Telling Your Story
The election (and subsequent campaign ads) is finally over. No matter who you voted for or against, no one is sad to be rid of commercials, phone calls, texts and mailers. My mailbox is surprisingly empty this week, and my mail carrier—and I have no idea about her personal politics—is probably the happiest person in the county right now.
You can't be a Christian and vote for so and so. People carrying both elephant and donkey caricatures accuse the other equally in this regard. Whether donkey or elephant, I believe people who make such declarations honestly believe the other is acting out hypocrisy on a magnanimous level. I find myself having the same thoughts—how could they as congregants that I know even partake in Holy Communion while possibly supporting candidate X who so blatantly supports all that I oppose? While disagreeing with them politically, I totally need to keep that how-can-they-even-be-a-Christian thought in check.
The media and politicians and think-tankers and academia will send the message ad nauseam that we are different and divided as a nation and people. One group bad, the other good.
Post-election wailing has reminded me of something that happened late on a Saturday evening during the fall in the 1960s; I was just a kid. It was already dark outside; supper was finished, and bath time was in progress or possibly even finished. An unfamiliar tractor pulled into the driveway. That wouldn't be so unusual during any day of the week except Sunday, but it had all of us staring out the window in surprise on a frosty Saturday night.
An adolescent was at the wheel, and Dad went out to meet a young man in tears. The boy had been given the big responsibility of driving a tractor home from a repair shop. It was probably a huge deal for him and pretty exciting to be trusted to get the tractor home, navigate roads, traffic and traffic signs, while Mom and Dad finished chores and whatever needed to be done before Sunday. In the process, he got to enjoy a lot of time in the seat of a tractor; it had to be a proud and exciting moment.
And then he got lost.
It got dark and he got even more lost.
He wasn't even in the right county.
After driving around for hours, he was almost out of fuel.
Can you imagine how scared he was? Can you imagine how worried his parents must have been? They dropped their kid off, expecting to see him in an hour, and now it's dark and approaching bedtime? They must have been frantic! There were no cell phones to depend on, and if someone got into trouble, there was hopefully the charity of a kind stranger to help.
Mom wrapped a sandwich; Dad drove him home. I don't even know if a phone call was made to relieve anxious parents. But the boy was delivered home, safe and sound, albeit chilled to the bone, and probably feeling foolish and embarrassed.
It would not have mattered the color of his skin, what church he went to or if he did, or what political party his parents supported. He was a kid who made a wrong turn, got lost and needed a hand.
There were no profound messages made that night. Someone was in trouble, and my parents could help. Most people would.
So, while "they" are trying to tell you we are all so different—and by different, I mean some people are bad and some people are good, don't believe it all. We might see things differently. We will disagree. We have differing means to the end. But no matter how much we are told the opposite, I believe that we aren't as different as we are told to be, and that fundamentally, people try to be good, do good and strive to be good.
Bev Berens is a freelance writer and empty nester from Vestaburg, Mich. She can be contacted at uphillfarm494@yahoo.com.