”
Do you want to hand out yard signs and bumper stickers, or help
people send postcards and letters to the troops?
”
asked Sandi Zappa, the night before the Support the Troops
rally.
“Do you want to hand out yard signs and bumper stickers, or help people send postcards and letters to the troops?” asked Sandi Zappa, the night before the Support the Troops rally.
“What do the signs say?,” I hedged.
“We Support Our Troops, and God Bless America,” responded Sandi patiently. “Also we have little flag pins and God Bless America window decals.”
“No ‘Vote Republican Now?’‚” I joked.
“No, don’t be silly.”
So Friday afternoon, Anne and I walked over to Wheeler Auditorium. Anne bedecked her hat with a garland of red, white, and blue stars, then wrote a postcard to a soldier, thanking him for fighting, then played with her friends.
I did a land-office business in yard signs, bumper stickers, flag pins, and window decals. The “We Support Our Troops” signs were snapped up first – I had a hard time inserting wire frames into the signs fast enough for the eager crowds.
“How much?” people kept asking, and I kept answering, “Free, everything is free.” To which the inquirer would often respond, “Can I make a donation?”
I would then point out the Operation Yellow Ribbon and Operation Interdependent tables on either side of me. Mark Zappa had actually provided the signs, but all donations went to the two organizations, which send care packages and letters to the troops.
Many attendees also wrote cards and letters to the troops; both organizations took charge of thick packets of correspondence at the end of the rally. So the rally ended up supporting the troops emotionally, in addition to the donations for care packages that will be sent out.
The rally did something for the attendees as well, most of whom seemed to be veterans, or relatives and friends, or at least acquaintances of the military. Many mothers and wives told us that they had been feeling beleaguered and isolated, watching the peace protests on TV.
The rally was an outpouring of honor and respect and sympathy – that is sym-, together, and -pathy, feeling. We felt strong emotions together: pride and fear and love. We sang. I cried, which I had not anticipated at all. (Fortunately, it is allergy season, so I had tissues with me.)
The Republican party was not invoked at the rally, though God was, repeatedly and unabashedly, as most of the organizers, though not all the attendees, are Christians.
Here I feel that I must define my terms to the non-believers among you, dear readers. I use the word “Christian” to mean someone who believes that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, and that He rose from the dead. I am not using “Christian” to mean nice or good or compassionate, because there are lots of nice, good, compassionate people who do not believe those things about Jesus. Okay?
So, Christians believe in Jesus and in God. We do not just have an opinion about Jesus, as a person might have an opinion that blue is a nice color. We believe in Jesus as strongly as an ordinary person believes in gravity.
Since we believe in God and in Jesus, of course we pray for protection for our troops and peace in Iraq. Refusing to pray would be like refusing to give an antibiotic to someone suffering from bacterial pneumonia. Expecting a Christian to keep his stupid religion to himself is like expecting him to hide a cure for SARS.
Christians believe: therefore many of us will be quiet, sad, and distracted today, Good Friday. We will be thinking about thorns and whips and nails, spitting and curses and the lies of enemies, of how a blameless Man gave His life to pay for our sins.
And on Easter, we just might invite you to church, to rejoice with us and hear the Good News. If you have friends who are Christians, they will invite you because they like you. But strangers who are Christians will invite you too, and that is because Jesus loves you, and told them to.
Happy Easter.
Cynthia Anne Walker is a homeschooling mother of three and a former engineer. Her column is published in The Dispatch every Friday.
