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For my 7th birthday, thousands of people gathered on the National Mall in D.C. and Johnny Cash led a parade in my honor. Queen Elizabeth II stopped by with her husband Prince Philip to wish me well and the Fords paused their daily goings on to set off fireworks for a full 30 minutes. The U.S. Archivist Dr. James B. Rhoads cut into a giant white cake covered in red and blue stars and stripes. I had a matching sundress. It was fabulous and it was all about me. My parents and grandparents told me so. The people at Sunday Mass told me so. Neighbors told me so. And I believed them.
Mind you I was seven at the time. I think one is allowed to consider themselves at least the center of the country, if not the universe, when they are little. It’s part of human development to be aware of oneself and one’s own needs before one becomes aware of others and their needs. Before one becomes aware that really this is supposed to be a celebration of “us.” But seven is probably pushing the top limit of when one should be thinking themselves to be the center of any party that grand. After that it gets a bit odd.
I am happy to say that this past 4th of July, I am no longer under the illusion that I am at the center of the party. One of the great gifts of my life has been getting to visit all 50 states in this country, plus the District of Columbia and the territorial island of Guam. This country is one big place with lots of different people with lots of different stories to tell. How very fortunate I have been in the past 50 years to walk the Freedom Trail in Massachusetts, as well as the Trail of Tears in Georgia, and then parts of the Lewis and Clark Trail across Missouri, North Dakota, Montana, Idaho, ending along the Pacific Ocean at Fort Clatsop in Astoria, Oregon. How blessed I have been to have participated in a powwow up north as well as a crawfish boil down south. And how could I not mention the football game on the front lawn of the Orthodox Church in Alaska at dusk… which in June doesn’t happen till 11 p.m.? Or the much earlier sunset playing of Taps on the beach in Florida? There is no center to this circle.
And I’m sure now that, even given all the above, I’ve only scratched the surface of this place, of its stories. I only know hints of the tears it has shed, the laughter it has known. So, so, so very little of it has anything to do with me. And yet, who I am, what I do, how I play my role in history matters to its health and wellbeing. I still am, as my sister would say, “Our Little Firework.” Do you feel that about yourself, too? That you are so small and yet who you are is so explosively important at the same time?
Several years ago, I visited a nearly 800-year-old Dominican monastery in Regensburg, Germany. I know, not exactly the U.S., but they’ve been around over 3x as long and have something worth contributing on this matter. I met a nun who shared with me a history of her community.
“What would you consider your monastery’s highest and lowest moments in history?” I asked her.
“What ever do you mean?” she asked in reply.
I continued, “Like when were you having the most influence or not?”
She paused for a moment and then said, “Well, I could tell you what eras we had the most members and what eras we had the least, or I could tell you about when we would have had the most property and wealth or about when our building was burned down. But how could I tell you when we were who we were most called to be or not? When our prayer was making a difference or not? It could be that at the same time Napolean had taken us over that there was a lone sister who was praying more faithfully than any of us have ever prayed and we don’t even know her name now. That might have been the moment when we were at our very best.”
This year we mark the 250th anniversary of the formal adoption of the Declaration of Independence. The fancy new word I have learned this July is “Semiquincentennial.” I have a new red tee shirt and some blue overalls to mark the occasion. It seemed important to dress up. I’m not thinking I’m going to see another of these!
My sister, son, and I went to a garden before it got too hot and then we worked a puzzle. We had Mexican food because that is as much a part of the story as grilled hotdogs. (Indeed, I hope more.) At night, we drove about 2 miles to see some fireworks before a thunderstorm struck. It was a pretty perfect day. Was it the greatest day in our nation’s history? Probably not. But who knows? We won’t be able to evaluate by anything we saw on tv or social media. Who knows what hidden goodness lay inside the souls of Americans from Alaska to Florida who on that day were their most kind, generous, magnanimous selves, and are committed to continuing on that path every remaining day of the year? Let us celebrate everyone who knows the 4th to be a celebration of us in our us-ness this year.
(PS - The picture for today is one of my favorite from the walk in Gibbs Garden on July 4th. This is one of my favorite places to go. Great daffodils in the spring, but really whenever it is open it is worth the visit. Talk about a quirky but wonderful U.S. site. The thing that cracks me up continually is the excessive use of signs to protect visitors. I know that statues can be tempting.... but it makes me so curious, when is the last time someone pierced themselves?)