The Vocation of a Nation

Travel always reminds me, this country still holds within it, the promise, the hope of greatness, of nobility and opportunity (politics not withstanding).  As a nation, regardless of where you are in this land, we remain, a good, hopeful and eager to be something better type of people. Our neighbors matter, our cities matter, it's when we decide whatever it is, isn't our problem, rather than recognizing each of us have a stake in making this place better, that we fall into trouble.

When we stop being our brothers' keeper, when we think, "I pay taxes," therefore I've done my part, we become less than we're called to be as members of this nation.  

I still believe this country can do what is good, true and beautiful, because I know the people who live here, still want what is good, true and beautiful in their lives.   We dream big, we play hard, and we like to think that somehow, despite all our faults, deep down, we will find the courage to be people who when things get hard, do the right thing.  Even fifty years of living hasn't convinced me otherwise.  

So celebrate today with your family and friends. Eat, read the Declaration of Independence at the dinner table and be present to each other. Count your blessings which I hope are more numerous than the fireworks.   Enjoy the day.  

Then consider, what can you do to make wherever it is that you live in this country, better?  What can you do in this year of Mercy, to be kinder, more just, a better steward, a better caretaker of the rights and liberties, the freedoms this country holds dear?

What can you do to become more informed, and more of a voice to help take some of the acridity of politics away?  

What can you do to change the tone of the current discussion from constant name calling and petty insults, to something deeper and more in keeping with what we aspire to be, on a local, state and national level?

I recognize, the current way of things can make one want to just wash your hands and say, "A pox on both your houses," to the available offerings, or to just refuse to engage.  I know because it remains a temptation, to seek somehow to be neutral.  But lukewarm is never satisfying as a way of life, nor is it a solution to any problem.

The Catholic response to life, to struggle, to suffering, to injustice, to argument, to disagreement, to violence and to evil, is not to withdraw, but to heal, to help, to educate, to minister, to examine, to ponder, to repair, to apply grace to whatever endeavor or situation one experiences.

 If everyone who viewed the fireworks were to go and seek to put their talents toward the care taking of this nation and its people, the explosion of goodness would be bigger and longer lasting than any display we might watch this week, and more meaningful than any slogans or campaigns being offered this election cycle.   We'd move the nation and lead the leaders.  

Saint Catherine of Sienna said, if we would be who "God wants us to be, we would set the world on fire."     That's a calling to go out and act, and the purpose of every life. Imagine the world that would be.  

It isn't easy but the reality of that quote promises a life and world more luminous and beautiful.  It would also leave an impression more lasting than all the fireworks.  

Happy 4th of July!

Happy 4th of July

Happy July 4th!  

Today's a day one should take out the Declaration of Independence and read all of it to be reminded why we celebrate today, that the beginnings of our nation, was an address of grievances from an oppressive and overreaching state.  Some may argue, perhaps we turned a teapot's worth of difference into a tempest, but the result was a nation created to represent, and seek to represent an ideal. 

We haven't always lived up to that, and we've had vigorous and even bloody debate at time as to what it meant to be in this nation, but the goal of all people in this nation, regardless of race, gender, economics or politics, has been to somehow move the nation itself toward being a closer approximation of that ideal articulated in the self evident truths stated by Thomas Jefferson.  

I do not agree with all my nation does in my name, or with my treasures, or through its policies, but that does not make me any less a patriot than anyone else who holds this nation dearer than any other on earth.   We have much to be thankful for, even as we have much work to do, if this nation is to remain a city on the hill.    

If civil war was fought in ten thousand places, then civil union of this nation must take place in 100 million places, in the homes of every citizen, and on the internet.  To be one nation, we will have to seek and find the things which bind us together, rather than deal always with what pulls us apart.  

As long as we see any others as merely other...You're a democrat, You're a republican, You're white, You're any other race, you're immigrant, you're poor, you're rich, you're educated, you're not, you're....whatever it is that isn't me, we will continue to have friction and distrust.  Seeing beyond the convenient labels society or politics or current fashion likes to ascribe, will take an act of the will and a generous heart.   

Enjoy the fireworks, remember what they represent, actual battles fought, by actual Americans, not always for the noblest of meanings, but sacrificial none the less.  One of our greatest presidents understood, even those who fought against us for something that was wrong, consecrated the land with their blood and their sacrifice.   A reminder: 

 

Happy 4th.   

