The Film Civil War and What I Learned

 

The film Civil War debuted this weekend, but it is not about the past Civil War, the one where the good guys and the bad guys and the reasons behind the war are pretty clear. Instead, the film is set in a near future, one in which the divisive animosities of today have played themselves out to an unbearably violent war. (Note: the R rating is earned for remarkably disturbing images of war and death. This is not one to take the children to.) Director and writer Alex Garland has shown admirable restraint by not assigning a moral high ground to either side of the conflict. Instead, the film focuses on a carload of journalists traveling through the chaos of war from New York City to Washington DC—Lee (Kirsten Dunst), the weary war photographer; Joel (Wagner Moura), the experienced war correspondent; Sammy ( Stephen McKinley Henderson), the aging NewYork Times reporter; and Jesse (Cailey Spaeny), the very young aspiring photographer. These four characters provide the lens through which we experience the conflict and, more importantly, allow us, the audience, to decide what we want to learn. The writing, directing, cinematography and acting are excellent, but this is not a review. Instead, I want to share three things I learned.

1.     War is hell. The film is unswerving in depicting the destructiveness of war, both physical and emotional. Fires burn, unchecked in cities and forests. The camera does not spare us gruesome details as People are killed in almost every possible way. This destruction is especially devastating because it takes place in the familiar settings of our life—the JC Penney’s parking lot, the rural gas station, the roadside tourist Santa-land. 

But even more disturbing is the destruction of human compassion.  Throughout the film we see men and women torture and kill. At one point the reporter asks why are you shooting? The response: Because they are shooting at me. There is no ideological high ground, just mindless violence responding to violence. And then, almost more disturbing, are those who try to ignore the war around them—an eerily quiet town barricaded against the war, ignoring the pain and suffering just outside their city limits.

So, the first lesson I learned in the movie is that the conflict and animosity we are feeding today could lead to physical war and suffering in the future. It’s not worth the cost. We don’t want to end up in a world even remotely resembling the one in this movie.

2.     Objective journalism matters. At one point in the movie, young Jessie is asked to make the call whether a tortured man lives or dies. (He is nearly dead anyway.) Terrified, she freezes. Experienced photographer Lee simply photographs the horrifying scene. Later, Jessie asks Lee, “Why couldn’t I speak out, make the decision?” Lee responds, “That’s not our job. Our job is to take the photo and let those who see it make the decision.” And that is the job of journalists: To reveal as truthfully as possible all the sides of an issue, so that their readers can make informed decisions.

This is not the way journalism seems to be heading now. An April 12 Wall Street Journal article details the current conflict at the New York Times “where management has been at odds with factions of the newsroom over . . . coverage of sensitive topics like the transgender community and social justice.” Leaders at the paper are “concerned that some Times journalists are compromising their neutrality and applying ideological purity tests to coverage decisions.” Then there is this April 9 story in The Free Press, in which long-time NPR reporter Uri Berliner shares cases of blatant biased reporting at NPR. He says “An open-minded spirit no longer exists within NPR, and now, predictably, we don’t have an audience that reflects America.” Berliner warns that the press “expect[s] high standards of transparency from public figures and institutions, but [doesn’t] practice those standards.” 

The lesson here: If we are going to avoid an all-out conflagration (or even dysfunctional government) the free press needs to step up as a source of fair and unbiased reporting. Thomas Jefferson said, "our liberty depends on the freedom of the press." The press matters in a democracy because people can only make good decisions at the polls if they are well informed. Without clear-eyed objective reporting, voters will not know who to trust or what to believe. Then the way is clear for misinformation and conspiracy theories to take the tiller of the ship of state. We need to be able to trust the press.

3.     Each individual journey matters. This film is centered on a journey, an archetypal, mythical journey if you will. As the journalists’ SUV travels from NYC to DC, the characters also journey toward self-knowledge, as we all do in our life experience, a mythic journey we know so well from fairy tales, Star Trek, and Lord of the Rings. A young innocent sets forth on adventure, is aided and mentored by experienced guides, and completes the journey with a boon, a gift, a knowledge she didn’t have before. 

