I understand that it is necessary to keep evil at bay, but I still hate it. I hate violence of any kind (except against snakes and sticker weeds). I even hate it in the Bible, though I know God had good reasons.
But as a mother, when I hear about helicopters being shot down, tanks exploding, and “casualties,” all I can think is “that was somebody’s little boy.” I see photos of soldiers, enemy soldiers, and I see peach fuzz, adolescent awkwardness, and wilted dandelion bouquets. How many of those Russian troops really wanted to be there? How many Ukrainian sons will leave their homes today and never come back for reasons they don’t quite understand?
A mother will sob herself to sleep tonight because that was the body of her baby featured on the six o’clock news. Those hands that held a grenade, she’d taught to hold a pencil. On those feet that ran toward the enemy, she’d counted toes and thanked God he was healthy. With every report, I think, “What if that was Sam? Micah? How could I take it?” In a mother’s heart, little boys never grow up.
I can’t be a conscientious objector because some things are worth dying for—and killing for. I’m deeply grateful for those little boys through history who were willing to make that sacrifice. And their mothers. So it’s for them I pray as one nation clashes against another, shattering bodies and hearts for the sake of ideals. I know it’s unavoidable, but I still hate it.
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