Your faith is evident by the seeds you plant. It lies within your spirit battling your mind with a patient smile knowing that home is where your heart beats. Mind over matter is just that.
Your true pride shows by the ground your feet trod. Favorite colors fade and stars hide behind the light of day contrasting the patriot and the common man. Life can’t grow on flags or feelings, soil is life.
Your service is tradition while folks live their lives in spite of you. You can’t have pride in serving people you don’t know, but your vicarious life has meaning to a system that swallows communities without tasting the citizens pain.
Alas, the scheme permeates families like an invisible myst as Dad goes to work leaving mom to clean up his mess. I see the rubric and the boxes you’ve strategically placed to keep “us” stored.
So now we inadvertently give life to inanimate objects for your toy box. Monuments and mouthpieces stand tall and loud hiding the earth they came from so you can cultivate an ideal, but I’m rooted in reality. Sewn in the soil of revolution. Tended by calloused hands stained with dirt.
I’m rooted in the belief that my faith was born on a cross, not in a building. My country was born in the soil that stained the souls and hands of people, not in a monument made of dust. My community was born in outstretched hands and hearts, not in civic centers or duties. My family was born in the love of my forefathers, our homes are just real estate.
So you can try to bring inanimate objects to life for your personal gain or financial windfall. Just remember not all of us are blinded by your emotions; and vigilance stands guard over people, not things.