Seattle is a so-called sanctuary city, one that will not allow it's police to inquire about people's legal status in an effort make them feel comfortable talking to the police without fear of deportation President Trump has recently promised to cut federal funding to sanctuary cities like Seattle.
How should we think about issues like this? And we need to think about them. I find it all too easy to say, "I'm a citizen, so it's not my problem," and to imagine that the issues that don't directly affect me are not worth my time. Or to prioritize my own safety and security over the safety of others.
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Right now, I’m living by a lakeside in rural Georgia while E is training at his new job, in what feels (to me) incredibly remote, along a highway, where I cannot walk to a grocery store or coffee shop, surrounded by desolate trees shorn of leaves. It is the kind of place where I would set a murder mystery; the body, covered with dead leaves, discovered off the earth-packed trail to the water, or in one of the winterized boats at the marina. The quiet is indescribable. Even when I can hear my neighbors talking through the walls, there is something so incredibly still about this place; a heavy, lingering silence. It is temporary. A resting place or halting ground between stations. In three months, we will be across the country, in a city, with our own stuff; the noise of traffic and late-night drunks, the stress of apartment hunting, the fun of finding new places where we can become locals. So how do I settle in here, with a pair of suitcases and a dog into an apartment full of someone else's things; trying to get to know neighbors I will not likely see again. It is a strange feeling. It always takes me time to get to know people. What am I supposed to do with a weird interlude to my life? How can I make use of time that feels like wasted time? And yet, the purpose God has for me in being here is bigger than what I would plan for myself. What I see as wasted time, he has ordained as an opportunity to meet and minister to my neighbors; to rest from the frenetic pace of packing and preparing our house to sell; to focus undistracted on work and writing; to be involved in and ministered to by a thriving church; to breathe. |