We The People

The United States Constitution was written in 1779. Lawmakers and law enforcers pledge to uphold it. Students at school memorize its Preamble. At times people try hide behind it, as if personal preferences are constitutionally guaranteed. As the song goes, “It ain’t necessarily so.”

 

Revisiting the majesty of the Preamble is always enlightening: 

We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.

We the People of the United States – At the time of its writing, the Constitution had less grace than it does now, thanks to amendments and the Bill of Rights. “We the People” no longer includes slaves and owners, thankfully. No longer do the women of our country have limited rights and resources. We aren’t technically divided along racial, ethnic, religious, political, or other lines, although our reality falls short. Old prejudices remain, as all-too-frequent news stories tell us, but from a constitutional standpoint, we stand together.

In Order to form a more perfect Union – Note the absence of audacity or arrogance. Our union is not perfect, but it is more perfect. “More perfect” than Crown rule. More perfect than taxation without representation or accommodating British soldiers. Originally, the Constitution covered just the basics but provisions were made for additional material. The writers said, in effect, “This is as good as we can do right now, but changes are inevitable. Don't be afraid to make them."

Establish Justice – What is justice? Fairness, righteousness, handling conflicts between factions with objectivity and impartiality. The folks in the 18^th century had justice to varying degrees. In the 21^st century, we have more. It takes time to establish Justice. Are women better off today? Minorities? Immigrants? I believe that the answer would be a resounding “yes” across the board. We are still “in process” but we are moving in the right direction. Next year I have confidence that there will not be more civil rights abuses, but less. The progress is not as quick as we always want, but it is quantifiable.

Insure domestic Tranquility – Laws are in place to protect We the People, our families and property. Law enforcement provides accountability. We want punishments to fit the crimes, safeguards to ensure that the innocent are not punished nor the guilty acquired. Is our judicial system perfect? No. But it is “more perfect.” It, too, is fluid, researched and dissected to find better methods. There may be cries to “defund,” but it was the Constitution’s framers who took on the responsibility. A nation with no police, or undervalued police, is not a nation with domestic tranquility. 

Provide for the common defense – We the People have reason to be proud of our military. The world looks to us to protect them. We’ve overstepped at times, suffering great losses. But we have mostly avoided the need to draft unwilling soldiers because of our excellence of training, resources, and benefits. We the People have not endured war on our own soil in many years. Few countries have been so blessed.

Promote the general Welfare – This broad stroke takes in the collective desire that We the People enjoy health, peace, morality, and safety. Numerous government agencies work to that end, but citizens must be active participants in the process. We pay taxes. We fill out the census questionnaire. We vote for leaders who, we hope, will facilitate programs effectively for the greater good without causing undue hardship on their constituents.

Secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity – The Constitution knows its end game. Often we focus on isolated issues, certain that their successes or failures will be the all-deciding factors. While every individual of We the People is important, the big picture is equally important. Liberty is indeed a blessing; sometimes we must sacrifice today to secure that blessing for tomorrow.

Do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America - The United States is, relatively speaking, one of the new kids on the block as far as sovereign entities go. Growing pains are only natural. Perhaps today’s turmoil clutters the headlines, but when the U.S. is as old as, say, Great Britain or China, today’s tweet or cause du jour (however important now) will hardly cause a ripple of historic interest. While many seem hell-bent to divide us in however many ways possible, “We the People” will have the last say.

But We the People need to vote. We need to stop getting our information from memes and sound bytes and social media. We need to ask questions and research. We need to realize how easily we can be manipulated by emotion or bias and, armed with this awareness, do whatever we can so that we are not. We need to be willing to lay aside a long-held notion or belief when presented with logic and truth to the contrary. We have to lay down prejudices and assumptions. I, for one, am weary of being lumped in with everyone of a certain color or religion or gender or political persuasion. I do not think and act as all other white people, or all Christians, or all women, or all non-partisan voters. Whatever the labels and categories of We the People -- and acknowledging the importance of the collective -- we are also individuals.

This November we face, perhaps, the most important election of this nation's history. Because of the increased speed of information, the tremendous impact of the Internet, we can ill afford a casual treatment of words and speech and behavior. The next president of the United States has more potential influence for either good or bad than any previous president since George Washington. 

At the same time, We the People must not lose sight of the fact that whoever lives at 1600 Pennsylvania in our nation's capital is there because of us. We vote them in, we vote them out. They are there for a minimum of four years, a maximum of eight. They are temporary. We the People are here to stay.

