The Narrowing Road

I am acquainted with death more than the average person as an element of my career. It is inglorious for even the most stoic or heroic. It is precious for the saints, in God's eyes, according to the Psalmist (116:15), but only an eternal perspective can make it so. The passing of those closest to me were difficult, to say the least, and not witnessed by me. My sister passed from AIDS in her forties in a nursing home in Baltimore. I got the word just before I boarded a plane to visit, but in time to identify her. My brother died in his sleep, presumably peacefully, but we never know that. It was expected. Cancer. Same for his wife five years after. Their sons died violently, one by homicide, the other by suicide, ages 22 and 19. My mother died at home, as was her wish, but in a difficult final struggle in the presence of my older brother and a hospice worker. But everyone has their own stories, so mine are not any more notable than another.  The one different from those I've not...

Juneteenth probably means very little to the average American, certainly nothing extraordinarily personal. Perhaps this year, America's 250th, it should, if we can collectively discipline ourselves to have some level of gratitude for our nation and its history. I'm envisioning the streets of Galveston, Texas, in 1866 at the first formal celebration, or Jubilee Day, on the anniversary of the announcement delivered by Union General Gordan Granger of General Order #3, that there was no more slavery in Texas. The celebration involved dressing up, feasting, and religious activities of prayer, singing, and storytelling.  What we don't see is any evidence of wide-spread cynicism and grumbling that we might see today. "Why did it take so long to get us the message that slavery was over?", "Lincoln is such a hypocrite, the Emancipation was only for the South, what about those Northerners? Isn't he the one that said we should be shipped back to Africa?" "...