No single opinion defines all Christians.

Imagine this: You walk into church and find your good friend “Linda†in tears. Linda, an active member of your church for more than a decade, confides she’s in the United States illegally and is facing imminent deportation. What do you do?

As part of a campaign called the New Sanctuary Movement, churches in 20 cities are publicly offering protection to undocumented immigrants facing deportation. These churches know their actions are illegal, but they say they’re taking this stance to draw attention to unjust immigration laws and the plight of affected families. Their website reads, “When we see families in need or danger, we are called by our faith to respond.†In a USA Today story published earlier this month, a former pastor who supports the movement says, “This is what we’re called to do by our Christian principles.â€

These statements—being “called by our faith†and moved by “Christian principlesâ€â€”make me wonder: Are these activists claiming their actions are the Christian thing to do? Imagine Linda again. Is your faith less real if you don’t hide Linda in your church? Must you, because of your Christian faith, come to the same conclusion as the New Sanctuary Movement supporters?

Why are we women so reluctant to ask for help?

I don’t want to be a bitter person. But something happened a few years ago that still irks me.

After giving birth to my third child, I came home with her from the hospital on a Wednesday. Thursday night—or rather Friday morning at 2:00 A.M.—my husband returned to the hospital with our then four-year-old son, Isaac. Earlier that day, Isaac had already been to urgent care because of difficulty breathing. But the doctor had merely diagnosed him with a mild case of asthma and recommended we follow up with our regular doctor soon. Instead, Isaac ended up in the ER, then in the hospital, with a wicked bout of pneumonia.

So there we were: one new baby, one child in the hospital, and one kid wondering how she could get a little attention. Clearly, we were a bit stressed.

How can I reconcile my powerlessness to do good with the Bible’s perpetual charges to do right?

One of my main struggles as a Christian has been the pursuit of holiness. My best attempts at being good or holy or just or righteous are, according to Isaiah 64:6, like bloody sanitary napkins: not merely unclean, but too shamefully embarrassing to even be mentioned in polite company. If I accomplish anything good at all, I’m not the one doing the accomplishing, God is.

Nevertheless, much of the Bible explains just what I need to do to be holy. Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount is one big to-do list of impossible tasks to accomplish in order to, like him, please God. And the apostle Paul, having revealed the inadequacy of mere rule-following as the way to God, can’t seem to stop himself from creating more rules: Don’t cut your hair. Don’t speak in church. Just put on the armor of God and run that race. I can hardly read his epistles without sweating! How can I reconcile my powerlessness to do good with these perpetual charges to do right?

At that moment in the market, I realized?if only partially?all

I call it the Frozen Peas Moment. It’s the event many moms long for, especially moms of daughters.

For my mom and me, it happened when I was about 25.

My family and I had just moved to California near my parents, and I’d gone to the market with my mother. As we pushed the grocery cart down the aisles, I stopped at the frozen vegetable case—right in front of the peas—and looked at my mom.

I don’t think I’d ever really seen her before that moment. When I was a kid, my mom was basically the person who cooked my dinner, nagged me to take out the trash and do my homework, and drove me to the mall so I could be with my friends.