On the day of America’s 250th anniversary, I find myself reflecting.
Over the last few days, I’ve said to several people that, despite our challenges — and despite the political circus that seems to be permanently camped out in the middle of the room — I still believe the United States is the best country in the world.
Now, I realize my perspective is limited. I’ve only been to one other country. I haven’t seen the whole world with my own eyes. But when I think about the freedoms we have, the opportunities available to us, the ability to worship, speak, gather, work, build, disagree, vote, and dream — I can’t help but feel incredibly blessed.
And maybe that’s why this year feels so tender.
Because while I am deeply grateful for this country, I also feel a sadness I can’t quite shake.
Our city and state seem to be slowly chipping away at the very things that once felt simple and joyful. This year, once again, consumer fireworks have been banned, with the exception of sparklers, pop-its, and a few other harmless little things.
I understand the concern. I really do. We live in a place where fire danger is real, and protecting homes, land, animals, and people matters. We have always tried to be responsible. We don’t use the big illegal fireworks. We keep water nearby. We soak the used ones afterward. We pay attention.
I also know not everyone does.
But being told we can’t celebrate in the way so many of us grew up celebrating — especially this year, of all years — feels both heartbreaking and maddening.
Maybe part of this is midlife.
Maybe those of us in this season remember a version of the Fourth of July that feels harder and harder to find now. Community barbecues. Citywide fireworks displays. Parades down Main Street. American flags on every house, every corner, every storefront. Kids running barefoot through the grass with sticky fingers and red, white, and blue popsicles. Neighbors sitting in lawn chairs long after the sun went down. That deep, collective feeling that we were part of something bigger than ourselves.
Where we live, so much of that seems to have disappeared.
These days, when I see an American flag on a house or business, I’m honestly a little surprised. And that makes me sad. Not because patriotism has to look one certain way, or because loving your country means pretending it’s perfect. It doesn’t.
True patriotism is not blind loyalty.
It is gratitude with open eyes.
It is loving your country enough to celebrate what is good, mourn what is broken, and still believe it is worth protecting.
It is teaching the next generation that freedom is not a small thing. That community matters. That faith matters. That honoring where we come from does not mean ignoring where we still need to grow.
And maybe that’s what I’m really longing for.
Not just fireworks.
Not just flags.
But a sense of shared gratitude. A sense of community. A sense that we still know how to gather around a table, pass the potato salad, cheer when the sky lights up, and remember that we are blessed.
So this year, in our own small corner of the world, we are bringing a little of it back.
We are having a small potluck. We’ll barbecue hot dogs. There will be apple pie and blueberry pie. There will be laughter and lawn chairs and probably too much food. And yes, we will enjoy a few small fireworks we had to purchase in a neighboring city.
It won’t be fancy. It won’t be a parade. It won’t be a citywide celebration.
But it will be something.
A small act of remembrance.
A small act of gratitude.
A small act of patriotism.
At this point in my life, I find myself longing more and more for things that feel steady and rooted: pride in town, state, and country; neighbors who know each other; children who understand the gift of freedom; a slower, simpler way of living; and a world where we remember that Jesus is the only King.
Maybe that sounds old-fashioned.
Maybe it is.
But maybe midlife has a way of clarifying what we miss, what we value, and what we’re no longer willing to let quietly disappear.
So today, I’ll light a sparkler. I’ll eat pie. I’ll thank God for the blessing of living in this country. And I’ll pray that somewhere along the way, we find our way back to each other.