No Kings

I confess that I’ve rarely done anything resembling a protest. Introverted and quiet, I find excuses to leave that sort of thing to others. But lately (you knew there’d be a “but,” didn’t you?), my excuses feel threadbare. On the first big day of protests since Trump took office in January 2025, I took part in a day of prayer instead. It seemed a better fit and possibly more effective, considering what we’re dealing with. For the “No Kings” day of protests, though, I decided to make a sign and show up.

I and hundreds of others showed up in a small town to line the streets that day and wave at everyone who drove by. Reactions from motorists were mixed. Many honked and waved back or gave us a thumbs-up. Some even regaled us with their own cheeky signs. A few kept their eyes on the road and ignored us. When a red light would strand them in front of us for a minute or so, I would take pity on those and look away to give them respite. 

After a while, I noticed that my enthusiasm to convey the message on my sign waned. Instead, I longed to just send love to the people in each car that passed. I wanted them to feel a little less afraid. A little more hopeful. A little less alone. Because the damage caused by cruelty, even if the cruelty isn’t experienced personally (because, of course, we’re all connected), is real, and it attacks our minds, bodies, and spirits. 

Love. It’s what I wish I’d put on my sign. It’s what my heart reached out with. It’s what I offer up every evening when I hold you in prayer.