You Should Remember to Remember This

Growing up in South East Texas, Independence day meant being lugged to mass, even if we were at the beach. It meant singing “God Bless America” at the end and hearing a woman who had probably practiced for two months try to imitate Kate Smith. We’d complain about it, being kids, but Dad maintained it set the importance of the day on remembering that this great gift of free will, of liberty, of independence does not come without a prior generation’s cost. He'd talk about how it will it not long endure if the current caretakers are ignorant of their past, of the present, or fearful of the future. We’d roll our eyes with that knowing 'Dad' look that only kids can give grownups who obviously don’t understand what is worth knowing.

After mass, Dad would drive us to the local grocery store, and we’d sit down at the picnic table outside with popsicles that melted faster than any of us could lick. He’d ask us either in the car or while we were licking off the sticky stuff, “What were the readings?” or even worse, “What did you think of the homily?” We soon learned to speed read the misselettes before leaving Church in case our kid minds had wandered during the Liturgy, but it didn’t help when July 4th fell on a non-Sunday. Then, he’d quiz us about our country and its history and offer suggested readings. We learned to pay attention or at least preemptively cram, if only to avoid the embarrassment of flunking the Popsicle quiz.

But Dad, being a crafty parent, employed further stealth. He waited as we grew older. We’d drive home, have lunch and be lounging over comic pages from the newspaper, idly discussing whether or not we wanted to play cards or go hunting for driftwood to build a bonfire, and he’d appear with the quiz questions. He’d say the summation of the reading and ask us what Father had said. But Homily Jeopardy often resulted in a goodly amount of sibling collusion, where we’d rack our adolescent sunburnt beachcombed brains for key words we’d remembered and hope that others would fill in the blanks.

He’d read the readings over again to us and hope something sunk in during the process. Then he’d slyly offer to play Trivial Pursuit and always pick history so as to, once again, engage in parental instruction about the importance of the day. I took to studiously avoiding the yellow squares, while my brother keenly pre-read every Trivial Pursuit card’s history question and answer. It never really mattered to Dad, he was just glad we were learning it, by osmosis or repetition or sheer stubborn adolescent desire to win.

It didn’t matter what the year was, the evening of the 4th meant piling into the largest car and sitting outside on the side of the freeway on top of it and watching the fireworks with my family. It felt cool and communal to sit under the stars with everyone I loved. I wished the shows would go on forever if only because I knew the next day, I’d be back to fighting with my two brothers and Dad would be back at work and the magic and beauty of having the whole country take a break and celebrate would be over. The 'connected with everyone' feeling would dissipate from the crowds as quickly as the smoke from the last explosion thinned into nothingness and everyone scrambled to their cars and began to complain about the traffic.

My father would hum songs and makes puns in between the various stars and bomb bursts and whistling rockets and after, trying to prolong the feeling, the moment of everyone being united and at peace with one another.

Today, as my husband and I scramble to load the car for mass and make sure everyone has matching shoes that fit and combed hair, so as to make it on time for three of our children to serve, I find myself tucking the Magnificat in my purse as we run out the door. Scanning the readings ahead of time so that if I am occupied by my children or my own wandering mind, I at least had a chance to read the wisdom I may not hear in my distraction. I want to know what I might otherwise miss, because I have been taught to recognize I could miss it.

I have even tossed out the Popsicle question on my kids over breakfast bagels. My kids know more than I did at their age -- about their country, about their government and about the need to be involved and engaged in the world -- but they too look sometimes shocked at me as they grope to remember all the things or some of the images presented during the mass. And when I begin to chide or lecture them about it, they give the look that only children can give to parents who want them to recognize something they think they already understand but don’t.

So this 4th of July, I intend to take my children to mass and sing my best Kate Smith imitation, and ask them afterwards about how our independence is secured and endowed by our Creator, and what the Priest said. And then, we’re going to sit outside on top of the cars so they can one day recognize that communion feeling of being surrounded by everyone they love, watching beauty explode outward overhead. Because the fireworks may fade but the memory of these moments, when everyone stopped and took pleasure in each other’s company, lasts longer than the Popsicles or the last rocket’s red glare, giving proof through the night that this people are still here.

I’ll hold onto each of them at some point, hoping that the grip of my hand in theirs helps seal in their hearts and minds, don’t miss the opportunity to remember this.*

Originally ran August 11, 2009

Declaration of Independence

The Right to Liberty

The other day was Prize day. We awarded our almost four year old with a cool metal swivel seat tricycle (think big wheel) for becoming potty trained. He has about an accident a day but diapers are no longer part of the routine. No longer a toddler, he was a full fledged “kid” with all the rights and privileges therein, allowance, solo baths, and his own not a hand me down bike.

