All you need is love

If love wins, what loses?

"Love wins" has been a rallying cry for those who support same-sex marriage. After the Supreme Court’s 5-4 decision in Obergefell v. Hodges a celebratory post on the White House blog proclaimed that “Today, gay and lesbian couples won their right to marry. Today, love wins.” After all, the writer adds, “Love is love.” 

Back to my question: Winning goes hand-in-hand with losing. You can’t have one without the other. So the logical follow-on statement to “Love wins,” is “Hate loses.”

And just like that, those of us who disagree with this decision are branded as hateful or, at the very least, backward. After all, what decent human being would ever take a stand against love?

As someone who strives to use language with precision and skill I have to admit to a grudging admiration for the way the advocates for same-sex marriage framed their argument. They skipped discussions about the historical role of family in society and the ramifications of changing the definition of marriage and went straight for the heart. He loves her, he loves him, she loves her; it’s all good. Let’s get together for dinner tonight and watch “Modern Family.”

The only folks who aren’t on the receiving end of this goodwill are people like me. Disagreement cannot be tolerated. In his dissenting opinion Justice Samuel Alito summed up the result of Obergefell v. Hodges better than I ever could:

Today’s decision usurps the constitutional right of the people to decide whether to keep or alter the traditional understanding of marriage. The decision will also have other important consequences.

It will be used to vilify Americans who are unwilling to assent to the new orthodoxy. In the course of its opinion, the majority compares traditional marriage laws to laws that denied equal treatment for African-Americans and women.  The implications of this analogy will be exploited by those who are determined to stamp out every vestige of dissent.

Perhaps recognizing how its reasoning may be used, the majority attempts, toward the end of its opinion, to reassure those who oppose same-sex marriage that their rights of conscience will be protected. We will soon see whether this proves to be true. I assume that those who cling to old beliefs will be able to whisper their thoughts in the recesses of their homes, but if they repeat those views in public, they will risk being labeled as bigots and treated as such by governments, employers, and schools. (Emphasis mine)

At church yesterday our pastor reminded us that Christians are commanded to do two things: Love God and love people. They're simple directives but I've obeyed them with varying degrees of success---I am a work in progress. It's especially hard to love people who hold you in contempt. To be honest, I can't do it, not on my own, anyway. I need the help of Jesus Christ, the One Who paid the price for my sins. “I am the vine; you are the branches. If you remain in me and I in you, you will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing." John 15:5.
  
I attended an Episcopal school from sixth through 12th grade and this weekend I remembered a "contemporary" song from our chapel services. I think it's more than coincidence that it comes to mind now:

We are one in the Spirit

We are one in the Lord 

We are one in the Spirit 

We are one in the Lord

And we pray that all unity may one day be restored
And they'll know we are Christians by our love, by our love
Yes, they'll know we are Christians by our love
(Peter Scholtes)

 

Fathers, Day by Day

It's not hard to spot the good ones.

Around two weeks ago I turned on my TV and watched a grandfather squeeze his grandson’s shoulder, sharing his strength with the little boy at a critical moment. Then he kissed the child on the head and hugged him once again as they prepared to go into a church for a funeral. Even as the father mourned for his son he didn’t close up his heart. Instead he reached out to his grandson, his granddaughter and daughter-in-law and offered them a steady presence on which to lean.

Vice President Joe Biden is a man terribly familiar with loss. You've probably heard the story: A week before Christmas 1972, shortly after Mr. Biden was elected to the U.S. Senate, his wife and three children were in a car accident.  His wife and baby girl were killed and his two sons were seriously injured.  He wound up taking the oath of office in his sons' hospital room.

Mr. Biden cared for his sons in the midst of personal catastrophe, something you'd expect of a parent. What truly impresses me is the rest of the story, how he chose to continue to live in Delaware even while serving as a Senator in Washington, D.C.  His daily train commute tells me he understood that a successful father isn't born in the delivery room or even in the peaks and valleys of his children's lives.  A man becomes Daddy, Dad, Pop or Papa one day at a time: At the kitchen table, on the soccer field, in the grocery store aisle and the school auditorium.