Twenty Years

Adam Rogers Gillette
5/22/84 - 8/22/00

Twenty years. For some, that's a lifetime, but for most of us, it marks a coming of age. For some, retirement after twenty years marks a successful career. A twentieth wedding anniversary is, these days, a real accomplishment.

August 19, 2000, began as a good day. My son Adam, 16, flopped on the bed beside me and ran lines with me for an upcoming play. He needed to take his computer for a repair, then headed to work as a restaurant busser on Hutchinson Island off Fort Pierce, Florida. He enjoyed his job and told me to always tip the server 20%, because it had to be divvied up with other staff.

Our daughter Becky was visiting, leaving that night after we celebrated our other daughter's birthday. Terri had just turned 21, so it was a big deal. We had dinner where my mother, Jane Pendergraft, was playing piano at Out-of-Bounds. It was a special evening. Becky drove north; the rest of us headed home. 

In the wee hours of Sunday, August 20, 2000, Adam had worked late, driven a co-worker home and (if memory serves) had dropped him off somewhere. Driving home, something went wrong. Along US. 1, his front right tire went off the shoulder. When he turned the wheel to the left to return all four tires to the highway, his car spun out of control close to what is now Dyer Chevrolet (formerly Bill Shultz Chevrolet).

A driver coming from the opposite direction saw the erratic headlights of a car spinning and called 911. Adam's car flipped and landed on its roof with such force that he was ejected out the rear window.  His head and one arm took the brunt of impact. He never regained conciousness, but that driver did what he could by calling. Twenty years later, I am sure he remembers that night. I hope he is well.

Two young women on their way home from a party stopped and talked to him until the ambulance arrived. They showed up at the hospital, too. Twenty years later, I'm sure they remember that night, too. I hope they are well.

We got a call from my brother-in-law Stacy, who had retired from the St. Lucie County Fire Department. Someone had heard the Gillette name on the scanner and called him, but we didn't know anything. Shortly after that, however, we had a call from a police officer at the local hospital. "Is it bad?" I asked. 

"You need to come now," he said. Twenty years later, in his line of work, that officer has doubtless made other similar calls, has seen trauma of all sorts. With today's social climate, many officers are leaving law enforcement altogether. I hope he is well. I hope he knows how much I appreciate his insistence on speed.

When we arrived at the hospital, Adam filled the emergency room bed. When had he gotten so tall? At 16, he was a handsome guy with auburn hair and freckles. One of the nurses said, "We knew by looking at him that this was someone who was loved." 

Twenty years later, much has changed at the hospital. Then, there was no neurologist on call. Today there is a trauma unit. First responders had not been able to intubate Adam on the highway and so they took him to the closest hospital. We waited for a bed to open up at the nearest trauma center -- Holmes Regional in Melbourne.  

(When I eventually got copies of the records, someone had signed that "parent was too upset to sign" off on numerous unnecessary tests that were performed, which was not true. Of course we were upset, but we were all too aware of what was going on. I refused to pay until I got some answers, but in the end, that answer was "When a child comes in, people want to do all they can." They also reduced the bill to something manageable.)

Mark Zook was the Florida Highway Patrol homicide investigator sent to the scene. He is also a friend who fingerprinted Adam as a little homeschooler years before. He told us that Adam might have been changing a CD in his beloved new sound system or scratching his leg. He wasn't driving recklessly or too fast. Alcohol was not a factor. 

Twenty years later, Mark has seen more than his share of trauma with FHP and in his own life. His own son Ian died in 2004 in service to our country. His wife Karen does a wonderful work with Gold Star moms, honoring those who have suffered loss. Today, I hope they are well.

The first responders who helped Adam, the nurses, the technicians, the staff at Holmes, Dr. Shepherd -- perhaps they have all retired by now. Once transported to Holmes, Adam was put into a barbituate coma in hopes that the bleeding in his brain would recede. Friends and family flooded the waiting room. One friend called to see what he could do and I asked him to bring coats -- the waiting room was, I'd been told, very cold, and some people were staying many hours. Others made the hour long drive to support me, or my husband, or our other children.Calls came in with words of encouragement. People visited. Usually, a nurse told me, they are more restrictive with ICU patients, but with a teen, they knew his friends might need closure. Allowances were made.

