It's a very cold, grey day in Minnesota. We are in-between a snowstorm and a plunge back into freezing temps. As I was easing into the day with my social media scroll, I happened upon a tik tok of a loon family. The lake and the loons are my truest happy place. It's the place I feel the closest to my creator, myself, and the reassurance that is nature. The call of the loons have been my lullaby and wake up call for so many mornings and right now, in the heart of winter, I long to be back on the water, in my kayak, communing with the loons.
I have come to know their calls. The gentle trill that families use to communicate, the high above call that echos on the water from loons flying across the sky, and the frantic warning call signaling that danger is near. When I am out on the water and I hear the distress call of a loon, I get angry and protective and vigilant. Eagle- don't prey on this precious baby loon, don't steal this joy, don't cause such a brazen disturbance on such a lovely day. I may have been known to yell at the sky- shooing the eagle away, doing my part to protect the baby loon.
I'm feeling a bit like a protective mama loon right now. Calling out a warning that danger is all around. Hoping something will distract the eagle and he will move on from my baby loon. Calling out for trans family members, for immigrant daughters, for farmers, for federal workers, for special education, for family members whose lives literally depend on SSRI's, for women, for creation. One could get horse from the danger call right now- it seems to never let up..
It almost feels a bit like a fever dream, when everything is out of proportion and the eagle who is supposed to symbolize freedom is suddenly 10 x bigger and all talons and sharp beak. I know I often feel like I am yelling at the sky. I am tired. Tired of the constant barrage of danger. And yet- I can't afford to silence my voice and my rest must be with the sole purpose of refueling for the resistance.
I spent about 2 hours on Monday evening on a webinar with other UMC leaders learning our rights as churches and US citizens when it comes to the ICE raids. Many on the call expressed helplessness. The leaders from the Immigration Law and Justice Network encouraged us to use our voices, to sound the alarm, to make a plan, to be prepared, to show up, and to be (or find) the ones who can safely step into a place of protection as warrants are examined and the network is warned. They also spoke of how we can create safe spaces for lament, for deep listening, for holding of grief, for yelling at the sky.
In the loon tik tok this morning, once the danger of the eagle had passed, the mama loon returned to gliding on the water, feeding her baby, teaching it to swim. It feels like our danger won't pass. It's only been a few weeks and so much destruction has already happened. The eagle continues to circle relentlessly and we call out in warning. But our life also goes on in the midst of it all. We feed our families, we do our jobs, we care for our neighbors, we listen and learn and resist- but we don't stop swimming.
I am tired. I am scared. My voice is scratchy from calling out danger. I lament. AND I am grounded in my faith. Our faith story is full of these moments throughout history. God has been here before. God goes before us. God goes with us. I am finding Psalm 121 keeping me swimming these days- may you find comfort in these words;
I lift up my eyes to the hills— from where will my help come?
My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth.
He will not let your foot be moved; he who keeps you will not slumber.
He who keeps Israel will neither slumber nor sleep.
The Lord is your keeper; the Lord is your shade at your right hand.
The sun shall not strike you by day nor the moon by night.
The Lord will keep you from all evil; he will keep your life.
The Lord will keep your going out and your coming in from this time on and forevermore.
(Psalm 121, NRSV).
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