 

In this film, Jessie is the innocent. She says she is 23 but looks not a day over 16. Along the way she faces trial after trial and is taught and saved by her mentors. In the end, she faces the reality and the horror of what is happening, bravely recording the truth to share with the world. Perhaps her photographs will stun her country into fighting for a better future. 

And that, finally, is what all three messages add up to for me. If we don’t want physical war and violence to destroy our country, or even metaphorical warfare to prevent our growth, we must each individually follow the hero path and fight for a better world. We must strive to find ways to overcome animosity and distrust. We must look for ways to promote wise governance. We can’t hide from it all, hoping it will go away. We need to find trustworthy sources, even if that means consuming many different media outlets, reflecting different biases. We need to be informed. We need to vote. We need to speak up rationally, without enmity. We need to do what we can, individually, to help our country.

The film Civil War shows us that the direction we are heading is not where we want to go. Let’s change course now.

 

 

Books Changing Me in 2023

 

I love to read. In 2023, I read 79 books, usually two or three books at a time--audible, digital, and paper. A lot of my reading is just for fun--“going-to-sleep” books, I call them--cozy mysteries and YA books I can read just until my eyes close at night. These don’t ask a lot of me.

 

But every year some books change me. Here are a few that made me want to be better last year, making me want to “Confront My Mortality” and “Do Stuff Anyway.” 

 

Confronting My Mortality

Being Mortal by Atul Gawande was a good reminder of the fragility we nearly all face at the end of life. Gawande, a medical doctor, looks closely at this fragility and how we can better prepare for it, both personally (make good plans) and as a culture (create good places for the fragile elderly). For me, I met with my children to discuss my financial affairs, my passwords, my trust, and--according to Gawande, most important of all--my Living Will. 

 

In The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning, Margareta Magnusson, who is Swedish and “between 80 and 100” (her words), takes us along as she considers the accumulations of a long and happy life, reflecting on the memories and the joy, and then passing the possessions on to others. It was a sweet reminder that what matters is not the things we accumulate but our experiences, those we love, and what we learn and become. Now I find I am more willing to let go of stuff.

 

Learning and sharing is the theme of From Strength to Strength: Finding Success, Happiness, and Deep Purpose in the Second Half of Life by Arthur C. Brooks. A Harvard professor of Public Leadership, Brooks has written many influential books, including Who Really Cares: The Surprising Truth About Compassionate Conservatism and Love Your Enemies: How Decent People Can Save America from the Culture of Contempt. From Strength to Strength is about recognizing the good older people can still do. Though we may not excel at basketball or high finance, we can share the strengths we have accumulated over a lifetime, strengths of wisdom and understanding. Since reading this one, I’m thinking about what I have yet to contribute, which leads to the next category of influential books—doing stuff. 

 

Doing Stuff

Edmund Morris’s hefty three volume biography of Theodore Roosevelt provides a great model for doing stuff. The Rise of Theodore Roosevelt, the first volume, portrays a brilliant but sickly teen who exercised daily out for hours to overcome his own body. After the tragic death of his first wife, Teddy determined--after one day of tears and despair--to never talk of it again. He went west, bought a ranch in North Dakota, and spent his time hunting, exploring, and writing very successful history books. After his stint as president, Teddy explored the wilds of Africa and the Amazon, nearly dying in the latter attempt. While campaigning for president a second time, he is shot by an assassin, but insists on finishing his speech before being treated. Roosevelt never gave up, and we shouldn’t either. 

 

If Morris provided a role model for doing stuff, Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear by Elizabeth Gilbert provides a cheerleader, inciting me to get up and do that thing, whatever it is. There will never be a better time. And if you don’t do it now, someone else will and you will miss your chance. Gilbert knows this is scary stuff, but asks the prime question:“Do you have the courage to bring forth the treasures that are hidden within you?” This one inspired me to start writing my blog again (See The Courage to Bring Forth Treasure).

 

If Elizabeth Gilbert is a cheerleader, Arnold Schwarzenegger is a no-nonsense personal trainer. In Be Useful: Seven Rules for Life, he takes no excuses for wimping out. Just “Work your a** off” and earn what you want. His life is evidence it can be done—a poor Austrian boy becomes a champion bodybuilder, an award-winning actor, and the governor of California. In his stern Austrian accent (you’ve got to listen to the audio book) he seems to shout his main points at you: Work hard! Don’t think like a victim! Listen to good advice! Help others! Be useful! I hear his voice on days I just want to stay in my jammies.