Many of those young people are now married, with families of their own. (I know of three babies born who were named after him, including his nephew Adam II.) Twenty years later, I still hear new stories about Adam occasionally, still read posts from friends and family members who miss him too. Today I hope they are all well.

On August 22, after numerous tests were performed to make absolutely certain he was gone, Adam was declared brain dead. An organ donor, he saved five lives and gave sight to two others. Although I have been in contact with some of the organ recipients, I don't know how they are today with one notable exception: Chuck Daniels, the young man who received Adam's heart, died in 2013. I regret not knowing, because I would have been at his service. I am grateful that he had 13 years in which to become a nurse and get married. I know one thing: it has been seven years since Adam's heart stopped beating, the heart Chuck let me hear again after we met in person. And I know that his mother is still grieving, because I am still grieving after twenty.

In twenty years, so much happens, so many wonderful things! Our family has experienced the joy of births, marriages, graduations, accomplishments, careers. We've met new friends, lived new places, done new things. But along with those joys, there have been losses of many kinds -- divorces, deaths of parents, disappointments, all within the same twenty years.

Such is life. It's a mixed bag. There are good days and bad, sunshine and rain. Nothing, and I mean nothing, has profoundly affected me and our family as much as losing Adam -- although I must interject with my granddaughter Jasmine's wise words to me at about age 3. She caught me crying and asked if it was because of Uncle Adam. "When you lose someone you love, you are sad for a long time," I said. "Silly Nana," she retorted. "We didn't lose him. We know where he is!"

And we do. As Christians, we believe in heaven. We know Adam's character and faith. We "grieve, but not as those who have no hope," as Paul wrote to the Thessalonian church. Hope does not, however, take away the sense of loss. It is just a fact that the young man we love and miss every day of our lives is not present. We can't call him on the phone or listen to him laugh or get a hug in his strong arms.

I have learned a lot in twenty years, much of it because of my son's death. Most importantly, I have learned that if you are settled in your mind and heart that God exists, you're stuck. If you know in your "knower" that there is a God, all the arguments about "a loving God wouldn't do this" or "a just God wouldn't do that" are futile. IF you believe that God exists, he can do whatever the hell he wants to do! He's God. You're not. He doesn't ask for our permission. He doesn't wait until we approve of his plan.

I am stuck. I see evidence of God's existence in nature, in the love and lives of others, throughout history. God doesn't behave the way I want him too, which is strangely comforting. If he did, I would be tempted to think I had created a false belief out of my own desires and expectations. God is not what I wish him to be, and yet he has convinced me that he loves me. That he wants the best for me. That he is in control.

Twenty years later, I still believe this. I don't understand why Adam died at 16, unformed, unfinished, a life unfulfilled. I don't like it. I remind God frequently of this, and yet, as a Christian mother, heaven is the destination I prayed for, for him. For all my children and grandchildren and loved ones. For all my friends and family. That he is there sooner than I anticipated is a hardship for me and for those who also miss him, but not for him. Not for him.

Twenty years. I've held new grandbabies, seen my first grandchild become an adult. Many new firefighters at Indian River State College have benefited from the Adam Gillette Memorial Firefighter scholarship started and continued by the local firefighters union. I've watched as my daughter Becky has become a nurse and expand her family. Daughter Terri has overcome many obstacles in her life, physically and emotionally. Son Caleb is a police lieutenant with a Master's degree. I know that at every birthday party, every ceremony, every wedding, every funeral of their grandparents, every family gathering, every holiday they miss Adam sorely. Then again, it's a daily thing. Sometimes an hourly thing.

But life goes on. It wouldn't honor our memory of Adam or our love for him to let his absence -- however sorely felt -- have a negative effect. People used to say, "I don't know how you do it" to which I thought -- what's the alternative? Become an alcoholic or drug addict to numb myself so I don't feel the pain? I wouldn't be able to feel the love either, then.

What has helped? Talking about Adam, hearing about him from others, writing about him -- these have certainly helped. My faith in a God who loves me so much I can tell him I hate him at times (and I have). The support of so many friends who, hopefully, will never understand what it's like to bury a child, and the support of too many friends who know it well.

