“This above all: to thine own self be true”- Polonius to his son Laertes in Hamlet, Act 1, scene 3.
On the first day of a new year and a new decade, I’m astonished to find myself writing on a regular basis. In a corner of our tiny living room, my keyboard and I snuggle up for some quality togetherness by the flicker of firelight. Classical music floats gently down 
around us. I am flabbergasted. This feels a lot like my dream.
But in my dream, I get paid to write. I no longer have to slave over an adding machine. As a woman of a certain age, I would have had time and experience enough to make sense of my life and peace with the past. People would be interested in reading about it. I could meet with other writers over coffee, extolling the virtues of this lofty life of literature. Highly unlikely, I know. But this new reality is by far the closest I’ve ever come, and ironically, it’s not a story about me at all.
One of the reasons I never got around to writing on a regular basis (other than the critical need to make a living) is that, on the cusp of turning 64, making sense of my life and making peace with the past is just not that interesting. Not even to me. Now that I’m approaching that “vintage” season of my life, I completely understand why older people write their memoirs. We do want to make sense of it all. We want the people we love to understand us, and to remember us. We want to think we’ve made a dent in this world, knowing that all too soon we will be dust that blows away in the wind. If there had ever been anything exceptional about us, we want someone to know.
There has never been anything remarkable about me. But I met an extraordinary Someone, who blew into my life at the age of thirty in a whirlwind of thunder, lightning, healing, and mercy. The brokenness of abuse and addiction was the story I had to tell before, and sorry to say, those stories are a dime a dozen. This world is a tough place (as Jesus said in John 16:33). While they can be sad or sensational, tragic or terminal, there’s just nothing extraordinary about brokenness. Now healing- real healing of the heart, and the soul, and the human spirit-
Now there’s a story.
Anyone who knows me knows that I talk about Jesus all the time. Falling in love with Him is the best thing that ever happened to me. It would be like the local supermarket just started handing out hundred dollar bills. Wouldn’t you tell all your friends to get their cabooses down there and collect theirs? Of course you would! My friend Ellie* laughs when I say this, because she can’t imagine knowing Jesus would be that great of a deal. I tell her, “it’s even better!”
She loves me anyway. And I, her.
But as far as getting my Jesus stories out their publicly: those, too, are a dime a dozen. I never felt a burning need to get mine written and published, because hundreds of thousands of those stories are immediately available online. Perhaps millions. That’s a good thing, for sure. But I didn’t believe that one more would make any real difference.
So I’ve made earning a living a higher priority than writing for most of my life. Almost everyone has to do that. And I would have continued on that same path; but one day, something awful happened. And for the first time in a long, long while, I could not be silent. I had to speak up, because deep in my soul, I am a writer. This wasn’t about me. This was about that extraordinary Someone; someone I’d put up my dukes and fight for.
And that is how I have become an accidental activist.
Donald Trump was elected President of the United States. Now we’ve suffered national crises before, and I was never moved to militancy. This development was far more egregious than just a conservative president versus li’l old liberal me. I didn’t panic when George HW Bush was elected. I even voted for W. These were conservatives, to be sure, and professing Christians. The difference between them and Trump is that they actually acted like followers of Jesus Christ. While I may not have agreed with their every policy, I respected them and never doubted their faith. Almost all of Trump’s policies suggest that he is in no way familiar with the teachings of Jesus Christ; his words and actions confirm it.
The last straw was the staunch support of the Donald by people who profess to follow Jesus.
When I learned that my non-believing friend Ellie* thought that all Christians support Trump, I knew the time to speak out had arrived. She can’t be the only one who thinks that, and even one is too many.
When desperation drives a dream, motivation drives the dreamer. I couldn’t, and still cannot, live with the notion that people identify all Christ-followers as Trump supporters. There was never any question about how to protest this untenable situation. In short order, I researched the Christian Resistance movement; I secured the domain names; I taught myself how to construct a WordPress 2017 website. And then I began to write.
Now, I laugh as I think of myself as “living the dream.” I’m still slaving over an adding machine. I’m definitely not getting paid to write. The only part of this process that resembles my original dream is the classical music, the firelight, and curling up with my keyboard. The surprise, however, has come from experiencing an unforeseen freedom.
There is no part of this that is about me, except that the Go Daddy account is in my name. I don’t have to worry that this will be interesting enough for people to read. I don’t have to worry about how many readers I’m reaching. I don’t have to feel guilty that I’m doing it for free, spending time and money on a pursuit I love. I don’t even have to worry about coming up with inspiration, since Donald never ceases to provide fuel for the fire.
And within me burns a crazy contentment, because when I write, I am working the muscles of the gift God gave me. And finally, I am living the great instruction Shakespeare gave his characters Polonius and Laertes in Hamlet; one that has been adopted by Twelve Step groups and others around the world for centuries.
“This above all: to thine own self be true”- Polonius to his son Laertes in Hamlet, Act 1, scene 3, 78-82.
©2020 Rachel Ophoff, Coconut Mountain Communications LLC. All Rights Reserved.
*My friend has a great name- it’s just not Ellie