My husband and I have this thing we do. When life is just so sweet we have a hard time accepting it, we will turn to each other and ask, “Who are we?” Who are we to still be in love after three decades? Who are we to have a daughter with sparkly eyes that still wants us around? Who are we to have enough sense to notice a sunset? This practice has served us well. It keeps us grounded in just how good life is. Despite all of the clanging and trauma that says otherwise. But, our little practice has met its’ match.

It’s our new grandson. He’s just too much good to absorb. He has a fat little tummy that sticks out of every shirt he wears. He has a pensive little face that regards you so very seriously that you find yourself waiting for his advice. Minutes will go by and you realize you’re still gazing into that solemn stare hoping he’s going to share some wisdom. Then, you notice the tummy again and you’re laughing. And smiling. And letting go a little. Believing in the goodness of the world. Believing that God must love us all to put this little man here. Believing that you can deserve this little human. His love and laughs and kisses. Believing that God chose you to be this child’s grandparent.

Then you remember who you are and you realize that’s just crazy talk. You turn to each other and ask, “Who are we?” Only this time it’s said with reverence and a little bit of fear.

Seriously, who are we? To shape this child’s life. To be someone he’s glad to see come through the door. To affect the way he treats other people? To play a small part in the way he experiences Jesus? To teach him anything?

We are not so great. We have road rage. We sometimes binge watch an entire series in a week. Sometimes, if I’m tired, I don’t put things back where they go in a store. We are not the cream of the crop and yet God has blessed us with this abundance. This goofy, chubby, wonderful little boy and it just feels like too much. Too much for us. He is extra.

Extra in an already good life. An extra scoop of ice cream the young teenager doesn’t charge you for. A parking place in the shade on a Houston summer day. A gas light blinking that makes it to the service station.

Another grandson to add to the one we are already enraptured with. The big one watching over the little one and holding him sprawling on his lap with a look of duty on his face that melts your heart. Sometimes we are there to hear him say hello to his little brother after school in exactly the same way they will when they are in their thirties and coming home to mom and dad for Christmas. It’s a voice full of love and connection and family. It doesn’t matter that our littlest guy says nothing back. His brother knows he hears him. They’ve got a vibe going that the rest of us aren’t necessary to. Already. After only two months. Who are we?

I don’t know. But I’m there for it. All of it. I will take my turn every time it’s offered. I’ll change diapers and buy toys and go for walks. I’ll show up for holidays and school events and soccer games. I’ll do it all. And, someday, if the Lord is willing, I’ll have both those little boys at my house. We will eat popcorn and watch a cartoon and stay up too late. And, finally, when my husband and I are both exhausted and a little cranky and wondering why we volunteered for this they will fall asleep. Probably with their heads right next to each other whispering a secret and the little one’s tummy will still be hanging out and my husband and I will look at each other and one of us will whisper, “Who are we?”

And, as it so often is, that phrase will be a prayer of thanksgiving and wonder from two people well aware they don’t deserve any of it.

I watched a young girl the other day with shiny eyes and a sweet smile deliver a report on a court ruling about abortion. As I watched her, while spooning Captain Crunch into my mouth, I felt tears cloud my eyes. Before I knew it, they had escaped and mixed in with my breakfast cereal. The weird thing is, I would have been hard put to tell anyone why I was crying. No, that’s not right. The truth is I would have been hard put to tell someone each individual reason I was crying. I knew some of them. But others were deeper.

When did we become a society that talked about things like abortion with an exuberant voice and a twinkle in our eyes? Is it really a joyful subject? Really? I can’t imagine that it is for any of the real people experiencing it. I’ve sat on a scratchy couch in a dusk filled afternoon while my dear friend sobbed into a pillow. She was not joyful. In fact, for many many years after that my sweet friend was not joyful. It’s ok to say that–right? I mean these things the folks on TV espouse don’t always turn out great for us regular people. Maybe because we have to live the Tuesdays after the news break. The Tuesdays, and the one year anniversaries and the quiet moments in a car wash. Those are the times that big decisions like an abortion come back to say hello. I feel like somebody should say that.

Back to my tears. My day felt dark after that. You eat a salty bowl of cereal and your day turns a certain way. Not much you can do to change it. The next thing that happened was a heart breaking phone call with someone I love. She’s in the hospital. She’s in the hospital because she had an emergency surgery. It was a fluke thing that no one saw coming and when it did it came for her. So, now she’s laying there in the hospital and she doesn’t have all the tools she needs to fight as hard as I need her to. I don’t want to lose her. I don’t want her to suffer. I need her to come back from this, but her body is more than a little tired. She’s been carrying around way too much extra weight for years. It has taken a toll on her. Not her spirit but her body. Inside she’s strong. Her body just struggles to manifest that. She’s asked a lot of favors from it over the years and it has granted them. And now, she’s asking again. I hope. I hope. Please let her body grant this favor too. It’s a big one.

And, I have to admit, I wonder if somewhere there’s an interview playing on TV with another bright faced youngster talking about body positivity and what a great thing it is. How we should all love ourselves not matter what size we are. If we were having a cup of coffee and a danish somewhere I would agree with that youngster, but then I would ask why there was nothing in that report about how your knees ache first thing in the morning when you’re carrying around extra weight? I would ask for a follow up report that talks about the folks I love who worry whether they will be able to buckle their airplane seatbelt. Or how it feels to try to shrink yourself into a chair so you don’t disturb the person next to you. Being overweight, even if you’re positive you love yourself, is not a great way to live your life. High blood pressure and heart attacks are not fun things. Surely we can say that to folks?

That day ended with me typing out a response to a post on my neighborhood chat board. You’ve had those moments. Somebody says something and you immediately want to respond. To zing. To exhibit your superior intelligence. To set them straight. This post was about homeless people. Should you give them money or shouldn’t you? Which is more loving? I was going to respond with what I felt was irrefutable evidence that would settle the question once and for all.

Yes, I am sometimes just that dumb.

Those conversations never end with a lightbulb on over someones head. Instead, they make us believe we have absolutely nothing in common with the folks on the other side of those little alphabet letters. Believe that they might even be the enemy. Believe it even though we wave at each other at the pool, we buy their kids’ chocolate bars and they buy our kids’ wrapping paper at Christmas. Believe it even though they’ve been known to pick up our Amazon package when we were out of town. Believe it even though we know it’s not true.

We should tell each other that. Right?

Something like this, “Hey, that zinger you’re about to shoot off is going to Harvey. You remember him? He’s married to Kathy. They have two kids and a big yellow dog. He had knee surgery last year and always volunteers for Trunk or Treat at Halloween. Do you really want to label him with that colorful expletive? It might make things awkward at the pool?” And when we answer that we don’t know this particular Harvey, that he isn’t our Harvey maybe we should reply, “Well he’s someone’s Harvey you idiot.”

That’s ok to say right?

I guess that’s what I am asking with this post. Is it still ok to tell people the truth? The truth that something is going to hurt them in ways they can’t imagine. Or hurt someone else? Or hurt everybody? That despite what the young reporter with the shiny bob says truth is truth.

Because America, some decisions can’t be undone. Some things shouldn’t be made pretty or palatable. None of us are as smart as we think we are. We should always have Harvey’s back–he’s one of us. And, most importantly, I think, what our mothers and Jesus told us is invaluable. When we are brave enough to speak it– the truth will set us free. All of us.