Not long after Adam's death, I heard someone say this: Significant loss changes you, and you spend the rest of your life finding out who you are now. Twenty years ago, I had a significant loss that is incomparable to any other event in my life. And it did, indeed, change me. I am not as nice a person as I once was. I am more impatient with trivialities and complaints. I am not as empathetic with people who are  upset about things I consider unimportant. I feel as though I have gone through something far worse than coronavirus or social unrest or political polarization and sometimes I just want to scream at people to shutthefuck up about things that, in the eternal scope of things, don't even register as a blip on the screen.

I'm working on that.

Twenty years later, I have babbled on and on, but what do I really want to get across to you? It's 2020, the year we have grown to loathe with its constant turmoil in nature, in society, everywhere we look. I would say this: There are not all that many people who truly love any one of us. Truly, deeply. Our lives do not really matter in a profound way to more than a relative handful. Think of the billions of people on the planet -- who will miss you when you're gone? Who will still cry when you've been gone twenty years?

Adam's life mattered, and continues to matter. His love for me, his constant good cheer (once he outgrew his temper!). The world...MY world... was better because he was in it. And now he isn't, not in the same way. 

So I would tell you that if you are blessed with someone who loves you...if you are important to someone, whether a parent or sibling or friend or lover or other family member ... please don't do things, or say things, that will push them away. You can't afford to lose someone like that if only because there are so few of them! Your life will be the lesser for that loss. Adam loved me - of that I am certain. He loved his father, his brother, his sisters, his grandparents and cousins, his friends. The "not-here-ness" of that love has affected us all.

Sometimes it is beyond our control -- we try to stay close and our feelings aren't wanted or reciprocated. That hurts, I know. But look at all the others who DO love us back! What a gift they are! Cherish them always.

Twenty years later, I am hurting. I am crying. I am wallowing a bit more than usual. But I am also so grateful for having sixteen years with a remarkable young man. And even more than that, I am grateful for the belief that I will see him once again.

I have hoped that many people are well today, this day before the twentieth anniversary of Adam's death, a temporary change of location that profoundly changed me and everyone who loved him, who love him still. And I do hope they are well.

I know that Adam is.

(c) 2020 Ellen Gillette

A Matter of Words

For what it's worth (get it?) I am embarrassed by the fact that it has been over a year since I posted anything here. Why have a blog if one does not use it as a platform for expressing one's views? Have I not had anything to say in the course of a full year?

Of course I have. And I have said it, in bits and pieces, on social media, during speeches at Toastmasters, in articles or poems I have written, in a manuscript, in writing homework or exercises at the writers' group I enjoy monthly. I had quite a lot to say at my father's funeral. I've been in a few plays, which doesn't really count since what I had to say then was written by others. I have said even more during countless phone conversations. I have emailed. Texted. Written ACTUAL LETTERS AND CARDS -- I know, a dying art, but one I still think is important.

My point is ... we all have something to say. Not just the pundits. Not just the talking heads. Not just the celebrities and politicians. Currently I am teaching high school sophomores for a teacher on maternity leave. Most of them do not like the grammar portion of the curriculum. Why is this important? Because they have a story to tell. Their thoughts and views matter, so the way in which they express themselves both verbally and on paper matters.

Your story matters. Everyone's does. It has been my privilege to help others with their personal stories -- some factual memoirs, others the products of their imaginations -- and tidy things up a bit to the point that they were published. It is always challenging to get inside someone else's head and write (correctly) what he or she wanted to express. More on that in a bit.

One day in the mid-1980s I was standing in my kitchen -- a young mother of four who scarcely had time to eat some days, let alone write --  when my parents walked in with an IBM Selectric typewriter. My mother worked for a CPA firm that was upgrading its equipment; she had bought one of the old ones at a great price. I started crying. I had had, at that point and several years earlier, two or three things printed. I wrote something for the church bulletin. I kept a journal. But this incredible gift spoke volumes: We believe in you.

Some years later, but many, many years ago -- 1988, to be exact -- I attended a writers' conference in Arizona. I'd never been to one. I'd never been away from my family for that long, practically a week! I hesitate to say it was a life-changing experience, because the phrase raises  high expectations, but when I look back at that time, and what it eventually meant, I think the words are accurate. My life did indeed change because of the words of two men, Jamie Buckingham and David Manuel.

