Anger is Sometimes Grief

I woke up angry.

Not vaguely unsettled.

Not mildly concerned.

Angry in a way that feels rare—and sobering.

I want to say this carefully: I am not grieving for my nation in the abstract. I am grieving personally. And I am grieving for my children.

For what they may be facing.

For what some are already facing.

For what is already unfolding in places like Minneapolis—not as distant headlines, but as seedlings of destruction.

This is not theoretical.

It is formative.

Anger, I am learning again, is sometimes a stage of grief.

This anger is not rooted in hatred. It is not fueled by panic. It comes from love—from the sober realization that seeds, once planted, do not remain seeds forever. They grow. They multiply. They bear fruit.

To see that clearly and refuse denial is not fear.

It is grief with eyes open.

There is a particular kind of grief that comes when you realize the next generation is already navigating things you hoped they wouldn’t have to face so soon—or at all. It is the ache of knowing that what feels distant to some is already lived reality for others.

I am choosing not to numb this.

Not to dramatize it.

And not to spiritualize it away.

I am allowing grief to do its honest work.

To drive me to prayer rather than panic.

To refine discernment rather than harden it.

To anchor me more deeply in Truth that does not bend or morph with the times.

If anger is present, it is because love is present.

And love, when threatened, grieves.

This is not despair.

It is vigilance shaped by care.

It is the weight of seeing clearly—and still choosing to stand.