 

Other Books

Other books also changed me. Dinners with Ruth: A Memoir on the Power of Friendships by Nina Totenberg—about the friendship between an NPR journalist and a Supreme Court justice—encouraged me to be more intentional about nurturing friendships. Everybody Fights: So Why Not Get Better at It by Kim and Penn Holderness (YouTube influencers and comedians) was both funny and insightful. Now I want to be better at resolving differences not just with my spouse but with friends and family. Our Kids: The American Dream in Crisis, by Robert D. Putnam, a prominent sociologist (he wrote Bowling Alone), reveals the appallingly broad divide between classes in America, regardless of race. Reading it made me want to do something to address the problem. 

 

Finally, here’s a book by a good woman about faith: Both Things Are True by Kate Holbrook. The essays in this book were written as Holbrook--a young wife, mother, and scholar --was dying, making her insights especially poignant. Here is my favorite quote: “We find God in doing good for other people. I have learned the most about Jesus when I have tried to do the work of Jesus.” 

 

And thus, we circle back to where we started. Whatever your situation—whether you are tired, busy, inadequate, or getting old--do stuff, do good. 

 

What books changed you in 2023? Please share in the comments; I need more books to read in 2024!

 

“Love Came Down,” Even in the Christmas Chaos

 

A friend just asked me why I haven’t written a blog post for a while. First, I told her how flattered I was she had noticed. Then I said, “Well, I guess it was Christmas.”

 

A couple of weeks before the big day I asked a fellow grandmother how she was doing this Christmas season. She admitted, “Every day I wake up and tell myself my goal for the day is just to survive.”

 

I can totally understand. Perhaps you remember my last post, “November Season.” In that mellow, calm, totally in-control essay I praised that pleasant time between Halloween and December. I even mentioned my efforts to get ahead on Christmas tasks, buying gifts and preparing cards. I was so in control.

 

Those were good days.

 

Then December hit. Our family went to Disneyland. I came home with fabulous memories and a back spasm so bad I couldn’t stand. Recovered from that, I gave a bridal shower, hosted a Christmas lunch, and played with my grandboys, here visiting their dad for the holidays. Then our family went to Zion National Park, watched the stars in the crisp dark night and hiked along the Virgin River. In the days that followed we took the grandchildren to the aquarium, and then to the planetarium. I had lunch with my darling sister and the traditional Book Club Christmas dinner with my darling friends. 

 

All at once, it was Christmas! I hosted our big family celebration, organized the church Christmas Eve devotional (for which I wrote the narration earlier in the month), and hosted Christmas Day dinner for those in the family who could come.

 

The day after Christmas I came down with a bad cold (which I think I totally earned), and I have spent the rest of December mostly lying down and coughing. 

 

But guess what? I never felt panicked as I have so often in the past (See "The Year I Ruined Christmas"). Well, not much anyway. I went through the month, the good times and the bad, with a generally positive attitude. I danced to Christmas music in my kitchen, I rejoiced in special times with my grandchildren, I smiled every time I saw my Christmas decorations. Once my back healed, I thought several times a day how wonderful it was not to be in pain. When I could only lie on the couch and cough, I thought how lucky it was I didn’t get sick earlier and how blessed I was to have this nice couch by the fire and Christmas tree. The chaos of Christmas was a joy.

 

Now I’m wondering why. I think it’s this. At the beginning of December, someone I follow on the internet suggested choosing a word for the month, then letting that word guide everything you do. It could be, for example, joy or peace or celebrate.  I decided on Love.

 

Every day I consciously tried to see everything that happened and everything I did through the lens of love. I bought and wrapped gifts for love, I hosted parties for love, I played with grandchildren for love. I didn’t always succeed, and often had to bring myself back to my goal. But Love triumphed overall. And this was a great Christmas-time because of it. I didn’t just survive. I grew in love and joy.

 

I found this poem by Christina Rossetti early in the month, and I used it as the focus of the Christmas Eve Program I wrote. Thinking of it helped with my goal to see love in everything that happened, everything people did around me, everything I did. For, as John the apostle taught, “God is love,” and “everyone that loveth is born of God, and knoweth God.” And Christmas is all about God.

