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Night after night I turn to my left
And raise my eyes
To the skies
Through the window
I raise my sight
And search this night
For the skyward evening traveler
And each night
He is there
Like a dare
Never to cease
And never seeking release
From his nightly travels
Horizon to horizon
He makes his trip
Being eaten bit by bit
Till gone
Only to be resurrected again
And take his place above men
anthony forrest
Several years ago, the college I was attending required that I spend 10 days in Boston for further education. After the long days of vigorous training, my wife flew out and tacked on a week-long, much-needed vacation.
Our goal?
See New England and especially the historical bits.
And what better place to start than Plymouth, Massachusetts? We found a nice little hotel nestled along the coast and began our journey through time. Though we absolutely adore places like Boston, the Cape, and all of Maine, the highlight of our trip had to be our time in historic Plymouth.
In my quest to find the goodness of America, should I not go back to the beginning? One of the most interesting and inspiring American pilgrimages that any American can take is the journey to Plymouth Plantation. In 1620, our ancestors which we now call pilgrims made their long voyage from the Old World to the New. Relics of that time still exist in a few locales.
We gazed down at the legendary Plymouth Rock, on which the pilgrims were thought to have first stepped. A recreation the Mayflower floats in the harbor. Pay the right price and you too can experience the wide, open ocean. Bust most of all, the original colony location, discovered long ago, is now the home of a unique “living history” museum. The colony buildings, fences, yards, and various structures have been rebuilt in near-perfect accuracy. Museum professionals and historians, as well as college students, dress up in period clothing and perform day-to-day living right in front of your eyes.
The story of the first Thanksgiving is beauty, tragedy, truth, and legend—all rolled into one amalgamation which we now celebrate each year. Records and writings of people like William Bradford, Governor of the colony, tell of setting aside several days of feasting to give thanks to God. On one such time of feasting, a group of Wampanoag natives showed up unannounced and spent a week sealing a treaty of peace between the two groups. Although, that peace would not last, it was certainly a time to be thankful. It is generally known that the Native Americans taught the pilgrims many life-saving skills. The colonists had been through terrible loss, burying nearly half of their own in the prior winter. And yet, they found a way to be thankful.
A rising tide of history denying, rewriting, and condemning has begun to rear its ugly head. Some groups of people don’t want to be associated with the ugly bits of American history. I certainly can’t condone bad behavior. But what has occurred in the past is done.
The history of our ancestors is not perfect. Slavery happened. Killing of Native people occurred. Death was everywhere. But to dig out the foundation is to rebuild upon the mud.
With all of the focus on the ugly history of America, it can be easy to forget that there was indeed a group of people who fled to this land seeking freedom. It’s easy to forget that they suffered beyond modern understanding. Their thanksgiving was not just a simple one-day meal and maybe some shopping later.
Their Thanksgiving was part of their life. They did not just decide to start giving thanks. They had to live it often. Because without gratitude, their living would seem hopeless and all the loss meaningless.
So now as modern-day Americans, we meet together to give thanks. And though a few other countries celebrate a day of thanksgiving, none compares to Thanksgiving in America. For we are a nation built on struggles and pain.
And yet we give thanks.
In this way, America is good.
anthony forrest
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Though I have not Kentucky fields
And all the crops she yields
And sloping valleys that cut
Like ruts
Carved by creeks that flow
and flow
I have not Kentucky
But she has my thoughts
anthony forrest
Gems of a simpler time still exist.
Our rental car careened down the narrow North Carolina roads. We flew into Charlotte to get to our destination. We were in search of a simpler time, a simpler place.
We happen to really love North Carolina. On one side sits the Atlantic Ocean and promises of warm beaches and weekend getaways. But the direction we drove took us to the hilly and rugged lands of Appalachia. Most states in the US make the same claim: that theirs is the most varied or diverse. And if anybody from North Carolina says that, they would be right. Mountains, ocean, warm weather, and cool weather; what’s not to love?
The summer sun shone down through the Loblolly pines. We looked at the instructions listed on the Airbnb notes.
“I think this is it,” I said, though my voice betrayed my doubts.
The notes said to follow this winding road to some road marker, then turn right under the flags hanging in the trees.
I looked up and saw that the only thing hanging in the trees was a filthy, old, and torn t-shirt. Hesitantly, I turned the small SUV into the presumed driveway. The notes had also warned us to bring a vehicle with 4-wheel drive.
