Trepidatious Hearts 9.30.18

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“Build me a son, O Lord, who will be strong enough to know when he is weak, and brave enough to face himself when he is afraid, one who will be proud and unbending in honest defeat, and humble and gentle in victory.” – Douglas MacArthur

I am a little anxious writing tonight because I so desperately want to get this right. For the past few weeks I have been confronted with a tangle of thoughts and quotes and words and perspectives that have all built to a feeling to speak … I’m still not sure I know exactly what to say, but I can’t ignore the itch to try, and I pray something will come that is worthy of sharing, worthy of feeling and passing on.

I have been loving a song lately called “Charlie Boy,” by The Lumineers. It is about a young man feeling compelled by the speech of J.F.K. to enter into the war, and to fight for something bigger than himself – freedom. And as such, it is about a mother who is forced to accept his decision to fight, and ultimately, to die. The lyrics sing to her, “… don’t hang your head, love should make you feel goodIn uniform you raised a man, who volunteered to stand.” Based on of a true story, I wonder how many brave young men and women have heeded a call I consistently choose to ignore. I crave safety, not the price of it. I yearn to be protected, not defend myself. Having children has only deepened this yearning for sanctuary, I think because I want to offer my son and daughter a promise that’s not mine to give – that they’re always going to be okay.

When my son was five and in kindergarten the Sandy Hook shooting happened. As a teacher, I always knew the threat was real, but when I had a son in a school, and I wasn’t with him – something shifted in me that has perpetually remained unaltered. I’ll never forget the months of shaking hands when I hugged him goodbye and sent him off to class … the way I looked back at the locked door thinking it wasn’t safe enough … the way I questioned the administration about the how they planned to increase the security measures of a small private school. Nothing seemed right for a long time, and every afternoon, when I picked him up, I realized that I’d release a breath I hadn’t known I’d been holding. It’s the same feeling I now have when I read accounts of families sold into slavery, of the Holocaust, of human trafficking  … to me they are all tales of mothers being taken from their children. And I can’t read stories as impartial accounts of history anymore, because all I hear is the injustice of a mother’s broken heart, and the empathy in me rises so that I can hardly breathe.

There is something about my son, my daughter, that have made objectivity impossible. I can no longer look at a situation apart from them, because they are my own precious version of gravity, holding my identity in this time and space in history. And I wish – I wish with every fiber of my being, that the world could understand this love … because if it could, I really believe things would be better. I’m reading an amazing book called Circus Mirandus, and in it, there is a section where a magician offers a little boy an illusion to see anything he wishes to see, as long as he understands it cannot be real. The boy wishes to see his father home from war, and in the illusion, the boy’s mother says something to him that absolutely wrecks me … and I found myself wishing, beyond all wishes, that it wasn’t an illusion, that it wasn’t a beautiful part of a beautiful story, because it is so very acutely the way I believe things should be.

“The war ended all at once and very calmly. It was as if, between one moment and the next, all the mothers of all the soldiers in the world had checked their clocks and realized that their children had been out playing for too long … The soldiers shook hands with one another and wished one another well. Then they raced back to their mothers or to their wives and sons.” – Cassie Beasley

And can’t you just see it? Can’t you see all the misunderstandings, the judgements, the hatred erased as if it were one big confusing game that has just gone on too long? Can’t you picture soldiers, gang members, politicians, and rivals shaking their heads in sudden confusion, bewildered at the mistakes they didn’t ever intend to go that far? If only everyone heard their mothers’ voices calling them back to themselves. If only everyone heard their father calling them home.

What a world we could promise our children.

What peace our trepidatious hearts could feel.

 

 

 

7.3.18 My Silence

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I often pride myself on being a non-judgmental person. The irony laden in that sentence is thick with implication. Since when, after all, has anyone with pride not been intimately acquainted with judgement? And it’s true come to think of it. If I’m being honest, which I might as well be … I judge people all the time. I know this because of how often I offer my advice and my opinions. I give them out for free like candy at a narcissistic parade. Whether or not it’s always warranted or asked for, I toss pieces of “wisdom” out freely, imagining the little sugar drops will somehow taste sweeter if wrapped in pretty words. But you know what? It’s supremely condescending. And I’m sorry.

While I think being a sound listener, offering words of kindness and support, and even opinions (when asked for) are all meant for good … I think that sometimes I just get so distracted by my own parade of thoughts … of what I would do, of what I would feel if I were in a situation, that I let my imagination take control of my mouth. And suddenly my standpoints, perspectives, and judgements are skewed by my own summation of what I imagine. NOT a very flattering realization of myself to say the least – but a necessary one, especially at this time of year. 

You see, I’m a pacifist to the core. I hate war. I hate hate. I hate that we are a part of a country that has a history rich with both … and yet, I love the freedom that I have to think, and speak, and act according to the will that was paid for by the lives of those who put themselves before themselves. One of my favorite people in the entire world is a man who fought in the Vietnam War. It is a war that I have a bitterness toward, yet one that I also know very little about. And there I sit, my blonde-haired, blue-eyed, white-privilege, thirty-something self … full of opinions on a subject I barely understand … and there he sits … ex-soldier who has seen and done more than I will ever know – listening patiently to me as if I do. 

A day away from my favorite holiday of the year. Twenty-four hours from “God Bless America.” From red, white, and blue outfits that will look fantastic in a family photo. From food, and friends, and conversation that will carry me into the magic of fireworks that glisten and linger in the heavens. And how many times have I forgotten to think of what all this nostalgic safety cost? A much lower number would be how many times I’ve actually remembered. 

I don’t say this to dampen the spirits of our precious celebrations. It’s the opposite really. I’m apologizing, because I realize that so much of what I value as a citizen of the United States, come from realities I could never have afforded on my own. No amount of good will I’ve done, of nice things I’ve said, of opinions I’ve shared, or viewpoints I’ve held will do even a fraction for the lives of this nation, as the silent men and women behind the scenes who make sure daily that I am able to maintain a sense of freedom I don’t deserve. You see, it’s easy to offer advice on something you’ve never experienced, because don’t we all have just the grandest imaginations to think we know one another’s pain? 

Well today, to honor the men and women of every branch of our services, I offer you my greatest admission – I do not know how you feel. I do not know what you go through. I can’t imagine the things you have seen, the places you’ve been, or the sacrifices you consistently make for strangers. I do not know the sense of integrity that runs through your core. I do not pretend to have even an ounce of the bravery you bleed. I cannot know the heart, the mind, or the spirit that overwhelms your being just in being you. 

Today I have no advice. No opinions. I offer no viewpoints. No outlook. No stance. I simply, humbly breathe in this Fourth of July with gratitude for all that you are. God bless America’s hands, and feet … from the first soldier to the last – your debt of time, of protection, and of selfless courage inspire me to the highest act of praise I can give … my silence. 

Elle