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A glimpse of things to come
We moved quite a lot while I was a youngster. I'm sure I've already shared that I was born in Iowa and learned to talk in Texas (which explains why I so easily begin to say "ya'll" whenever I hear anyone with the slightest southern drawl speak).
I don't remember much about the Texas years, except for two nannies, my poor dead frog, one Fourth of July and the night we left.
Once we arrived in Colorado, we still didn't settle down, living in no less than seven houses in six years which meant that I was always the "new girl" during my elementary school years. That is not an easy thing to be, but I never stayed long enough in one school to get a "rep" although I did do my best to make a lasting impression.
I well remember a second grade teacher becoming very upset with me because I wouldn't quit turning around in my seat to watch the fifth-graders paint the "America the Beautiful" mural on the wall behind me. Driven to her breaking point, she strode down the aisle, picked me up, desk and all, turned me 180 degrees, plunked me down, and stated, quite emphatically, "There! And I don't care if you break your little neck trying to see what I've written on the blackboard." (I suppose if I were going to school today, they would have my medication waiting for me when I walked through the door.)
Most of the time, we lived in the suburbs of Denver, with a short stint in a rented farmhouse north of Castle Rock, back when it was truly a sleepy little town, with just one elementary school.
We also lived for a short time on Capital Hill, a Denver neighborhood within walking distance of City Park and the Museum of Natural History. The neighborhood was a microcosm of America itself, for within a just a few blocks, we had a Jewish family, a Mormon family, African-American families, Hispanic families, and who knows who all else. It was as close to a melting pot as I've ever been, and in many ways, it remains a favorite memory.
We were in a bad way, as a family. Things had gone horribly awry between Mom and Dad, and eventually, they separated, with Mom taking only the baby, Danett, with her. That left four young children with Dad, who knew precious little about the daily needs of growing children. They eventually reconciled, but the months of separation took a toll.
It was in this neighborhood that I first experienced compassion from the hands of strangers. It didn't matter one bit the cultural, religious or national background, this neighborhood took care of its own, and they mothered the four of us faultlessly.
Many times we would be invited to supper and Mrs. Thompson made a Sunday evening ritual of having us down to her house to watch "The Wonderful World of Disney" (in color, no less), always with a bowl of popcorn or ice cream to share. (She was handy with the tissues as tears poured forth for dear Tomasina and for Ol' Yeller .)
This is the wonder that is America. We, among all nations, are the most diverse and we, among all nations, are the most compassionate. And we, among all nations, have become a microcosm of heaven yet to come.
This unity of spirit was displayed in full view of the world on September 11 and in the days that have followed. The false barriers of race, religion and culture fell and at least part of Martin Luther King's dream is realized as we serve, toil and sacrifice together to hold on to the dream of the day when we are truly able to call all men brothers, the day when a man is judged for the content of his character, and not the color of his skin.
For just as God once called Israel from among all nations, to be his people, Jesus the Christ has commanded those who would follow him to go into all nations and make disciples of all men.
"There is neither Jew nor Greek, nor slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus." Galatians 3:28