I am sitting on the grass.
I feel the wind’s cool air brush across my face.
I am trying to relax. Trying to find calm. Trying to find a moment of respite from the war that rages around us.
It has been so long since I have found peace.
My phone is on silent.
My social media accounts disconnected.
My news feeds are gone.
My TV is turned off.
My radio is on mute.
And in this silence, I breathe.
Simply breathe.
In. Out.
Listening to the sounds of my breath.
But just as I fall into a state of calm, the sounds of the alarm violently shake the ground beneath my feet.
Soldiers are running past, their leader is yelling:
“Get up soldier! More bodies are needed at the front! We need to fight! We need to move! A new Supreme Court nomination battle is upon us! It’s going to be the fight of our lives! Move! Move! Move!”
I look down at my boots — my sword — my helmet.
I can’t do it.
I simply can’t do it.
I can’t fight. I can’t attack. I can’t drum up the energy to hate once more.
I have run out of hate.
I have grown so tired of hating.
I have grown so tired of fighting this war.
Fighting my neighbors. Fighting my friends.
I’m tired of yelling at one another. I’m tired of trying to convince you that my way is the only way. That my way is the right way — the morally superior way.
I’m just tired of fighting.
Even as I write those words I can hear the reprimands from the political warriors saying you don’t care — you’re privileged — how dare you — trying to shame me back on to the battlefield.
I’ll admit, those words hurt. Those words strike like spears in my back as they try to pull me back into the war with their shame.
But there are too many bodies.
Too many lost friendships.
Too much hate.
This war — this battle plan — isn’t working.
The bodies are piling up in the trenches.
Some who have lost their lives, but countless more who have lost their will to live — their purpose — their capacity for love.
So many people have been lost in this war. So many lives.
When did we find joy in tearing someone down?
When did we find meaning in violence?
When did we find hope in division?
Because when I look around the battlefield, I don’t see joy. I don’t see meaning. I don’t see hope.
All I see is pain.
And as the bullets fly in both directions, I wonder:
“How did I get here?
Why am I doing this?
This is not who I am. I don’t hate you. I’m not at war with you.
My objective in life is not to win some political war or to participate and perpetuate some all-consuming cultural war.
My objective — my purpose — is to be good father. To be a good husband. To be a good friend. To be a man of faith.
Those are my battles. To strive each day to be a better person.
My call to arms is not against you; it’s against myself.
The battle of my life is not to attack you; it’s to violently assault every ounce of hate, selfishness and anger within me, and replace it with love.
The struggle for my soul is to overcome my desire for wealth, ambition, and fame, and replace it with humility.
My war is not against you.
My war is to love you. To serve you. To help you.
To extend a hand even when I’m tired, even when we disagree, even when our views on politics and society could not be further apart, my one overriding directive is, to love.
To love you as myself.
And I cannot love you if I’m too busy hating you.”