I can't imagine the pain Mr. Biden must continue to endure as he mourns for his son Beau, who died May 30 at the age of 46. But I think it's likely he has been spared the sting of regret in this regard: I get the impression Beau knew just how much his father loved him.

I have been blessed by a circle of fathers. Daddy has been gone almost 27 years now but few days pass
that I don't think of him. So many moments: His making up songs for me as we drove to school, going to the first "Star Wars" movie together, studying the skies with his telescope in hopes of seeing aliens, going to the Dairy Queen for a treat after working in my grandmother's yard. Daddy was there for the major events of our family---the weddings, the births and the deaths---but I remember him for the multitude of little things.

Mr. Pettit departed from the Southern tradition of calling fathers "Daddy" when he held our older son for the first time and told him, "I'm your Papa." Daddy can't protest my praise but Mr. Pettit surely will if I take this opportunity to gush about what a fine father he has been and continues to be to our sons. Suffice it to say he became "Papa" through multiplication tables and
camping trips and countless games of catch and football.

Last summer our younger son became a father when he and his wife welcomed our Little Miss. It's beautiful to watch him become "Daddy" as he feeds and dresses her and changes diapers and flies her through the air. A host of little things that, when taken together, become significant.



Happy Father's Day to the men who take the time to live up to the title.

Voice Lessons

Those of you who know me only through this blog are unaware of an important aspect of my identity.

I talk funny.

I didn't come to this conclusion on my own. Unlike the flaws I dwell on when I look in the mirror or examine my thoughts, I had no idea my voice was anything other than perfectly fine until Mr. Pettit and I left South Carolina for Lubbock, Texas, in the spring of 1982.  From that time on, as we moved from state to state---nine in all---whenever I've met someone new, I've waited half a beat, wondering if the Question were imminent.

"Where are you from?"

Occasionally the Question is accompanied by a compliment, such as "I love a Southern accent!"  More common is "Say something else!" or my personal favorite, a really bad impression of a Southern accent, something about as authentic as collard greens in New York City:  "Waaayylll, I thawwt you must be from the Sowwth."

I've joked that if I ever have critical information to impart no one will hear what I say, only the way I say it.  Maybe this is why I'll never be in a Mission Impossible movie:
Ethan Hunt (played by Tom Cruise):  If this bomb goes off we'll be thrown into a nuclear winter, cats will rule the earth and I'll go bald!  Can't somebody defuse it?!
Rita:  I can! I can!
Ethan: Where are you from?

Here's where I acknowledge that on the continuum of burdens to bear the recurring commentary on my accent is about a negative 5.  I suppose I should be over it by now, that such remarks should have lost their sting.  But I haven't figured out how to make that happen anymore than I can ignore a wasp circling my soft drink.

I haven't rambled on about this in order to elicit a series of comforting statements from my friends.  I bring it up because I had a revelation in France.

Mr. Pettit and I love to travel and our most recent journey took us to Italy and the French Riviera.  It was wondrous and exhilarating to visit so many places I've dreamed of since middle school.

In St. Tropez we joined an excursion to the towns of Grimaud and Port Grimaud.  I took French in high school and college and have continued to study on my own.  Although I'm far from fluent I had been looking forward to practicing with our guide.

So of course I greeted Helen with a chirpy "Bonjour!" when we met.  She replied, "Parlez vous francais?"  To which I responded "Un peu." ("A little.")

Helen seemed surprised and said something I'll never forget: "You have a beautiful French accent."

Dumbo learned how to use his big ears to fly.  The Ugly Duckling became a Swan.  And the accent that had been the object of curiosity and even derision became beautiful.

The lovely streets of Grimaud

The next time I meet someone and they ask, "Where are you from?" I'll give my standard reply: "I'm from South Carolina but I keep my Southern accent wherever I go."  But in my heart I'll revisit the moment when I gained a new perspective on my voice.

Merci beaucoup, Helen!