Grieving.

My son, Isaac, was three years old when his little sister, Lucy, entered the picture. I felt that pulsing question probably most mothers have experienced, "How on earth am I going to love another child like I love the one I have??"

And then the miracle comes. Your heart simply doubles and a profoundly new kind of love is born--a love not just for each child as their own human, but for the existence of the new family just created. Less than two years later, the magic happened again. Here was Emma, and my soul expanded once more.

We humans have an infinite capacity to love.

Therefore, we must also have a profound capacity to grieve.

After the assassination of Charlie Kirk, a friend of mine wrote in social media that she cared more about the students shot in Denver than the death of a political operative. Plenty of well meaning people pounced on her lack of tact and empathy. I sat with it.

I wonder why we feel we have to limit our grief to those we think worthy of it?

Loss merits grief, and we have lost so much.

Do I wish that the American flag flew half staff every time there are innocent children shot while in school? Yes.

Do I think it is a horrific act of violence to shoot someone because their idealogies are different than your own? Yes.

Does one grief trump another? I don't think so.

I grieve for so many things and my heart can hold space for them all.

I think that when Charlie Kirk and other Christian conservatives meet Jesus Christ He might say to them, "You know those people you shunned and mocked? I love them so much. It hurt me when you hurt them. They were doing their best."

I think that when a left wing liberal meets Jesus Christ He might say to them, "You know those conservatives you shunned and mocked? I love them so much. It hurt me when you hurt them. They were doing their best."

Jesus cleansed the Temple and knocked over tables. He called the hypocrites whited sepulchres. He spoke with clarity and condemnation when needed. I think sometimes people think this behavior might be a free pass to label, disdain, and divide as long as are on the "right" side. But, here's the thing:

We aren't Jesus.

While much has been done in His name that is painful, He never wanted to hurt, only help. He was there for the glory of God and the goodness of man. He didn't tell his disciples, "Go out, tear people down, call them names, tell them how wrong they are." He told them: "Feed my sheep."

Feed my sheep.

Don't label them, mock them, judge them, or diminish them. Feed them, love them, lift them, and when they are broken, mourn for them.

I am grieving so many things.

I grieve for a broken wife trying to make sense of a world without her husband and hold her children together as they try to understand what happened.

I grieve for families that should be arguing with their teenagers about curfews or tucking their children into bed instead of visiting their graves or worrying about them every time they get on the school bus.

And, I grieve for America. I grieve for a country that seems unwilling to hold space for all kinds of grief, all kinds of faith, all kinds of love. I grieve for a country built on the principle of agreeable disagreement and respectful discourse but now revels in names, labels, and discord. I can feel grief and hope and love all at the same time. We are walking miracles and our capacity for compassion runs deep. I hold on to the hope that we can come together and see the enemy for what it is: Violence. Violence is the enemy and if we do not unite against it, nothing will change. We will tear our nation apart, gnashing our teeth against each other in a desperate need to be unchangeable.

But, I believe we can change. And I plan to keep trying.