I've been thinking about safe spaces again (here's a blog post from two years ago when I was thinking about safe spaces in another context). It all started a month ago when my car was vandalized in the middle of the night. We just moved here in July, and it's a nice place to live. It's still a nice place to live, but the spray-painted obscenities on my car got me thinking about old memories.
As we were scrubbing the paint off my car, my son said to me, "Huh. That's really strange. This never happened in our old house where I always thought we weren't safe. I thought we were safe here. I guess you just don't know." I thought that was pretty brilliant, actually. He also said all the cuss words I was thinking so I didn't have to.
I had to go preach that morning about love, so I used the vandalism in my sermon. I cleaned off the paint as best I could, and set it aside. But three days later a detective called and asked if anyone was angry with me. I realized in that moment that although I didn't think anyone was angry with me, that I was very angry with some anonymous vandal, and that the entire thing had unsettled me in unexpected ways.