Politics of Fear and a Culture of Heroes

 (As a side note, this is a post from my personal blog,  originally published this summer.)

Imagine my hesitation when I realized I was gearing up to write a political post. Me. A thirty-year-old woman in a tiny rental house with no credentials to my name. My job is stay-at-home-mom. I write books as a hobby. I teach 3 and 4-year-old kids every other Sunday and walk the same trail most mornings in a never ending loop.
I've never traveled outside of the US.
I've only been on a plane once.
I haven't even finished my degree yet. There's no reason to listen to me.
But.
None of that invalidates me. I may be small in the way of worldly sizing, but maybe, just maybe, that's what this post is going to be about. Size.

The heroes in our culture all started out small.
Luke Skywalker fought against the entire Empire with nothing on his side but a few rebels, an old spaceship, a smuggler, and a wookie.
Frodo set out to save Middle Earth with a group of nine that slowly dwindled down to two.
Harry Potter ultimately walked out to meet Lord Voldemort all alone.

We revere the courage of our heroes, admire their faith in the idea that good will prevail, and cheer them when they get back up after falling and keep going.
Is this only a thing of stories?

Maybe.

But the founding fathers were small in numbers when they wrote The Declaration of Independence.
Rosa Parks was just one woman on a bus.
And Miep Gies along with a few others who hid Anne Franks and her family weren't safe from the German government when they decided to do it anyway.

Every time I look, in stories everywhere, God is saving people, healing nations and making change in small ways with small numbers and small people. What a wonderful thing to be small!

When Israel was freed from Egypt, God sent one man with a staff.
When Haman conspired to have all the Jews killed, God sent a single woman before the king.
When our Heavenly Father wanted to save all His children, He sent a baby in a manger.

Do you believe in God's power? Do you believe in good? Do you really, really believe?
Do I?

One thing our heroes often have in common is courage in the face of fear. They do the right thing despite being afraid. If this is the common thread among our heroes, isn't it strange that I'm seeing the opposite preached in so many places?  There are voices telling me that being small and out numbered are a good enough reasons to abandon truth, honesty, kindness, humanity, and my own integrity.

Since when did the founding fathers add to the constitution "The President of the United States is first and foremost to serve their party and all who vote are really voting for a party not the man or woman?" My loyalty isn't to the party. Why can't my loyalty be to America? And the principles of compromise, logical discussion, and courage that our forefathers exemplified?

I grew up on heroes.
My teachers, my parents, my friends, maybe even you, fed me stories of one hero pitted against thousands.
But when the time comes to stand up.
When it's time to be that hero.
I'm told by some to fall in line.
Comply with the best chance numbers.
Act on fear.

No.
I won't do it.
I don't care if who I do vote for ends up losing. I don't care if the dreaded "other" party takes over as a result. I'm not going to fail prey to fear.

Why?

Because I want to look in my children's eyes and tell them I didn't back down when things got murky, confusing and hard. I want them to know I stood for kindness, compassion, honesty, and accountability.

I never want them ask me why I voted for someone I didn't believe in or feel good about and have to say it was because I was afraid, outnumbered, or that I simply gave up and joined the crowd.

I'm raising my children on heroes.
And I'm not going to be the person that lets them down.

"For God hath not given us the spirit of fear, but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind." (2 Timothy 1:7)

Do you remember singing this song?

"We will not retreat, though our numbers may be few 

when compared with the opposite host in view; 

But an unseen pow'r will aid me and you 

in the glorious cause of truth. 

Fear not though the enemy deride; 

courage, for the Lord is on our side. 

We will heed not what the wicked may say, 

but the Lord alone we will obey." 

(Let Us All Press On, Hymns, 243)

Do you believe that? I do!

No matter who you or I vote for, I hope you don't pick out of fear. Pick because you felt in your heart that it was the best choice. Do it with hope in a better tomorrow. Do it with gratitude for the founding fathers and for America.

