'Cause there ain't no doubt I love this land . . .

My birthday is the 4th of July. How cool is that?! My family managed to keep the whole “Independence Day” thing a secret from me until approximately age 7 . . . until that time they were devoted in their conviction that the entire Country was celebrating my birthday. I suppose they thought that I had reached the age at which it was embarrassing when each year I profusely thanked the proprietors of the local fireworks stand for supplying the masses so that they could celebrate me on my birthday. They tried, oh yes they did, to crush my dreams with stories of Founding Fathers and Declarations, but I’m having none of it! I still believe! Light those sparklers and send a bottle rocket soaring, my people – it’s my birthday!

 

Maybe for that reason I love this Country of ours. My heart swells when our flag is raised over triumphant athletes at the Olympic Games; my voice catches when surrounded by children reciting the Pledge of Allegiance and meaning it with every fiber of their little being; and Lee Greenwood can still make me tear up with “God Bless the U.S.A.” (though I was probably 16 before I realized that it was hills of TENNESSEE and not TRIPOLI – enunciate Lee, enunciate!). Oh yes, I worry and complain and commiserate (I love that word!) over the sorry state of affairs we’ve gotten ourselves into, but I love this land of opportunity, this melting pot, this pursuit of happiness.

 

Last week the children and I joined several other families at our church to participate in a “mini mission”. We assembled 400 sack lunches that were to be distributed to children who would normally receive lunch through the school system’s free lunch program during the school year. Wait! Don’t waste an “awww, how sweet” on me just yet. I struggled with this, my friends, man did I struggle. I struggled because it seems that as each July 4th comes and goes I am a little more jaded than I was when last year’s fireworks illuminated the night sky. I couldn’t just approach this as an opportunity to fill little tummies that might not otherwise be filled. I knew too much. My mind shouted its opinions on entitlement and abuse of the system. It smugly reminded me that some of those children would be driven to pick up those sack lunches in cars that were newer and nicer than mine; that the brown paper bags would litter the street because the children had never been taught to respect their community and to take pride in their surroundings; that, should the bag actually be picked up and thrown away, it would be picked up by fingers with perfectly manicured nails – fingers that just moments before had been texting on the latest smart phone. My mind grumbled and complained so loudly that I almost didn’t hear my heart whispering. . . 

 

It took the sweet innocence of childhood to silence my mind. My children chattered excitedly about what we were going to do. Excitement twinkled in their eyes at the thought of helping others. They laughed at the fact that they weren’t sure what bologna tasted like, and listened intently as I wondered aloud what ever happened to the red ring that was once bologna’s signature. They prayed with each bag that they packed for the child that would eat that food. And, ultimately, because they are wise and wonderful, they got around to the sad realization that this would be lunch for ONE day – “what will they eat on the OTHER days, Mommy?” – and their hearts hurt and they prayed harder. My children, who have never known hunger, who have all that they need and most of what they want, hurt and prayed and loved and wished and hoped and BELIEVED that they could and would make a difference. My children told my head to “SHUT UP!” (and we don’t say” Shut Up”) and let me, in all of my jaded brokenness, listen to my heart’s whisper.

Was my mind wrong in its assessment of things? Certainly not. Does abuse and entitlement run rampant in the social programs of our Country? ABSOLUTELY. Did each and every lunch find its way into hands that were truly in need? Probably not. I have much to say about entitlement and the mess of things that we’ve created in this Country, but my soapbox is on vacation at the moment because . . . If just ONE of those children that opened those 400 bags was hungry, was it worth it? AB.SO.LUTE.LY. I was hungry and you fed me; I was naked and you clothed me . . .

Too often I watch the news or read the headlines and catch myself shaking my head and commenting on “how scary” our world is becoming. In groups of my peers I nod in agreement and mourn the fact that I brought my children into such a sorry state of affairs. Shame on me. Shame on us. We are selling our wise, wonderful children short. If we do our job, if we do all that we can to build them up and to grow their big, beautiful hearts ; if we teach them to count their blessings, to love God and their neighbors – ALL of their neighbors; if we coach that still, small voice into an insistent shout that will not go unheard; if we teach them to first ask “What would Jesus do?” before allowing their hearts to become hard and jaded and judgmental; if we hurt and pray and love and wish and hope and BELIEVE . . . If we do all of that, this world shouldn’t be scary anymore – it should be SCARED.

 

I love this Country. My parents raised me to love it in all of its brokenness. I want my children to love it too. I want their hearts to swell with pride and their voice to catch. I want them to be PROUD to be an American. On Thursday we’ll celebrate big around here. There will be fireworks and cake and presents (hint, hint). And in the midst of that crazy blessed day we’ll talk about freedom and sacrifice and patriotism. We’ll remind our little people that they live in one nation UNDER GOD and we’ll tell them how very, very lucky they are.  

 

Happy 4th of July, Sweet Friends.

 

God Bless America.

 

Sparkling!

amy