The Fourth of July

   There's a place my family goes to watch a fireworks show every Fourth of July. I'm not going to idealize it because it isn't ideal. That's how it ought to be. We can look back on our childhood experiences of watching fireworks on the Fourth of July and remember it as this picture-perfect paradise of summer nostalgia, but that's not what really happened. The 'skeeters still ate you up.

    Last night was one of the best ones that I remember. Not because everything was perfect, but because I was able to drink in the experience and appreciate it for what it was.

    Most of my siblings had gone to other parties or were out of town. It was just my brother and me and my parents. My dad loaded the folding chairs into the back of the van, and Mother started it while I doused myself in bug spray. Usually I spritz a bit here and there, spread it out delicately with one hand and hope for the best.

    Not tonight.

    Tonight I was adopting the “devil-may-care,” attitude. The 'skeeters are going to feast themselves on my blood because that is what happens if I stir out of doors in the summer. Usually it's nice to sort of dress all patriotic and cute to go watch fireworks, but I realized about an hour before it was time to leave that this year I didn't want to chafe in jeans on a hot, sticky July night in the middle of a field somewhere.  Besides, I didn't fancy my jeans smelling like bug spray for the next week. So shorts, t-shirt, and tennis shoes (because bug bites on the feet keep me up at night). Hey, they were red and blue. The shoes are purple and electric lime, but nobody was going to care. I was aware that I might look about fifteen when I'm certainly not. But oh, well. The devil may care.

   So I was lavishly applying bug spray, suppressing my dislike the sticky, dirty layer it leaves on my skin. I applied it as carefully as I apply sunscreen; including my forehead, nose, ears, neck. Blocking out how long it was going to take me to smell clean again.

   I took it as a good sign when my dad gagged when I approached the van. Mother laughed and suggested I could've waited until we got there. Everyone had to endure my reeking of the summery smell of bug spray for the whole car ride there.

    We picked my brother up, and we drove out of town. The CD player didn't work, so we turned on the classical station to hear “Fireworks” by Jerry Goldsmith playing. It had the open-aired, yet fantastical sound that I associate with Aaron Copeland's music.

    For a bit, I got to be a kid again, having time to stare out the window as my parents drove. I watched fireworks springing above tree-lines in every direction. It was a hazy night, but one star shone out just above us.

    I know this road better than I knew it last year. It has become my stomping-grounds.

    I didn't feel the squirmy ecstasy that I used to feel when I was little. But this year I didn't feel jaded and cold, either. Nor did I feel sad. I felt excited because I knew it was going to be fun, but under no delusions that it was going to change my life or anything.

    We pulled into the nearby parking lot and shouldered our chairs. So many people come to this area for the show that it's better to park a long ways away and just hike until you find a nice spot. The restaurants were doing roaring business tonight.

    I looked around the parking lot and grinned to myself. This used to be a Kroger. One year my dad had taken us all inside, and upon finding his favorite brand of pickles that our local store had stopped selling, he loaded each member of his family down with as many pickle jars as we could carry and had us waddle behind him to the check-out. I remembered how afraid I had been that one of the jars under my arm would slip and smash sweet pickles and glass shards all over the floor. I can still see the bewildered, shocked expression on the cashier's face when she looked us up and down; I remembered exactly how my dad had laughed when she called us “the pickle family.”

    And just over there on that side of the parking lot our family had once hung around after the show to let the traffic clear out. It was three or maybe four years ago. We kids did what we always did when instructed to hang about waiting for the adults—we looked for something to entertain ourselves. My brother climbed into a nearby grocery cart and stood proudly within its basket to read aloud from his pocket-sized copy of the Constitution.

    That's my family. We're kind of weird, but that's who we are. I reflected how fortunate I was to be part of it.

    We met up with some of my brother's friends and a bunch of extended family that we hadn't been expecting to see. We had to hike quite a ways to find each other, which would look funny in the full light of day, but nobody really minded. There's a surprisingly large bit of land next to the shopping center, and that's where they shoot off the fireworks. There were cars and lots of trucks parked in lines along the grass, which some good soul had bothered to mow a good portion of. You could see families sitting on tailgates, kids playing with glow-in-the-dark toys, even a few perched on the roofs of their parents' cars. There were lawn chairs in little bunches, and country music rang out from a few directions.

    'Merica. All that was missing were a few flags and some red, white, and blue popsicles.

    Evidently, there is a lake that the fireworks are shot beside. I think I've heard that there was a lake, but I'm not sure I'd ever seen it before. Last night we set up camp (as it were) right beside it. It was the best seating you could hope for. There was no one in front of us, and the explosions went off directly above our heads.

    We had to wait so long for the show to start that I was beginning to worry that we'd already missed it, or that we were facing the wrong direction. But when a powerful *thuph*--*thuph* sounded, I knew my fears were unfounded.

    Fireworks are some of my favorite things in the world. There's something magical about them. Maybe it's the colored light. Maybe it's the sparkles. They're for celebration, they're for jubilation.

    Maybe it's the noise; the shrieking, the bangs, the fizzing. The white ones that dazzle your eyes and give a crack so loud that it makes your heart stand still. Or perhaps it's in the boom of the huge circles of color that make you feel as though they're inside you, somehow. There are the ones my mother likes that start off as big circles, but the little lights divide and chase each other about like fireflies before they fade away. Then there are the ones that divide into little formations of red, white, and blue. Twice last night I saw a few red designs that looked a bit like hearts.

