That Was Then

                                   THAT WAS THEN

Back in 2002, as we neared the first anniversary of 9-11, I
wrote the following:

      It wasn't supposed to be anything extraordinary.  We'd
driven out onto the plains of eastern Colorado to a small town
celebrating the kind of annual event that only small towns can
provide; large cities are way too organized to do this kind of
thing.  Anyway, the attraction had been the entertainment, a
band we enjoy.  There were, maybe, 300 people, mostly
residents of the tiny municipality and families from the
surrounding farms.

     We got there early enough to set up our lawn chairs on
the football field at the school.  The air carried the
distinct aroma of burning hickory, airborne evidence of a
country barbecue.  A profusion of kids ran everywhere,
greeting friends and playing, comfortable in the security of a
community that watches them carefully and protects them from
harm.

     This part of Colorado, by the way, was settled by people
of Irish and German and Hispanic and assorted Nordic stock,
and many of the family farms have been held for over a hundred
years.  And this land is still home to Sioux and Cheyenne. 
The mix was comfortably evident in the crowd.  These are
sturdy and stubborn folk, who refuse to yield to either
encroaching agri-business or drought.  They cling with
determined tenacity to the substance of shared beliefs.

     So, the band played and folks danced.  It was a good
time, a wistful end to summer.  When the band had played their
final number, one of the locals approached the microphone and
began to sing.  In beautiful, clear tones she began,
"Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the
Lord..."  When she finished she asked us to join her in
singing "God Bless America."  There may have been
one or two who made it all the way through without choking up.
 Then the field lights were turned off and we were asked to
direct our attention to the north end of the field.  On the
opening strains of the "Star Spangled Banner" a
spotlight illuminated a fire truck.  There was a collective
intake of breath, for on top of the truck stood three firemen
in full gear; they were holding a length of pipe, in the
middle of which fluttered a tattered flag.  We'd all seen the
photo.  Everyone got it.  Hands held over hearts occasionally
moved to the eyes.

     Now, there's really nothing quite like a fireworks show
viewed through tears.  Even when we began to chuckle at the
children's delighted, squealing response to the display, the
poignancy remained.  It's what we talked about as we folded
our chairs and headed for home.  For me, the evening had been
eloquent testimony for that which elevates us in the community
of nations.  In spite of our many flaws and foibles, we do
still have the rather unique distinction of having a national
character built upon God-given principles of family and
fellowship, even love.  In a world increasingly savaged by
cruelty and hate, we know where we stand.  Extraordinary.


But that was then.

By the second anniversary of 9-11 I was beginning to think I
needed to get my ears checked and my eyes examined.  I simply
could not, would not believe the things I was hearing and
reading.  In the space of mere months, those who had joined
together in common grief and determined hope were now standing
on opposite sides of a terrible abyss.

And where had that chasm come from?  You could tell by looking
at it that it wasn't a naturally occurring feature of our
civil landscape; it was too stark, to devoid of anything but
shadows.  And, most weirdly, those usually positioned for
speaking truth found themselves silenced when standing too
close to it, which might actually explain why it had been
situated precisely in the place where we used to meet for
civil conversation.

     Brothers, sisters, friends, neighbors, people we had
known forever stood on opposite sides of the unnatural divide.
 On this side, questions were asked when error was identified
and dangers were visible.  But something happened to our words
when we called out in warning to those on the other side, as
if those words had been consumed by the air above the chasm. 
Thus, those on the other side heard things we had never
uttered, and they responded in angry accusations.  When we
offered a better direction, we were told that we had no plan
except to embolden the enemy.  When we asked for an accounting
of our squandered treasure and trust, we were informed that if
those were diminished - IF? - it was our doing and none of
theirs.

     But.  While they were not hearing us, we were busy
hearing each other.  We kept talking and asking and looking
and trying, the hope in me connecting with the memory of hope
in you.  We began to emerge from our numbed disbelief and
began the work of reclaiming who we are.  With a small step
here and a larger one there we began to make progress. 
Whether we intended it or not, some of the folks across the
divide began to take notice.  We found that while extending
one hand to hold on to the person laboring beside us we could
still reach out in fellowship with the other.  And what do you
know?  Every now and then somebody across the way would take a
quick glance over their shoulder, take a deep breath and leap
across to grasp that hand.

     To be sure, we still have a tremendous amount of work
ahead of us.  We dare not pretend otherwise.  After all, 30%
of us are still languishing in the darkness.  And the pit is
still there, but it's not quite as scary as it was at first. 
We know, now, that it was deliberately created for the sole
purpose of dividing us from each other, with the goal being
that the pain of that rending would make us blind to the theft
and attempted destruction of our strengths.  But whoever
created that monstrosity failed to take into account our
stubborn ability to tell the difference between an external
threat and a far deadlier danger posed by an inside job.

     Now, many of those brothers and sisters and friends and
neighbors and people we've known forever have started talking
to us again.  Or at least stopped shouting.  There's not a lot
of direct eye contact just yet, and there's still a bit of
mumbling under the breath.  We still wince when we hear the
ever strident shrieks and howls from the receding peripheries
of the darkest part over there.  At this point, it is clearly
evident that they are choosing to maintain the distance
between us, clinging to the splintering remnant of their
sinister ambition.  And we're under no illusion that they're
anywhere near ready to quit.

     Happily, practical awareness is starting to replace the
constant drumbeat of paralyzing fear.  Civil conversation is
on the brink of making a comeback, albeit much to the
consternation of those who have endeavored to dominate all
conversation for so long.  Those who have been silent are
tentatively exercising their voices once again.  In reclaiming
the pride that is inherently the birthright of all of us we
are rejecting the ugly labels and misshapen definitions that
have been applied to us.  And, while we're at it, we're taking
back OUR flag, restoring it to its place as the vibrant
standard of a people noble in our entirety.

     It's time.  The job is ready to be done.  By working hard
and working together we can wrestle our national promise away
from those who would turn it to their own personal gain.  We
can put it back in its rightful place among the gleaming
accomplishments of human history.  With calloused and
blistered hands we can retrieve from the edge of the dung heap
that precious gift that is so, so much more than "just a
damn piece of paper."  And with its cherished safety
again assured we will reclaim our dignity and honor as a
nation, as we once again set our feet on the path to a promise
that is, ever and always, quite extraordinary.