The Fourth of July. The day we celebrate our Independence. This United States of America.
Many people lose sight of the true meaning of this holiday. We get distracted by cookouts, fireworks, vacations, parties, and travel. Heck, even hot dog eating contests. It is also a time when people get a couple extra days off work. The celebrations abound in honor of this day.
But many do not take the time to reflect on the absolute and profound importance of its meaning.
The United States of America. United. Integrated, common, and combined. Yes, United.
Ahhh. But. We don’t seem to be so united any longer. In fact, it seems that our great nation can’t agree on much of anything. This bothers me to no end. Yet. If we would ALL take a moment to remember the founding principles of this country, we can’t help but to stand side-by-side, and shoulder-to-shoulder.
Of course, the most obvious principle is stated early in that very incredible document.
“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”
These truths. We are all created equal. There are certain rights which are ours… absolute rights…. endowed by our Creator…. And among these are Life. Liberty. The Pursuit of Happiness.
All of us.
And then. Then, in our next great document, all of us are named as the individuals who partner to run this country. WE. We the People. Not a dictator. Not a monarch, or a President. It is all of us. The rich, the poor, the light, the dark, the old, the young, the tall, the short, and on. The People.
Let’s not forget any of this. WE. On the Fourth of July. Or ever.
“I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will.”
― Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre
“The most courageous act is still to think for yourself. Aloud.”
― Coco Chanel
“Lock up your libraries if you like; but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set upon the freedom of my mind.”
― Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own