My wife turned to me some weeks before this and said, with a brightness in her eyes, that she wanted to stay in a cabin in the middle of the woods. And I, like the dutiful husband I am, obliged.
The dense forest opened to a small clearing. In that clearing sat an ancient cabin. Over 100 years old, the cabin had been moved here, electricity and water added, and promptly placed online for rental.
We felt like settlers.
With water.
And electricity.
And internet.
Our car unloaded, we set off for town.
And to the great delight of my wife, a classic americana experience lay in wait.
Nearby sits the small town of Mount Airy. Close to that is Pilot Mountain. To anybody familiar with classic television, these names might sound familiar.
Andy Griffith grew up in Mount Airy. And his namesake TV show is actually based on his life in that place. We parked our car and walked the streets. Little shops resemble the actual show of the fifties. A small museum contains a fine collection of Mayberry paraphernalia. And down the road, summer tourists can visit an exact replica of Andy and Barney’s sheriff’s office.
We opened the door and immediately, my wife sat behind Andy’s desk and pretended to answer the phone. I locked myself into the cell where Otis often locked himself after a night of drinking. Later, we took a ride in one of the Ford Galaxie replicas of Andy’s police car.
Not far from Mount Airy is Pilot Mountain, another picturesque town. As chance would have, a classic car show had just started that day. What could be more classically American than a classic car show?
“Look,” said my wife, “a Chevy Belair!”
“Hey, another one!”
We took a picture near around 20 Chevy Belair cars that day.
The unmistakable flavor of America’s glory days perseveres and will do so as our nation ages. I believe that it is human nature to hold onto a seemingly simpler past. It reminds us of who we were, who we are, and where we are going. And it is an especially American thing to remember the glories of our days gone by.
In this way, America is good.
anthony forrest
Keep up with the rest of the series:
oh, the joys of the unknown
fear of not knowing
a growing concern
a stern
feeling of a loss not yet lost
like tearing a letter
open
and then, “what’s this?”
the opposite of the wish
junk mail—rubbish
and yet
the heart palpitates
anticipates
still the same
and goes on
anthony forrest
My wife and I drove our rental car past a Church sign in Delaware.
Canaan Baptist Church
It was Saturday and our flight was scheduled for tomorrow, Sunday afternoon.
“Do you think we have time to go to church?” she asked.
“Oh, probably.” I replied.
She pulled out her cell phone and began searching for the church service times and more information.
“Well,” she said, “we’ll have plenty of time to go.”
“Oh good, we might as well.”
“But,” she said smirking, “we might stand out a little bit.”
She began showing me pictures of the church’s worship service. The pictures showed a happy (and huge) congregation of Christians singing, serving, and worshiping.
And there was not a white Christian in sight.
But Church is Church, regardless of skin color. But we decided that what would stand out more than our skin color was our wardrobe. Our t-shirts and jeans just wouldn’t do. This church was more of a suit with cufflinks and dresses with white gloves kind of place.
Like a sign from God himself, we drove at that very moment past a Salvation Army Thrift store. We found a dress for her and a suit for me. All for the balmy price of $28.
The next day, we pulled into the parking lot of Canaan Baptist Church. Right away, we knew we were in trouble, but not for any skin-color reason. My Salvation Army suit didn’t seem to make the cut. Everybody was dressed to the nines. Fine pin stripes, cufflinks, Rolex watches, silk everything, diamond rings, designer dresses, white gloves; we were woefully underdressed. But it really didn’t matter.
When the doors opened there was no hesitation. Fine folks immediately welcomed us with smiling faces and strong handshakes. The building was packed. We were greeted by no less than a dozen people on our way to our seats.
The usher pushed and shouldered through the God-fearing crowd, to find us wayward guests a couple of seats. I gazed at the pew to which the kind usher had appointed us.
Third row in the front.
Smack in the middle.
As we sat down, the sun shone in through the nearby stained-glass window and landed on us like a spotlight. I began feeling even more out of place.
But soon the service started with a rumble. All of my self-centered thoughts floated away. The choir stood up, adorned with glorious hats. The organ warbled. A jazzy bass player thumped out his notes. And the tisk tisk of the snare drum rounded it out. At that moment, it didn’t matter who we were; we all clapped and sang. They pumped out song after song, one after another with no pause or transition. The choir was unstoppable—swaying back and forth, praising God above. The organist bounced up and down on her bench. The only guy in the place without a suit jacket and tie was the bassist, and he needed all the ventilation he could get. The entire pastoral staff and church leadership clapped and sang on the platform. Then, as the last song started to wind down, the pastor shimmied over to the podium and helped the choir finish the song.