As a teenager, I had the privilege of hearing Jamie preach at his church in Melbourne, and when he would visit Fort Pierce, but his is a legacy that reaches many times around the globe -- he helped Corrie ten Boom write her story (Tramp for the Lord) and Kathryn Kuhlman's. He penned many humorous and insightful Christian books such as The Truth Will Set You Free, But First It Will Make You Miserable. At the conference, one of the things that stuck with me was spoken to the entire group: "If I preach a good sermon on Sunday morning, I may impact a few hundred people. If I write a book, I can reach so many more." In his case, he reached millions more.

Jamie wrote 22 books of his own, and another 24 for others, among them Nicky Cruz's Run, Baby, Run was a cult classic of the Jesus Movement; Bill Nelson's Mission; and Jeannie C. Riley's From Harper Valley to the Mountaintop. He wrote other people's stories because they had something to say, but may not have been as gifted with the time, talent, or energy to put the words down on paper in a cohesive form. The world would have been poorer had he not been willing to not only put his own thoughts down, but those of others.

What the men said about ghostwriting, or as-told-to writing struck a chord: Everyone has a story to tell, but not everyone can write it. There aren't enough writers willing to share other people's stories.

I didn't know David Manuel prior to the conference, nor had I read any of his books (most notably The Light and the Glory which he wrote with Peter Marshall). But I was in his "group" at the conference. and I've never forgotten his encouragement.

The deal was this: conference attendees were asked to write a short story based on a few verses of scripture, intentionally narrow. They wanted to see what we would come up with, given very few parameters. Frankly, they didn't expect much, but the exercise would give them an idea of what they had to work with.

Somewhere around the beginning of the conference, they asked us why we were there. When it was my turn to answer, I said something along the lines of, "I love to write, but I'm not sure what I should do with it. Maybe I should write letters to the editor, or words of encouragement to others. Maybe I should try to be published. I'm here to find out." 

At the end of the conference, during one of the small group session, David Manuel remembered what I had said. "You wanted to know what to do, and now you do." He'd been surprised and pleased at my short story because it had taken a narrow verse or two and expanded into a real narrative with characters and layers, intrigue and romance. David Manuel, published author, liked what I had written!

That encouragement gave me the confidence to try harder, write more, take more chances, weather the inevitable rejections. A few years later, I was writing weekly newspaper columns for an editor who was equally as encouraging and instructive. More than once I was called into his office to discuss why something hadn't worked, but he was always constructive rather than dismissive. He was my first editor but also the first person to relate to me as a writer, period. He didn't know me, but he knew writing, he knew newspapers, and he knew how to manage people.

After a few years, other editors coming and going (not all as helpful as that first!), I was no longer writing regularly. Without a deadline, it's easy to let things slide. I started this blog. I wrote a book that did not, I'm afraid, make any bestseller lists (available as an e-book at smashwords.com though!). I wrote and illustrated a children's book (She-Bear in the Beautiful Garden). Guest columns. Started writing for a local group of magazines. Have a poetry blog, in addition to this one. Working on a fiction manuscript, guided by solid input from fellow writers. And now, occasionally editing other writers' books, telling someone else's story the way Jamie and David had encouraged.

Back to my point ... way up there, I know ... we all have something to say. If you write it down, the audience may grow. That's both a positive and a negative, as some politicians have found out -- there's real staying power to words. Negative writing can come back and bite you! But I have wonderful emails that I've kept for ten years, because they meant so much to me, and still do. I have cards and letters. Words matter.

Your words matter. It's a new year, writers (that would be, hopefully, everyone reading this). Write a comment on that report when you hand it back. Post something meaningful on Facebook. Tuck a note inside your child's lunchbox. Send a distant relative a card. Write to that inmate. Rant about something in a letter to the editor or (better still) publicly thank someone for a job well done. Write a poem. Jot down that story of something funny that happened in the service. Pour out your heart in anguish, retelling a time of grief or trauma (it will help, I promise you).

Maybe your writing will not be for a major publisher. Maybe your books won't reach the kind of audience Jamie Buckingham's did, but maybe they will! Your writing can impact someone. It can even, and perhaps especially, impact you in ways you might not imagine: changing you, growing you, softening you, honing your thoughts and ideas and dreams.

My sister sent me a card one time that had printed across the top: (don't forget     TO WRITE). Under it, in her own lovely handwriting, she'd added Please don't forget to write! There was more, but not a lot more. Her brief encouragement now has eight tiny holes from where it has been moved around the corkboard in my office and skewered with multiple pushpins years after it was given. Her words mattered then, and they matter now.

Words matter. Your words matter. So..... don't forget to write!