A Contemplative Independence Day

Last night, I had this thought that I might make some sugar cookies. Just plain ones, but color half of the dough red and half blue, then make round cookies and ice the red ones with white stripes and the blue ones with white stars.

Today, between running errands and making a pretty sous-chef-y dinner, I wasn't that motivated... plus, when we were out, Mal wanted to get doughnuts, so we have dessert already.

Saturday, when Mal and I were at the Home Depot, I thought about buying an American flag... but didn't.

I'm very wary of overt shows of "patriotism" right now. Does that make sense?

I've only felt this way one other time, and it was in the wake of September 11, 2001. I was singing at church the weekend after the attacks, and when we arrived Saturday afternoon for rehearsal before the night service, we were told that we were going to sing "God Bless America." I balked.

It's not that I don't want God's blessings. It's not that I didn't want to comfort scared people, many of whom would be coming to a house of worship for the first time in a long time because they didn't know what else to do.

It was because, in addition to the extreme grief and shock and fear I'd witnessed Americans experiencing, there was also a lot of sort of anger-fueled nationalism, and I didn't want to give the impression that I was asking God to bless America... instead of the nations of "those" people who attacked us. I didn't want it to seem that we were circling the wagons. And that's what "patriotism" (not the spirit, but the displays) felt like to me in that moment.

And now.

Now... I am separated by only one or two or three degrees from people whose lives are being adversely affected by the climate and policies of our country. I can stop scanning news stories all I want to, but I still hear personal stories. I feel splayed open and raw, unable to really do anything for anyone in distress except maybe not act so damned proud that I had the stupid luck of being born here, white, middle class, descended from a mighty people whose weapons and lies "won" this very land where I'm beginning to own a home from people who were already here.

This weekend, I heard a prayer thanking God for "this land You have given us." Did He? Did God decide that we were destined for it, and therefore it was okay to kill "savages" and make countless bad faith treaties with them?

Which is not to say that I'm not grateful... I'm grateful for freedom, even as I recognize that many people do not have it. I'm grateful for comfort, though I know many need and cannot access it. I am grateful for my family, but read through tears story after story of parents and children separated and sent back into dangerous places... just because they had the misfortune of not being born here. White. Middle class.

I have never been oppressed. Maybe I feel like a fraud celebrating freedom, as if I came to it out of something else.

So tomorrow, I will cherish spending time with my family. I look forward to eating some good food and maybe catching up with my sister. I will get to hang out with my husband more because it's a holiday right in the middle of the work-week. And I'll celebrate the freedom that this country affords as best I can, shadowed by the humbling awareness that I've done nothing more or better than anyone else to deserve it.

This evening, I pulled Mal out of bed to watch some fireworks over the trees, because he has been tempted to be scared of the noise every night this weekend. It was beautiful. It was sweet. That is something to celebrate.

And maybe tomorrow I'll do what I also did tonight, holding my growing son tightly on my knees so he wouldn't fall off of the picnic table as he covered his ears: Pray for the refugees, the immigrants, the prisoners, and all of their families, that every one of them might soon be reunited and able to cherish such sweet, tiny moments.