 

That poem by Rossetti says it well:

 

Love came down at Christmas,
Love all lovely, love divine;
Love was born at Christmas,
Star and angels gave the sign.

 

What more can we do, than to give back our own sign of worshipful love?

 

Love shall be our token,
Love shall be yours and love be mine,
Love to God and to all men,
Love for plea and gift and sign.

 

And with this love, to God and to all men, here is my wish to you, my friends. May we find peace and happiness at Christmas time and for all the year to come.

 

 

 

Love Came Down

 

Love came down at Christmas,
Love all lovely, love divine;
Love was born at Christmas,
Star and angels gave the sign.

Worship we [our Savior],
Love incarnate, love divine;
Worship we our Jesus:
But wherewith for sacred sign?

Love shall be our token,
Love shall be yours and love be mine,
Love to God and to all men,
Love for plea and gift and sign.

 

Christina Rossetti

1895

 

 

 

November Season

 

 

When my daughter went to work the day after Halloween, she found an informal poll scrawled on the breakroom white board: Christmas Music After Halloween: For or Against?  She looked at it, and then added a new column—Thanksgiving songs.

 

November is in danger of getting lost. Now, don’t get me wrong. I love Christmas. I love Christmas more than any other holiday and Christmas music is my favorite. For all of you who love putting up your Christmas decorations right after Halloween, go for it!

 

But I have come to love November. It’s a break between the Halloween crazies and Christmas non-stop celebrations. Even nature slows down. The festive oranges and yellows fall to the ground, leaving a monochromatic, peaceful palette of neutrals. The temperatures drop, inducing time by the fire and sipping hot drinks.

 

November is a chance to breathe, pause, reflect. To enjoy a calendar that is not smack full of activities. October was filled with Halloween activities, which have somehow spread from a one-night childhood romp to a month filled with pumpkin patches, fairs, and costume parties. I’m not complaining, because it is a month of fun. But it’s nice to have a break. 

 

November is a time for walks in the cold-- but not so cold you don’t want to walk. You can meander along a river framed with golden trees and a vaulted by brilliant blue. You can stroll through your neighborhood, chatting with friends who are also outside, doing end-of-season outdoor chores. You can savor conversations with those you may not see so much in the future, when they will soon be forced inside by cold and snow.

 

And of course, in the US, November is a time to give thanks, to prepare for what may be the most peaceful holiday of them all. American Thanksgiving is simple: 1) Cook some good food, 2) gather with family and friends to eat it. Maybe watch a parade or some football, go for a walk, enjoy a movie, play some games. There is no (or at least not yet) bleed-out of ancillary activities—just the one day. 

 

So, November can be a time to pause and think about all the blessings in your life. My daughter’s family has a construction paper tree taped to the wall, and every day they add autumn-colored leaves with what they are thankful for. As the tree fills with leaves, their hearts fill with gratitude. I have been posting on social media my daily thanks—for family, friends, colorful leaves, a dance concert, rain, and blue skies. Our natural temperament is to mostly think about our wants, our lacks. It is heart-filling to look around and notice blessings.

 

November can also be a time to plan and prepare. My December calendar is packed. I know that there is a good chance I will have my traditional holiday meltdown at some point this Christmas. But this year I am trying to forestall that by working ahead a little. I’m making menus, buying gifts, doing some deep cleaning, getting the cards done, doing some advance party preparation. Somehow, when doing these things in November, they don’t seem so hard. In fact, it just seems even more peaceful, to be getting ahead on some things. I’m doing some preparation, but I’m not feeling frazzled by it.

 

Instead, I am savoring the spirit of November, the season for being cozy and calm. I am rejoicing in simple, daily joys. I feel peace.

 

But now, this week is Thanksgiving—and then, look out. The holidays will be upon us, in all their glorious non-stop celebration!

 

 

 

Worry Looks a lot Like Love, But It's Not

If you follow the news, there’s a lot to worry about these days: violent and deadly wars in both Israel/Palestine and in Ukraine, a deadly earthquake in Afghanistan, a hurricane in Mexico, a mass shooting in Maine—events so horrific a person can hardly comprehend the terror. And then there’s the added concerns of disfunction in the US Congress and dissatisfaction (terror?) with the likely nominees for President.  