The Pursuit of Happiness

Picking up the box, hearing the parts inside shift, I knew I was in for it, but the vision of my son’s happy eyes when he feasted on the red and black shiny new wheels over road my common sense. I would be Ubermom for a few minutes in my son’s eyes.

Johnny Boo was at pre-school. When I picked him up, I explained there was a big treat waiting for him. He pestered me all the way home for clues. Amazingly, saying it had three wheels elicited the deductive guess of a Robot Dinosaur which sent me mentally scurrying and worrying, would there be let down?

No, the box picture was sufficient to earn “Thank you! It’s my favors. My very favors thing.” From him. Satisfied, I opened the box and momentarily hyperventilated at the eight screws, sixteen washers, two large bolts and several metal components that resembled a fossil dig of bicycle parts. The directions were alas, only in Spanish, which I never learned.

Freedom of Speech

When I explained this might be difficult to my son, he brightly answered, “I speak Spanish…Hola.”

Okay, with translator help like that, I could still follow the pictures. Self censorship followed for the next twenty minutes.

Right to Assemble Peacefully

By this point outside on the first Spring feeling day of 2008, my daughter wanted to help too. She kept picking up the parts, leading me to scramble to keep everything together. The wind sent the box and directions flying, sending Johnny Boo and me running in opposite directions while Cupie Doll examined the screws and washers undeterred.

With my legs covering the washers and screws, the metal parts splayed over my lap, the directions weighted down by my cell phone and the wrench, with Cupie Doll and the baby strapped into the stroller howling in protest, I began the process of making a bike. I won’t say potty training was easier.

Right against Self Incrimination

Twenty five minutes later, the bike sat waiting it’s maiden voyage –but I sent the prize winner in to the bathroom, I thought it would be bad form if he christened it on it’s opening run.
The pedals were too far for his legs.

“I can’t reach.” He struggled, he wanted to enjoy the bike but it was essentially useless in this state.

Back over my legs again, fifteen minutes of hassle later, the bike was ready.

Johnny Boo had gone inside to watch cartoons.

Returning with the promise of cookies and juice as a snack, he got on the bike. The brake was a source of great interest and our first drive halted every two feet as he kept squeezing the handle. “I know how to stop!” he said delightedly. He then tried the pedals. His legs were still about an inch short for easy movement, but he could do it. His eyes glimmered with the knowledge, he had WHEELS.

Freedom of Petition

“Can we go for a ride?”
“Yes.” I pushed the stroller alongside him as we leisurely moved down the hill. “Can we go downtown?”

I should have asked a question at this point, but I was savoring the first of Spring sunshine and the cool breeze and the satisfaction of having made something work for a change...I was in my “I’m Ubermom” moment. Not quite listening, I said, “Yes.”

We came to the mail box and I made the turn for us to go back up the driveway.

Johnny Boo’s face darkened. “You said we could go downtown!” He folded his arms angrily.
That Ubermom feeling faded away.

“Downtown! Where Dad Works!” He sounded exasperated. How could Mom be this dense?

Due Process

Explaining that 20 miles on a tricycle in heavy traffic is not possible. He was three year old, he had a bike. That was supposed to mean freedom.

He felt betrayed.

After trying to reason with him, I opted for a 21st century solution and handed him the cell phone. “Here, talk to Dad.”

Freedom of the Press

As my two year old helped push him back up the hill while I pushed the stroller, he chatted with his father “I’m driving Dad, but Mom doesn’t know how to get to Downtown so I can’t come visit you.” He explained. I need a spin doctor.

Right to A Speedy Trial

Back at the house, I broke out the juice and cookie snack, “Do you like your prize?” I asked?
“Yes. But it can’t go downtown.” He said as he looked mournfully out the window at it parked on the driveway.

Woman’s Sufferage

My daughter had thoughtfully pocketed the tools needed to assemble his prize and stood next to his bike, pretending to fix it.

Maybe I’ll let her do it herself when she becomes potty trained. Visions of giving her a kid tool kit that she could play with made me briefly smile at the idea of her creative energies being channeled in a positive manner. I’d be an Ubermom again for providing her with the proper outlet for her intuitive curious nature. Her smile would beam and it would be a beautiful moment in mothering…

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