when the sky lights up
Photo: Hanley Frantz
The big 250th birthday we just celebrated on the Fourth of July has stayed with me.
Maybe because, for one day at least, even those of us scattered across the political spectrum — right, left, center, independent, undecided, or entirely confused by the whole thing — could agree that 250 years is no small thing.
Like old age, it is a privilege to still be standing (because the alternative is not especially appealing).
And celebrate we did.
The country erupted in fireworks. Tall ships gathered in all their glory. There were barbecues and s’mores and bonfires and family time, mosquitoes exercising their own version of freedom, and lots and lots of red, white, and blue.
I have always loved the Fourth of July. In addition to celebrating the country we live in, it is also a dear friend’s birthday — Happy Birthday, Cary! — but this year felt different.
Bigger. More meaningful. Maybe even a little more fragile.
And amid all the revelry, I hope we did not skim past the true essence of our country’s story. I hope we paused long enough to remember that the words of the Declaration were not just written to be stored in a glass case. They had to be carried, protected, and defended by men and women ever since.
The real heroes whose daily sacrifices make it possible for the rest of us to stand beneath a free sky and fill it with light.
Which brings me to a conversation I had a few weeks ago at a beautiful, joy-filled wedding.
As we do at this age, my dinner partner and I talked about our children — where they are, what they are doing, who they are dating or not dating, and how quickly they seem to have grown up while we were not looking.
At some point, he leaned in and said, “You know, sometimes I get a little frustrated.”
He explained that when people hear his son serves in the military as an Army Ranger, some recognize the sacrifice and commitment. But many respond with disbelief.
“Isn’t serving in the military dangerous?” “Aren’t you scared?” “How could you let him serve?”
Yes, of course it is dangerous, and of course they are scared.
No parent sends a child into military service without understanding that pride and fear can live in the very same heart.
His son felt called to serve. From a young age, he had a strong sense of duty and a desire to do something meaningful with his life. He understood the risks, and still he chose that path with courage and conviction.
And then the father said something that stayed with me:
“Freedom isn’t free. And if no one’s son or daughter serves, then who protects the freedoms the rest of us enjoy?”
That stopped me.
Because while many of us celebrated the Fourth with sparklers, hamburgers, beach chairs, fireworks, and red, white, and blue outfits that probably should have been retired several summers ago, there were families in this country celebrating with a very different kind of awareness.
They are proud. They are grateful. They are brave.
But for them, it is personal.
Their sons and daughters are not just ideas in a patriotic speech. They are real people. They have childhood bedrooms and favorite meals and old sneakers by the back door. They have mothers who still see them as little boys and girls. Fathers trying very hard to sound steady.
It is easy to celebrate freedom when it feels effortless.
It is harder, and far more important, to remember that freedom has never actually been effortless.
Someone has missed the birthday dinner.
Someone has missed the wedding.
Someone has stood watch while the rest of us slept.
Someone has boarded the plane.
Someone has said yes when many of us would have quietly hoped someone else would.
And maybe that is what this 250th birthday asks of us.
Not that we all agree. Not that we pretend everything is perfect. Not that we stop arguing, debating, questioning, protesting, voting, and pushing this country to live more fully into its own promises.
But that we remember the gift.
The imperfect, complicated, sometimes maddening, still extraordinary gift of living in a country where we are free to disagree. Free to worship or not worship. Free to speak. Free to gather. Free to vote. Free to complain about our leaders, our taxes, our traffic, our cable bills, and the price of hamburgers.
Free to hope.
Free because men and women continue to safeguard that gift.
At 250, America is not young, exactly. But maybe, like all of us as we age, the question becomes less about fireworks and more about wisdom.
What have we learned? What are we protecting? What are we taking for granted? And who are we remembering while the sky lights up?
So yes, we celebrated. We waved flags. We ate too much because apparently patriotism pairs perfectly with potato salad and hot dogs. We watched the fireworks bloom and disappear over the water.
But I hope somewhere in the noise and sparkle, we also lingered.
For the Rangers.
For the SEALs.
For the soldiers.
For the sailors.
For the Marines.
For the airmen and women.
For the Coast Guard.
For the families who serve alongside them in quieter ways.
For the ones who came home changed.
And for the ones who did not come home at all.
I hope we remember them not only on the Fourth of July, when the flags are flying, but on ordinary days too.
When the flag hangs quietly from a porch. When we pass a veteran in the grocery store. When we drive by a small-town memorial we have seen so many times we almost stop noticing it. When the words life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness appear again, as familiar as they are extraordinary.
Because America at 250 is not just a birthday. It is a reminder that freedom is a gift.
I do not have a child in the military. I cannot begin to understand the emotional toll of that kind of pride, fear, faith, and surrender.
But I do know this - these young men and women, and the families who love them, deserve our gratitude and awe.
Not just in the glory of our 4th of July celebrations, but in the everyday moments their service protects.
The quiet porch flag. The sleeping child. The family dinner. The gift, still, of being here.
America at 250. Imperfect. Grateful. Still standing.