 

But even not counting the global and national scale of worry—each of us probably has plenty of personal concerns keeping us awake at night. Work worries, financial worries, couple worries, children worries.  We’ve all got worries.

 

So we, you and I and everyone we know—we worry.

 

But really does it do any good?

 

Tamara Runia, a leader in my church, recently shared her father’s philosophy: “He'd learned from experience that worry feels a lot like love, but it's not the same.”

 

This struck me because I have regularly felt that love is the reason for my worry. I love my family, I love my country, I love the world and the earth. Since I love, of course I worry.

 

I am an expert worrier. When my 9-year-old daughter forgot to do her state report until the night before, I lay awake worrying she would flunk out of high school. (For the record, she was a straight-A student, graduated from university with honors, and raised three lovely children.) When my 14-year-old son was late getting back from band camp, I worried he was out carousing and on his way to Juvie. (For the record, the band bus was late, and he went on to get an MFA, become a prize-winning photographer, and a successful business owner.)

Sometimes I have joked: Yeah, I worry. And you can be grateful I do. It’s my worry that keeps this family going!”

So Sister Runia’s words stopped me. “Worry feels a lot like love, but it’s not the same.” 

 

Really?

 

I did a quick google search to confirm, and found this, in an article by Andrew Bernstein in Psychology Today:

 

“For my friend and millions like her, worry is a sign of love. It says that, even though I am okay, I am selfless enough to suffer vicariously for you. And isn't that the definition of love? Wouldn't it be uncaring not to feel terrible for others, given what some people have to deal with?

“At the risk of giving worriers everywhere nothing to do, the answer is no.”

I should have known. My dad used to say worry is like a rocking in a rocking chair; you feel like you are getting somewhere, but you never do. It’s useless.

Bernstein goes on to point out, 

When you worry about someone else, you teach them that things aren't going to be okay. . .  . You become someone who rejects life in the name of some imaginary future, and in that act of rejection, you teach misery. All of this, of course, is done innocently and with the best intentions, simply because you believe worry is love. But it isn't.

So, according to Bernstein--all that obsessing about the awful things going on in the world and worry about being on the brink of disaster, all that worry about your children or spouse or friend-- all that worry is only making everything worse. It may even contribute to the disasters you fear. 

By worrying, you are teaching those around you--and, worse yet, yourself--that things will get worse. There is nothing you can do. It’s awful.

So truly, worry will not help your kids. Worry will not help the world or the climate or Washington politics. And worse yet, worry makes things worse.

What does help? 

In Philippians 4, the apostle Paul suggests “by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your request be made known unto God” and then “think on” “whatsoever things are true, . . .just,. . . pure, lovely, of good report.” (Philippians 4:8)

As Mr. Rogers always said, look for the helpers. Focus on the good in the world. Have faith that good will prevail. And look for what you can do to help. 

Contribute to a charity helping war refugees or to a fund for the families of the mass shooting victims. Work for a cause that may limit world conflict or cut back on mass shootings.

And for your personal relationships—your children, your husband, and your friends--I like what Tamara Runia suggests:

Our job is not to teach someone who’s going through a rough patch that they are bad or disappointing. . . . let’s tell our loved ones in spoken and unspoken ways the messages they long to hear: “Our family feels whole and complete because you are in it.” “You will be loved for the rest of your life—no matter what.”

Jesus Christ, on the eve of his arrest and crucifixion, taught this truth, “In the world ye shall have tribulation.” Yes, bad things are going to happen, to you personally and to those around you.

And yet, he said, “Be of good cheer; I have overcome the world.”

As we face the horrible things happening in the world and perhaps in our own lives, we need to try not to worry. Because worry is not love. 

Love is faith and hope and good works. Love is good cheer. Love is the way we can look forward to a future of happiness, in our families and in the world.

 

The Eclipse and Driving Together

 

Last Saturday some of our family drove south to see the eclipse. It was total annular eclipse, just 100 miles or so away. We stood on a field in the little town of Richfield, Utah and marveled, watching through our certified eclipse glasses, as the moon slowly ate away the sun. 

