the spiritual practice of markers and stamps
what happened when I made ceasefire postcards to send to my reps
I ignored the voice that nagged it wasn’t enough, wouldn’t matter, took up too much time. The first time, I made three postcards to send to my Congressional representatives. The second time, I made fourteen. Just the act of writing CEASEFIRE over and over felt like a prayer. I lit a candle, because that makes it officially a prayer, right?
Maybe I didn’t really have time to appeal to someone’s unpaid interns faraway politicians who make no secret of despising bleeding hearts like me. But I had time—I had no choice but to make time—to do something and to nourish my own soul with creativity all at once.
When I really sat down to it, I had to remind myself: art is art is art. Because I didn’t have time for the watercolor washes or prayer-doodles or, for that matter, the tirades and litanies I really wanted to put into the world. I didn’t have the skill to create something truly arresting or even to really express my thoughts and feelings. I didn’t even have the extra resources to take risks, mess up, or try anything new. But making something out of a blank space is art. Finding the right red-orange for righteous rage is art. Practicing art skills in not-very-innovative ways is still art.
And choosing to assert my own agency, reaching out as a witness and advocate for faraway lives intertwined with mine, loving others’ babies while my own baby slept, finding the thing, however small, that is mine to do—here is the art of making a life.
At first they were all the red-orange of fury. I imagined what I would scream at these people who wield power so casually, so cynically. Anger propelled my pen across the paper, though without space to make my case, I had to just get to the point. On the front of every card: the word “ceasefire.” On the back: “No more funding for ethnic cleansing - Lyndsey Medford - Chattanooga, TN.”
A postcard is not complicated. Neither is the case against supporting a government while it starves children.
I kept writing cards. Kept signing my name. Tried to make each one slightly different in design because there are always more ways to cry out for peace, more I needed to express for my own soul’s sake.
The more I imagined my representatives politicking in Tennessee and legislating in Washington, the more appeals I found to make. I would envision my scrubby, scrappy designs flowing out of my markers, through the postal system, and (perhaps improbably) into their hands, and I realized I wanted to do more than scream. I wanted to believe something and someone could still connect. Blues and greens bloomed. How do you convict someone who already has convenient defenses lined up? What would it require of these people to change their minds? To change their actions?
you are human you are human you are human, my pen implored.
courage, I lettered, just in case the recipient was looking for it.
I addressed one postcard to Marsha Blackburn, one to Chuck Fleischmann, and one to Bill Hagerty.1 And a little cry told me naptime was over, but my candle burned on.
I don’t know what happens next. I don’t know how seventeen postcards could possibly affect U.S. foreign policy or lives in states and countries far from here.2 But maybe a million postcards could start to weigh the scale—and if I want there to be a million postcards, I have to contribute my seventeen.
I do know that these seventeen postcards matter profoundly to my life. I know that my choices are to take action or to look away—but if I choose the latter, I’ll also be looking away from myself. I don’t abandon myself or my neighbors. I show up. This is how I stay.
Maybe tomorrow something more demanding and more effective will present itself for me to do—but only if I stay.
Maybe tomorrow I send three more postcards, and then there are three more ceasefire postcards traveling across our troubled country.
I would rather make art that ends up sneered at and in the trash than make no art, than register no complaint, than stare blankly at evil and plead helplessness from the couch in my comfortable home.
I would rather scream into the abyss than surrender my voice.
I walked my simple designs to the mailbox with 6-month-old Micah in my arms and prayed once again for other people’s children.
peace, love, bread, and wine,
Lyndsey
P.S. If you want to make postcards, a pack of 12x12 white cardstock slices nicely into 4x6 cards. (I wouldn’t send these on a rainy day.) You could also look for blank greeting cards and cut or tear them in half. I found it helpful to write the same message on the back of them all - a clear, specific, actionable demand. This could be a really encouraging thing to gather a few friends and do together.
and now I know my representatives’ names.
I’m so relieved that I won’t get a bored voice or a form email responding to my message!
Thank you for being an example of how we can reflect God’s beauty as we live out our convictions, even if you really did want to yell at some folks.
Thank you for sharing your beautiful protest. It reminded me of a book I read - 'how to be a craftivist - the art of gentle protest'. Sometimes making a time consuming piece of art feels too much - but a postcard is manageable and has so much more soul than an email. It humanises the sender and receiver somehow.