What America means to me

The U.S. Constitution really isn’t a complex document, for all that it gives to you and me.

There are those out there who enjoy twisting it, striving through lawyers and demagoguery to take this sacred document and turn it into the rules on the barn wall in George Orwell’s Animal Farm. Those people are the ones who are either ashamed of being Americans, or are too frightened of America’s greatness to be willing to take a part in her majesty, hence they must, pardon the pun, try to take apart her majesty.

When I hear of people exercising their freedom of speech to run down this country, I have to wonder – just what does America mean to them?

That naturally begs the question – what does America mean to me?

It means I can freely express my faith in Jesus Christ; America, regardless of what the revisionists want us to think, was built on a strong foundation in the God-given right to worship.

America means if I am willing to work hard enough, I have as much chance as anyone else to better myself. Regardless of the whiners and wallowers who revel in shame and filth, America still offers anyone the opportunity to improve their station in life. Some will succeed, some will fail, but all have the right to try.

In America, I can cross the street or the country with little fear of some government functionary demanding to know why I wish to do so. What America means to me is that as long as I obey the laws, I can own a firearm for hunting, protecting my family, or just because I like guns.

What America means to me is that I have a right to vote, and it comes with the responsibility to make wise choices when I cast a ballot for people who will lead our communities and country.

What America means to me is that I can express myself through the written or spoken word, and no matter how often I trod on toes, no elected official has the legal right to prevent me from expressing my view. I can also read or listen to whichever viewpoints I desire, and make up my own mind.

America means all these things to me, and so much more.

What America means to me is that for four centuries, people have been willing to stand up for the idea that each person has certain rights granted by God; how you use those rights is your choice. Yes, it took nearly two centuries for those folks to come together and agree, and nearly two more before those rights were extended to all people, but those rights aren’t available anywhere else in the world.

Sometimes Americans have had to stand beside other countries against the evil of this world – it’s still happening, although too many in Washington think that evil is here, not in the hearts of those who hate freedom. Members of my family and extended family have defended our country since the first government at Jamestown. That I could not serve just makes me all the prouder of my Uncles Jim, Bob, Larry, and Johnny, not to mention my Grandfather Weaver and brother-in-law Gil and now his son, my “nevoo” John Thomas.

It embarrasses me sometimes when I see people who are, at least figuratively, fat and happy with freedom, yet persist in whining. They expect something to be done, yet don’t have the spine to take hold of the plow lines and help till the field.

Whenever I see someone like that, it helps to see people like my friend Faz Graham.

She’s a naturalized citizen who started baking cookies, brownies and cakes at home. Last year, she opened a bakery on a corner where few businesses have succeeded, but she’s making it work.

Faz started with next to nothing but her faith, her skill at cooking, and her love of America. She told me once how there was no place in the world that could give anyone an opportunity like America.

Then there’s Paco. I’ve never been sure if that’s his name or a nickname, but he came to America from Guatemala (legally, I might add) to work, and fell in love with America. He worked and scratched and sacrificed and jumped through the hoops, and a couple of years ago took the oath of citizenship. I’m willing to bet six out of 10 natural-born Americans couldn’t pass that test. Paco told me he cried when he held his hand up and swore to be true to America.

Paco has never received welfare benefits, and because this is America, his employer is successful enough to offer insurance that helps him care for his family. His children are all Americans – not “anchor babies” born to thwart the system, but American children who play baseball as well as soccer, and speak English.

Whenever I hear the complainers and naysayers, I have to ask myself, what does America mean?

America, to me, is a cornfield lovingly tilled by my friend Dean and his father. It’s a family car loaded with happy kids headed for a well-earned vacation, stopping to ride the Elwell Ferry before heading on to the beach.

America is a group of citizens attending a meeting of their elected officials and speaking their minds, regardless of the popularity of their opinion.

America is a freckled-faced girl with a lemonade stand beside an old church in a small town, dreaming of the day she could be president of the United States. America is a little boy wanting to be a firefighter, just like his daddy.

America is a cool church on a hot Sunday morning with a preacher reminding people that another place is much, much hotter. America is people choosing whether or not to worship in that church, whether or not I think they should be there.

America is a community led by people who listen and honestly do their best to do what’s right for its citizens – not because they fear those citizens might vote them out, but because it’s the right thing to do.

America is the right to express an opinion, just as it is the right to disagree with someone else’s opinion. No one, however, has the right not to be offended.

America is the blood and sweat and love of young men and women who go halfway around the world to help someone else learn of the beauty and freedom that are America.

That’s what America is to me.

Take a few minutes this weekend, if you will, and think about what America means to you – and remember why you have the right to do so.

Because this is America.

Weaver is a syndicated writer who lives in Kelly. Email him at  jeffweaver@newsreporter.biz.