 

Twilight fell, the air grew cold; we bundled the children under blankets and shivered as we watched. We felt the loss of the sun and I understood the primitive response. Though I knew the science of it all, and understood this cold darkness was temporary, a part of me wanted to beat drums, chant, or scream to scare away this dragon relentlessly swallowing our source of light and warmth. 

 

At last, only a thin glowing ring of light was left of our great golden sun. And then the moon moved on, and slowly light and warmth returned.

 

The eclipse was great. I’m a big fan of eclipse-viewing.  In 2017 our family traveled to Idaho to see a total eclipse—you can read my essay about that incredible experience here: https://bethslineuponline.blogspot.com/2017/  Next spring we plan to travel to Texas to see a total eclipse there. 

 

But what I want to write about today is the travel, what happened to our family as drove down to southern Utah to get the best view of the eclipse.

 

There were 7 of us—5 adults and 2 tiny children traveling in a 7-seater Yukon. Every space was taken, which meant some adults had to sit in the back seat with scrunched up leg room meant only for small children. Snacks and diaper bags, coloring books and jackets were tucked around our feet. Because we were with small children, there were whining and vomit and hours of listening to Cocomelon. 

 

There was traffic, though not as bad as expected. Still at times we crept at a frustratingly slow pace. Because we expected traffic, we left early, in the dark, on little sleep.  

 

And yet everyone, even the children, did their best to make the trip a pleasant one. 

 

Other families may have played games or listened to music. We, being who we are, talked about the state of cinema and streaming these days. We laughed about funny things that had happened to us. We shared the books we were reading and podcasts we were listening to. We took turns driving and we ate yummy snacks. We enjoyed the children and their sweet ways. 

 

Miraculously, nobody complained. No one argued. 

 

We did our best to help each other along our journey. When there were topics of discussion that could have led to disagreement, we didn’t. We chose not to go there. We listened to each other. We let some things go.

 

When we were creeping along in traffic, we didn’t complain or curse the driver who tried to cut in front of us. We settled down and enjoyed being together on the journey, knowing there was nothing we could do to go faster. We were patient.

 

When the two-year-old suddenly spewed vomit, with no warning, as little children can do, we all sprang into action to help—passing back tissues, dumping out the plastic box of snacks and handing it over to the adult nearest the baby. We spoke comfort and concern and no one mentioned the smell in that crowded car. We were a team, loving that baby and each other.

 

We are not always like this. We are human—and like everyone, we sometimes grate on each other, sometimes we are angry. Sometimes we are hurt. Sometimes unkind things are said.

 

But that day, stuck together in a crowded vehicle, we were able to think of one another’s needs, not just our own. We were each of us aware of our individual responsibility for the welfare of the group. We were able to limit our pride, hurt feelings, and discomfort so that everyone with us could be happy.

 

 It made me think. Every day on this earth, we are on a journey together. Traveling conditions are less than ideal. Progress may seem slow. There may be crises when we need to all pull together. We may disagree or feel hurt or not appreciated. 

 

We know our destination. We know others are facing the same problems we are. We can help each other enjoy the trip as we travel there.

 

Or we can-- not help. Sometimes on this journey, the light and warmth of love can be eclipsed by anger, fear, jealousy, hurt, greed, or any number of ultimately selfish emotions.

 

The eclipse of the sun ended as the moon inevitably continued on her path.

 

But the eclipse of love can only be ended through our own efforts: to de-emphasize our own discomfort and hurt, to think of others traveling with us, and work together to shine the life-giving love-warmth that allows us, each of us, to reach our heavenly home. 

Working Together Doing Really Hard Things

 

Recently our neighborhood came together to do something really hard.  

 

Our local park is bordered on one side by a steep hillside filled with wild growth and piles of tangled dead wood. 

All that dry brush could easily catch fire and spread to the adjoining neighborhood. Most of the hillside is privately owned by homes just above the hill, who are ultimately responsible for clearing out the dead brush, but the hillside is so very steep and the wild growth so dense that it is a daunting task. The Deputy Fire Marshall came to the City Neighborhood District Board requesting help getting the dry fire fuel cleared out of the hillside. 

