. I’m tired of praying for lawmakers to make the right decisions. I’m tired of praying over and over again that this time will be the last time. 

Surely, this has to be the last time. 

Come, Lord Jesus. Fix it, God. 

I sit here with my son nuzzled into my chest hoping that he never has to experience gun violence. Hoping that somehow we can get it together in the next five years, before he starts kindergarten, and come to an agreement that irresponsible leadership is allowing guns to kill our children at an alarming rate. My thoughts and prayers are centered around policy and change; we have to do better for our children. It’s wild to live in a country where we continually pray that our children remain safe in schools, movie theaters, concerts, churches, grocery stores. Everywhere. Gun violence has permeated every place we’ve been and every place we plan to go. 

Come, Lord Jesus.

It’s time to confess that we as a nation seem to love our guns more than we love our children. We have failed continuously to protect the most vulnerable among us. We have continuously idolized weapons and let death permeate the sanctity of our schools. Over and over again we hear the repetition of voices calling for thoughts and prayers when they should be calling for policy and change, for reform to keep us safe. It is most unholy how those in charge of such reform continue to turn away. 

How long, O God, must we live in a place where our children’s lives are not sacred? How long, O God, must we send our children to school with bated breath, stale prayers caught in the back of our throats? No more, O God. Grant us the holy courage to make a difference, to loudly call for change, and to turn our weapons into plowshares. 

Schools are sacred places where our children learn and make new friends. Where they should be able to go without worrying if they’re going to make it home. Until that’s guaranteed, I’ll continue to pray for their safety. I’ll continue to ask God to protect them. I’ll continue to mourn for those we couldn’t save. And when I look at my sleeping baby, I will do my best to hold the hope and fear together.

Come, Lord Jesus. Fix it, God.