    At one point, there was a thuph sound, and a gold comet shot out straight over the lake. Everyone laughed. It looked like an accident; maybe the launcher had started to fall over as it was lit. It went out suddenly, no doubt where it hit the lake. I was just opening my mouth to comment that it was a shame for it to be wasted when with a screech, twenty or thirty gold squiggles sprang up from the surface and danced about! The laughter turned to “oohs” and then to applause. I joined in enthusiastically, hoping the team over there could hear the response that they obviously had planned for.

    “Fireworks, Gandalf!” I heard my brother quote. “Gandalf's fireworks!!”

    We're a bunch of nerds too, the lot of us. I wouldn't have it any other way.

    My favorite fireworks are the shimmery gold ones that leaving glittering trails that hang in the sky for a few seconds before they fade. They look like a magic flower, or a golden willow tree.

    Each year when I watch the fireworks, I always feel alone. Like it's just me and the fireworks. I don't hear the racket around me, only the sound of the rockets and the reflections of my heart. Every year I wish someone was sitting beside me, holding my hand. I wish someone felt fireworks inside them when they looked at me. I confess every year I tell my heart, “Maybe next year...”

    Except last year. Last year I just said no. My mother always told me not to wish my life away. Life is not full of fireworks. They come on special occasions, and not always when you expect them to. Sometimes they fire off in a heart-stopping finale right on cue. Other times they blaze up right in the middle of everyday life. And sometimes they won't come for a long time. Life is not the fireworks.

    Life is comprised in the ordinary surroundings. I let my senses stray a bit to take in the whole picture. Right now I was surrounded by family, even a few friends. It was a warm night with a bit of a breeze, not too sticky. No itching welts—yet--thanks to that coating of bug spray still strong in my nose. Lawn chairs, a water bottle, clouds of cigarette smoke drifting over us that I was having to breathe in. The sound of a young girl's laughing voice saying, “That's all, folks!”

    This was my life. This was pretty special. Why would I want to wish it away?

    I couldn't help wondering to myself how many more years would this be allowed? When would people begin trying to take away the pride and individuality of this country even here in the heart of the South? I keep hearing more and more hatred and loathing toward the United States. Children are being taught to hate this country. It troubles me. No, we're not perfect, yes, we need change, but no nation's record is without black marks.

    I thought of my grandfather sitting behind me, and tried to imagine the things he saw when fighting for this country. He doesn't talk about it much, but he was there. He lived it. He fought for my freedom, for every person present to have the freedom to sit at our ease and celebrate our country's responsibility to rule herself. How long would it be before the shrieks from rockets be replaced by real bombs? The bangs of the fireworks be replaced by gunfire?

    I could almost see it. The divisiveness in America has come from our lost resolve to rule ourselves, both politically and privately. Rampant irresponsibility has fanned the flames of our desires. Discontent has come from refusing to work for what we want. All this has come when our nation turned away from God and sought answers in our own self-satisfaction. We've stopped following God's laws, stopped honoring Him, and told Him to shove off; that we could run our lives without Him.

    I don't define myself by political views. I know that man is corrupt and selfish on the inside. I know that God formed every tiny fetus that has ever been begotten in His image, and that we owe Him our love and worship. I also know that He loves us and bore His sentence against us in His own beloved Son, so that a way of repentance and forgiveness was offered us. I know that He yearns for His children of every nation, and that He grieves at our stubborn hearts and yearns for us to be reconciled to Himself.

    I know that Jesus is the Son of God, and without turning to Him in repentance and worship, there is no hope for mankind. There is no enlightenment, no hidden knowledge, no cure, no drug, no other spirit, force, or secret that can restore what was lost, broken, or corrupted in us.

    Politics will not save us, nor will politicians. Even morals, and fairness, as good as they are, can only take us so far. They cannot restore, and we cannot heal what is wrong with our souls by ourselves. There is no other teacher, or enlightened one, or love, or deed that can save this country.

    Jesus is coming back soon. I don't know what will happen before He comes, but will He find me faithful at my post? Will He find me twiddling my thumbs or hiding in my room numbing my emptiness or wishing my life away? If I'm called upon to fight or protect someone else, I hope He gives me the courage to go down with honor. Or, worse, if I'm called upon to lose the ones closest to me, will I be willing to live every day with courage? Or if I'm hunted down and forced to lose my job or freedoms or rights because I offended the wrong people, will I bear the Name of Christ well?

    I hope to God that I do. 

   "America, America

   God mend thine every flaw!

   Confirm thy soul in self control,

   Thy liberty in law!"  

   Now all I have to do is put up with all the firework videos that everyone will plaster all over Facebook.  Ugh.  Can't you just live your experiences, people?  

   That and all the whining about how fireworks scare doggies and keep children awake at night.  

   Well, I'm terribly sorry that a nation-wide tradition celebrating our country's birth moderately inconveniences you for one night!  Geez....!  

   But on the plus side, I haven't found *one* mosquito bite on me yet!  Not one!  I feel like that ought to be noted for posterity.  Bug spray will work if you put enough on!

   Till next time!

~Cadenza