I Will Love

Sunday morning Angela and I headed off to Hollywood United Methodist Church, like we do most Sundays. We settled into chairs under an umbrella in the courtyard and chatted with friends for a while before worship began, then we found our way into the sanctuary and settled in. There was the familiar bulletin, the prayer requests, the usual hymns, and faces of so many friends. Hugs and handshakes. Laughter and love. It was a typical Sunday morning and what drives us to get up, get going and drive a half hour into the city on the only day we can sleep in during the week.

But what happened next was anything but typical. And it's something I just can't shake, four days later.

See, it's election season. (In case you hadn't noticed.) And I'm well past the point of over saturation. I'm emotionally and intellectually spent. I'm exhausted. And yet I get up every morning and I scour the newspapers (print and online). I read FaceBook and Twitter. I check the polls. And then I stew. I wonder what's to be done. What's to change. I fret and I ponder until it hurts. And then I retreat. I dive back into work. I make a casserole. I try to knit a new dishrag pattern (I only know how to knit dishrags). I watch a bad sitcom. I watch ten good sitcoms. I try to stay off Twitter and am unsuccessful. I avoid watching the debates but I read every word about them online. I volunteer and phone bank and have no idea if I'm helping the cause or just filling time. I do other things. I help Angela learn about Common Core. I focus on raising money to fight autoimmune diseases. I make muffins for the neighborhood. I try to stay off Twitter and am unsuccessful. I vow to try again tomorrow. I call my parents. I text friends about the election. I look at the very big, very overwhelming book I checked out from the library. I take A People's History of the United States by Howard Zinn off the shelf. I listen to Hamilton for the nine hundredth time. I read Twitter like it's my civic duty. I watch Ava DuVernay's 13th because that actually is my civic duty as a person living in this country. I ask one hundred people if they prefer chicken or tuna or vienna sausages or sardines for lunch. I apologize because we still don't have any hummus to hand out. I dance in my room. I tell the grey cat in the yard how pretty she is. I worry that it will never be alright. That it will never be the same. That it will always be the same.

Back to Sunday. I sat there in our pew right in the middle of my church, between my sister and a good friend, and I was transformed. For fifteen minutes I wasn't over saturated. I wasn't exhausted. I wasn't emotionally drained.

I was encouraged.

I was motivated.

I was reminded...of what it is to be a person alive in this world...of what it is to be a woman...of what it is to be a Christian...of what it is to be faithful.

All of this came from Cory Booker, the United States senator from New Jersey, only the fourth ever African American elected to the Senate. And he wasn't just there to show his support for Kamala Harris, who is running for the Senate. But he was there to preach. And preach he did.

His message shared a thesis that is so missing from our world that I had begun to think it was gone forever: that there is a conspiracy of love and it is through this conspiracy that we can change the world.

Now don't get me wrong, there are plenty of good things in the world, in this country, in my life. I know that. I feel that. I see that. But the bad things often times get together and cloud our field of vision. There's too much to sift through to get to the good stuff. So we don't see it. We don't feel it. We don't know it. Until we're reminded of it.

He preached that we cannot accept tolerance. That simply stomaching the differences in one another is unacceptable. That we have to instead love. Be a nation of love. Be a people of love. Be agents of love. That our love is needed. That our power is love.

And this is hard. For me and I suspect for others. Every Tuesday when I work at HUMC's Homeless Lunch I experience this first hand. Not everyone who comes through our gates wants to be loved. Many are angry and hurt and exhausted and hungry and sick. Some lash out. Some see me as the problem. Some spew hatred with their words and their attitudes and their actions.

And you know what?

I don't blame them.

Life is hard. I'm often hurt and exhausted and hungry and sick. Not in the same way but come on. We all know exactly how hard life is for every single person on this planet. We have to stay alive. We have to try. And it's never easy. Going above and beyond is simply too much for some people. I get that.

And when Senator Booker said that we have an unusual commitment to each other in this world, to join in a conspiracy of love, I wondered what that actually looked like. That the Founding Fathers saw to remind us that we must mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor in the Declaration of Independence must mean something pretty important. We are in this together. We are not alone. And it wasn't just referring to the people who make the decisions or have all the money or sit in the seats of power. It means all of us. Every last one of us.

The guy who walked through our gates Tuesday with blood caking half his face, begging me to give him everything I had because he had nothing, and not being kind to me? He's in this with me. I'm in this with him.

The woman who has told me every week for four years that she's getting her housing soon, and believes it, and hugs me and debates over applesauce, banana or raisins like they are choices on the wine list at the Four Seasons? She's in this with me. I'm in this with her.

The family member who just doesn't get what I'm so riled up about and doesn't understand why I care so much about this election? She's in this with me. I'm in this with her.

The lifelong friend who is this close to disowning me if I post one more pro-Hillary Facebook message? Or one more #awomanwrotethat tweet? He's in this with me. I'm in this with him.

Towards the end of his sermon, because yes, he PREACHED, Senator Booker told us to stand up. He said people will talk about us, people will condemn us, we're gonna be tired, but we still have to stand up. People stood up for us, he said, people fought for us, bled for us, cried for us, scrubbed toilets for us. He quoted King by saying that change is carried in on the backs of lovers. There's work to be done. STAND UP.

At this point on Sunday morning I was in tears. I was clapping, nodding my head in agreement, mesmerized by what I was hearing. "There's work to do, stand up." Don't be someone who sits down. Grab someone to stand up with you. Don't accept tolerance. Be an agent of love. He told us that this is not an election of politics but of purpose.

Purpose. What's my purpose? What's your purpose? What's our purpose?

"To stand up. To speak up. To love," commanded Senator Booker. "How we love in this world will always speak our truth."

I want my truth to be heard. That is why I write. That is why I volunteer. That is why I smile. That is why I hug. That is why I study. That is why I read. That is why I bake. That is why I write letters. That is why I make phone calls. That is why I spend hours working at a middle school that does not pay me. That is why I make time to listen. That is why I try to love. That is why I vote. That is why I fight. That is why I raise my voice.

That's all I am trying to do. In the best way I know. In the only way I know.

I want to be a part of Senator Booker's conspiracy. I want to be a part in the world's conspiracy. Because we are all in it together. In this conspiracy of love.

I will stand up.

I will speak up.

I WILL LOVE.