He gripped the pulpit with white knuckles and the preaching started. He opened the Bible and read several verses, “amen” being cried from the other church leaders, seated behind him. He made his points with power and inflection. The entire auditorium of congregants were involved in the worship of God. Each spoke their, “amen!” and “that’s right!” and “come on!” and “bring it, pastor!” By the time the message was over, we were unified in our worship and involvement in the service.
I had never been so close to a group of people so different than myself. And it was a beautiful thing—a perfect and life-altering moment shared with another culture.
What can be said of America’s racial tension that has not already been said? In my quest to remember America’s goodness, I think about the variety of people in this nation. With so many people groups and a seemingly endless spectrum of cultures, it really shouldn’t surprise us that there would be tension.
There has been much talk recently of systemic racism. And honestly, I am not in the position to speak at length about such an important topic. Does engrained and potent racism flow systemically through the bowels of our country, poisoning the very roots of who we are?
I have no idea. But I have seen racism. And I have seen hatred.
Tension is one thing. We can work with tension.
But racism? Appalling.
A hatred for any people group, is simply shameful. And we all know it when we see it.
So how do we fix this shameful behavior?
Spotting such ingrained behavior in my own life was tricky. But I really began noticing this pattern when I started traveling. It’s amazing how all the differences between such contrasting peoples simply melt away when we sit down for a meal in their home.
May I recommend boundary-widening experiences? May I beg of you one thing?
Travel—not to places and selfie-locations. But travel to people. Find them living their beautiful and different lives.
I have heard some say that they don’t, “see color.” But I do. God created us different. And those differences make us beautiful. Those differences are actually what bind us together.
I believe it was Michelle Obama who said that, “it is hard to hate up close.”
In a world separated by cell phones and anonymity through the internet, what could be more foreign than experiencing another’s culture up close and personal?
And when we do reach out our hands grasping for those new cultures, the people beyond that boundary generally welcome us with open embraces. We fought the Civil War. Dr King cried out for Freedom. And we came out of the other side cleansed with fire. So when we walked into that welcoming church is Delaware, America the Healing took over. And the two drastically differing peoples were able to stand side-by-side, united by a hard past, a bright future, and the desire to worship the same God. Racism cannot exist in an environment of loving closeness.
So we fight for it—every day.
In this way, America is good.
anthony forrest
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The first time I went to Anniston Alabama opened my eyes to the South. My hotel sat in a bad part of the town that appeared to be all bad parts. I was there for a conference and wanted to get out and see what Anniston was all about.
I think my first mistake was walking into the nearest Walmart to buy some snacks. My eyes saw things I will never unsee. This place looked like the streets of Fallujah (Of course, I have never been to Iraq, but I do hope it looks better than the Walmart in Anniston.) Appalled by my, by far, worst Walmart experience ever, I left without purchasing anything.
Then as I walked down the street, I ducked into a gas station to try again for snacks. I grabbed a few things and stepped up to the counter. Facing me stood a young man, probably in his early twenties. However, he had already begun to lose his teeth at a rapid rate. His black, stringy hair hung down to his waist. And then, of course, he wore a black tank top emblazoned with the stars and bars of the Confederate flag.
“Ha-y’all doin’?” he drawled.
I dropped my few items onto the counter and asked, rhetorically, “Not a whole lot going on in Anniston, is there?” I winced at my own sarcastic tone.
“Anniston?” he exclaimed.
And without a beat said, “Ain’ nothin’ goin-on here but moonshine, illegitimate chid-ren, and drugs.”
Unfortunately, I walked away from Alabama with an unfair view of the place. But my second trip turned my compass to a truer north.
We walked into a Baptist church in the aforementioned town, a couple of years after my first experience. I spoke with many churchgoers that day. And each expressed the same thing. They all knew where they lived. They knew what it was like to live in Anniston. They knew that their town had problems. But there they stood—faithful to their community.
