Eyes on the Prize

To raise money for a weeklong summer camping retreat to Colorado, my middle school-age church youth group sold fireworks.

Roman candles, Black Cats, ladyfingers, and combo packs perched on shelves on the back wall of a ramshackle fireworks stand, thrown together with plywood, particle board, spit and duct tape. 

We set up shop in a rougher part of town than our Baloney on White with Miracle Whip-Come Home When The Street Lights Come On neighborhood. My sister and I were on duty when a couple of kids from a socio-economic strata lower than ours approached.   

“Are you guys selling any bottle rockets, you know, under the counter?”

In the parlance of the day, these characters would have been described by our parents as “juvenile delinquents.” Like many substances that lured young wannabe criminals, bottle rockets were illegal, but readily available, provided you knew which counters to look under.

Brimming with youthful naivete and eager to please, my sister responded, “I don’t think so, but I’ll check,” literally ducking beneath the counter in a vain search for would-be ill-gotten booty.  

“I’m afraid not, but may I interest you in some sparklers? We have a variety of colors!”

The older I get, the less that experience smacks of fireworks and the more it seems to be about perspective.

Similarly, it would be easy to get hung up on the current occupant of the White House when pondering 250 years of American independence. Malignant narcissism, overt corruption, childish name calling. An 80-year old juvenile delinquent.

A few weeks after he descended the escalator in the other Manhattan, when it became clear he wasn’t going away, I began to purposefully separate man from mission/vision. It didn’t take long since mission and vision were nonexistent. Only self-aggrandizement. I couldn’t get past the immorality. It’s anathema to everything I expect of my president.     

Likewise, the bottle rocket-seekers didn’t care about kids from the right side of the tracks raising money to sit around a Colorado campfire singing about the hammers of justice and the bells of freedom.

Presidents and juvenile delinquents come and go. Thankfully, the American experiment is built to outlast both. America 250 invites us to focus less on the personalities of the moment and more on the enduring ideals of liberty, self-government, civic responsibility, and the twin pursuits of happiness and the stubborn, unfinished quest for a more perfect union.

For those who find themselves frustrated or inspired by current politics, the semiquincentennial (say that real fast three times) offers a reminder that the story of America belongs not to one self-centered grifter, but to generations of citizens who have shaped, challenged, defended, and renewed the republic across two-and-a-half centuries.

When I was a little kid, Martin Luther King told us the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.

It turns out that long-ago exchange behind a fireworks counter still has something to teach about keeping the main thing, the main thing.

Mike Matson’s column appears every other weekend in The Mercury, and he hosts ‘Within Reason,’ Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays at 9 a.m. on NewsRadio KMAN.