My favorite thing to do on the 4th of July is scroll social media for photos of my friends and family celebrating Independence Day. I love families in coordinated outfits, chubby babies decked in red, white and blue, and cute star-shaped watermelon chunks. I love how every year, Americans ooh and ahh, sincerely awed by the bursts of fire shot into the sky, and take photos that can’t possibly do justice to the sight. I have always thought that America the Beautiful would be a much more inspiring national anthem, but on the 4th of July, there are no lyrics more appropriate than “and the rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air, gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.” Because it’s night, and there are fireworks bursting in air, and the flag is still there.
Every year it’s the same, so it’s ordinary. But I live abroad, without fireworks on the 4th of July, without a red, white and blue flag, without potato salad, barbecue and apple pie, so it’s extraordinary.
One of my friends posted a photo series of her children and their friends standing on the sidewalk, watching the sky on the 4th of July. An ordinary photo in an ordinary American neighborhood. The dusky light evokes a 70s vibe, but an enormous black Cadillac and a maroon station wagon made me question the decade. If it weren’t for the razor scooter at the side of the eldest boy (and the sharp clarity of the photo), it might be 1982. The nostalgia is palpable. Nothing is happening in the photo, except children standing still.
Every summer in the Northwest, the sun sets late, so it’s ordinary. But it is increasingly difficult to expose our children to the carefree, tech free summers of our own childhood, so it’s extraordinary.
Somehow, recently I was struck with awareness that we are in a sweet spot with our kids, that middle elementary age. They have learned to control their bodies and their emotions. They can do so much by themselves, but they still depend on us for everything. They’re children, but they understand profound things. They make jokes. They snuggle. I see fruit of faith born in their lives. I can curl my daughter’s hair and dab on some lip gloss, but I can also hug her in public. My son might scowl if I cheer too loud at a soccer game, but he still holds my hand to cross the street.
Children get older, so it’s ordinary. But they’re my children, growing up abroad, so it’s extraordinary.
As we prepare to spend half a year in the extraordinary state of living in our passport country that is no longer our home, I pray I won’t miss the ordinary moments that will become precious memories.
It’s extraordinary because it’s furlough. But, risking the cliché, we’re home when we’re together, so it’s ordinary. Let me not miss it, Lord.
I missed the deadline to participate (story of my life), but this essay was inspired by the July blog hop with Exhale.