 

When we looked closely at what this service project would entail—we were overwhelmed. The hillside is precipitously steep, just a few degrees from being a cliff, and it is densely covered with weed trees and vines. You can hardly work your shoulders through the impenetrable growth. Besides, how could we even access the hillside? From the top, the angle was so steep that footing would be dangerous. One homeowner told us when he ventured down the hill, he first tied a rope around his waist and secured it to a solid anchor. 

 

We had to access the hillside from the park below. But a sturdy 6-foot-high chain link fence, installed by the Parks Department, ran all along the border. How could we climb the fence and then pass the dead wood over the fence? Finally, one person suggested using adjustable ladders that could be positioned with one part on the park side and one part on the hillside so we effectively would have a stile. We had a plan. 

 

Cooperating with both the property owners and the city fire department, we began advertising for volunteers on Facebook community groups, in local churches, and with signs throughout the neighborhood. Soon we had more than 150 willing to help. A local restaurant even volunteered to provide breakfast for everyone.

 

Maybe this would work out after all, we thought, but I was still having sleepless nights thinking of all that could go wrong.

 

Then the day came. 

 

The volunteers who would oversee teams of workers came early and placed the donated adjustable ladders. People at the picnic pavilion were ready to check in the volunteers, having them sign waivers provided by the city. The fire department came: Deputy Fire Marshal Jeannie and her crew of young workers. The park-provided dumpsters were at the ready, as well as an industrial-sized chipper.

 

The volunteers streamed in. All ages, men and women alike, pitched in to help. There were people from nearby and people from farther away; people who knew each other and people who did not.

 

The hardiest climbed over the fence and pulled down the dead wood, pushing and cutting their way through the underbrush, reaching up the steep slope for dead branches and piles of dead brush, then pulling it down and hauling it to the fence. Big branches and dead logs were lifted as a team. When someone slipped on the steep slope, many hands reached out to steady them. 

 

Others stayed on the park side of the fence and received the branches and brush as they were passed over the fence, dragging them to the four dumpsters which soon proved inadequate. The Fire Department’s chipper could not keep up. Piles of dead brush grew. And grew.

 

For hours the volunteers worked and sweated. One guy got hit by a branch and downed. Others gathered around, helped him up, and he was fine. Another guy pinched his hand between the fence and a heavy branch—holding his bleeding hand with the other, he kept insisting, “it’s nothing” as his wife led him to the first aid station.

 

Workers proudly displayed curious discoveries appearing amid the brush, including a metal hubcap and a 6-foot section of chain link fence. 

 

My friend Tessa, 70 years old but fit, was helping with registration and then on the park side gathering branches. Before long she thought, “They need more help on the other side of the fence,” and over she went. When I saw her, she was stretched out flat against the steep slope reaching for some dead wood that was just above her head. I yelled, “Tessa, get over here! You can’t do that.” 

 

She ignored me, and rightly so, for obviously she could!

 

After three hours of work, the hill behind the fence was transformed, with clear space among the green. The fence was bordered by piles of dead brush, 6 feet high and more. The Deputy Fire Marshall said she had never seen a community project accomplish so much.

 

As we gathered in the pavilion to enjoy donated eggs, potatoes, and muffins, everyone was laughing and talking, sharing their adventures. Men and women covered from head to toe in dirt and sweat compared to see who was filthiest.  People who had been strangers became friends.

 

The hillside was safer from fire danger, but something more important had happened too.

 

As Tessa said, “It felt good to do something important together.”

 

In this modern age, we are seldom called upon to work together physically on something truly hard. The prehistoric cave people had to work together to hunt the mammoth; ancient peoples came together to protect their communities from enemies both human and natural; pioneers would help each other with barn raising and threshing. But now, everyone does their own thing; industrialization and specialization means that we seldom need to rely on our neighbors. 

 

Don’t get me wrong—I’m thankful for modern conveniences. Still though, when from time to time we get to really work together, to really depend on each other, something wonderful happens. The philosopher David Hume once observed: “It's when we start working together that the real healing takes place... it's when we start spilling our sweat, and not our blood.”

 

Our neighborhood had the chance to spill our sweat together, doing something both hard and important.  We are better for it.