And then. No matter who wins, no matter how dark things get, keep being the sort of hero that you want your children to admire. Still be kind. Still seek for truth before believing a rumor. Think and wait before passing judgment. Still stand for love, kindness, and humanity.

Think of this as our time to rise, our time to be heroes, to face our own incredible odds. Think of God and refuse to be guided by fear. To Him, numbers don't matter. Ever. Ask any bible hero; Daniel, Deborah, David. Ask the Nephites form the Book of Mormon. Ask Alma, Ammon, and Moroni.

And then go and be the your own sort of Luke, Frodo, or Harry. Because it's the right thing to do. Not because you'll always win, but because you are the sort of hero that believes in good and reaching for something better. Do it because you know that God will prevail in the end and that is the side you must know in your heart that you are on. Always.

Enough

Sitting in an empty car, outside the dorms where my oldest child will be living, I remember.

I remember going to bed every single night when the kids were little, filled with regret for the things that happened during the day, filled with longing to be with my children, enjoy them, hug them, now that they were sleeping in bed and it was too late. Sometimes I went to their rooms, watching them sleep, and I mourned missed opportunities. Their upturned faces would flash through my mind as sleep stayed far away, and I would rethink all of my, “just a minutes.” In the dark hours of the night, my earlier impatience seemed ridiculously based. My anger, inconceivable. How could I raise my voice at such innocence? Returning to bed, watching my husband’s sleeping form, I considered his regrets. Surely he had none. He played, he laughed, he guided with love and kindness.

Looking back, I still feel that pain, those missed opportunities, especially now, knowing they are irretrievable. But I also see more than I could during those days. I see tired. I see pregnant. I see many hours on my own during my husband’s law school and employment. I see desperation to prove myself, to become, to serve, to please. Six children in eleven years. I see club feet and eye patches and infant kidney trouble, infections. I see the last one to eat cold dinner, grocery trips with crying children, prying eyes, headaches; I see late nights and early mornings. I see lots of 3:00 AM. I see effort, such great striving, work and intent. I see desire. I see the trenches. I see a pure heart.

And joy. I see lots of fun. I relive memories of parks, and friends, and trips downtown to visit a monument or the statue of Einstein. I see the inside of our car, driving somewhere, everyone singing. I see laughing faces. I see Candyland, UNO, GoFish. I see books, so many books. I hear the words in my mind, “You fed your fish too much? Too bad.” Or “Goodnight cow jumping over the moon.”

Just the other day, we were quoting, “Big brown bear, blue bull…” while we laughed about some of the fun books we used to read together. Just the other day, no one needed me to buckle them in their car seat. We were laughing about a hidden Pokemon. We were watching a movie together. We were swimming in the pool, and I didn’t worry anyone would drown. We were driving down the East coast from New York to Florida. We were hiking the Narrows. We were gathered in prayer.

Just the other day, my daughter and I packed up her room, getting ready for her first semester of college and we came across a box of her baby clothes. Her eyes opened wide, almost in amusement as tears coursed down my face immediately, without warning, and I quickly closed that box. Bad timing. She’s expecting me to cry a little. I’m expecting to cry a lot. 

But I wasn’t expecting this flash of life before my eyes. I wasn’t expecting to question all those days and nights when she was little. I am hit, completely unprepared by a wall of insecurity. Does she know how to iron a shirt? Is that a silly worry? What about all those sleepless nights of regret? Is she forever less than she could be because of some mistake of her mother, my mistake? 

And the biggest question of all, does she have enough? Was I enough? All of these principles, these patterns and teachings I have instilled in her since she was in my belly, is it enough? As her mother, am I enough?

And the answer is no.

And yes.

I am not enough. And even though I most certainly could have been better, even my very best self is not enough. I was not meant to be enough by myself.

But she knows in whom to place her faith. And that is enough. I pray it is enough. Because I have trusted that it will be enough when the time comes for my children to fly. I have spent my life preparing and teaching and becoming, with the assurance that it will be enough. And even now, as I turn the ignition key and pull out of the parking lot, a quiet assurance comforts, and I sense, with a kind of hopeful exhilaration that it will be.