The term and framework “reproductive justice” turned 30 this year. Not to be confused or used interchangeably with “reproductive rights,” the framework of reproductive justice invites us to go deeper into dignity. 

It came to be in the summer of 1994 when a group of Black women felt the women’s and pro-choice movements did not include the voices and experiences of Black women and women of color or those of folks from marginalized communities. They believed it was these voices and their power that should be at the forefront of our collective liberation. 

The reproductive justice framework is this: that people deserve to have every resource available to them to have the family they want. From IVF to abortion, any person should have the family they want. Further, whatever the makeup of your family is, each and every single person deserves the dignity of living in a safe place and in a community where they feel safe to not just survive, but thrive.

It is this understanding informed by my faith that leads me to believe that life as we know it does not have to be this way. We can imagine a better world somewhere between plowshares and common-sense gun reform. 

We can create a world that can be better. Because it does not have to be the way it is now. 

The pattern continues. The “breaking news” notification pops up on my phone, the name of the school, then the name of the city marches across the screen. 

I begin my thought process of going through a list of friends and family in that state, that county. A mental rolodex begins to turn, and I pick cards haphazardly.  

“When did they leave that job? Are they still at that school?” “How old is their kid? Middle or high school?” “Do they still teach or did they leave it all together?” 

Towing the line between wanting the news to consume every minute of my day while knowing it does not help. “The world does not stop for America’s ugly pastime—and there’s that department meeting in ten minutes.”. It is the same as it ever was. 

Relief turned to guilt when no one I know in my immediate family, friends, or acquaintances was affected. This time. 

And our corporate refrains begin: “It’s the f*****g guns. This one was preventable. They had access. People with power ignored the warning signs. It doesn’t have to be this way.”  

Again and again until it quiets down, until the next one. It doesn’t have to be this way. 

I am tired. I know you are too. And it pains me to think that along with learning how to share and wash their hands, my nieces and future niblings will also just as casually learn how to “run, hide, or fight.” It guts me every time. 

Because I don’t have to be a parent or an aunt to see how the more we idolize guns, the further away we get from our humanity. It doesn’t have to be this way. 

That has been my prayer since last Wednesday. I don’t know if it’s a lament or demand or both; grabbing God by the cosmic shirt collar and shaking Them for an answer. 

But it’s where I have found still waters in the Psalms or, more so, in the intimate relationship the psalmist has with God. It is intimate enough to demand providence and protection from the Divine in such a way that puts God on the hook for promises made. 

Promises of still waters and overflowing cups and tables filled to the brim ready to be feasted upon. Promises that should not just be kept in the heavens but in the here and now. 

I no longer only want to hear the 23rd psalm at a graveside, but as a rallying cry to divinity demanding a life that overflows with abundance of dignity and justice. Demanding to allow children to lay on soft grass and delight rather than them stand numb on the astroturf of a high school football field waiting for help to arrive. 

Because it doesn’t have to be this way, and it will take each of us through various actions to make it so. From holding our elected officials accountable, to becoming the elected officials when their actions stop at empty “thoughts and prayers,” to tending to our neighbors in subtle ways. 

Each act, big and small, that points toward safe communities bends toward our collective liberation. We can demand a better way from God and in doing so, can hope for it and make it so for one another. 

Because our faith is more than memorizing graveside psalms at the end of a life. It is living out the audacious belief that a better way is possible for us all, a world where we not only survive, but thrive.