We finished the service and were informed that there was to be a potluck meal. As we broke bread with these people, the classic southern hospitality burned easily through my original impression of Anniston, Alabama. Each of these people had other people in their lives who struggled with something. And who knows? One of those struggles may indeed be moonshine, illegitimate children, or drugs.
America, more so than others, I think, shines as the land of opportunity. But we’ve for years thought that opportunity to be one of economic gains. Perhaps this Country grants us a better opportunity than simple jobs or money. We have here the opportunity to fail, then rise with fresh perspective and experience.
Towns full of broken families and many other problems dot America. But America is the land of grace for the fallen and second (third or fourth?) chances.
We are America, the broken. But broken bones heal stronger. We are a land of the broken families. But at the end of the day, we are still family—failures and all. We’ve fallen time and again, and always risen.
In this way, America is good.
anthony forrest
Keep up with the rest of the series:
Though the sky should darken
on a sudden,
and the air grow sharp and chill.
The trees yield not their bounty.
Look! From the sky begins to spill
a new kind of bounty.
Though this time feels out of time,
and unexpected changes flow.
It’s through God’s crafted surprises
that He causes me to grow
and shift into the better shape of Christ.
anthony forrest
I sit on a cement step outside a friend’s home in the lovely state of Kentucky. This little town, along with so many others in Kentucky, sits nestled along the base of hills and through a little ravine beside a small river. And if the natural beauty of Central Kentucky isn’t enough to convince you of America’s goodness, have a walk downtown. It drips americana. Tall post-Civil War homes line streets, each with its rocking-chair deck.
We went for a run yesterday. As we turned down the street and up side road, we greeted smiling faces. My friend runs this route nearly every day. He sees the same people. And every day they say the same types of things.
“Running hard today?”
“Good morning!”
“Well, hey, how-ya doin’?”
You’ve seen the movies and TV shows where the good folks sit in front of their good homes, taking in afternoon coolness in the shade of their porch.
This is that place. They literally hold a glass of sweet tea and smile and wave at you. At least I think it’s sweet tea. I don’t really know what they drink in Kentucky. Lemonade? Who knows?
Whatever it is, it’s classically American, I can feel it.
It’s times like these that make me feel like America isn’t facing hard times—like maybe everything is good. Maybe we’re going to be okay.
I suppose I write this now in the attempt to convince myself that America’s goodness still exists. The constant political turmoil of 2020, the ongoing chaos of differing views regarding the pandemic, and the sorrowful condition of our current cultural climate has led me to this point. Though so many are asking the question whether or not America is great, I feel that we should ask a question more basic:
Is America good?
The problem with this question is that most people regard the word good as a subjective term. When compared to the all-good God above, I suppose everything seems pretty bleak. But even God himself looked down on his creation and said it was good. Granted, mankind has fallen into evil and does its darndest to wander (Lord, I feel it).
But at the end of the day, I still want to know.
Is America good?
I recently posed this question to a friend of mine. He tilted his head, pensively, and said slowly, hesitantly, “sometimes.” With all that we have seen and experienced in the past several months, I clearly understand what he means.
However, I think I’m more of an optimist.
My wife and I have, over the years, traveled to all 50 of these United States. (which, by the way, is not easy to do.) And most of the people we’ve met—whether black, white, Asian-American, Somali-American, short, thin, or wide—have been just downright good people.
So, is America good?
I think so. But as the great and powerful LeVar Burton once said, “you don’t have to take my word for it.”
Just take a walk down a Kentucky side-street. Wave at the friendly folks. Chances are, they’ll smile.
My goal over the next few weeks will be to encourage my readers to take off their glasses, coated with the hazy dust of the news, social media negativity, anger, and pride, wipe them off, and hopefully see America as good. Not because of who is or who is not President; but because of the people that live here in American community.
We have a term for the culture of American community:
Americana.
Sure, we have some bad stuff. Evil persists. Racism lives. Wretched attitudes thrive. I will want to explore these things.
But I believe that the goodness of America is the rule, and not the exception.
anthony forrest
The path before his eyes
Led ever upward
His tunic oft-catching
On twigs and brush and bur
He pauses
Deep breath
And the upward climb
Begins once more
A drop of sweat falls
His heart pounds in his core
Skyward gaze
The sun is hot
His right hand holds a beaded string
The Crucifix
Left hand pulls the tunic
Catching once more on a stick
The top
Done climbing
And falling to his knees
At the tower of stones
“Deus meus,” he begins in hushed tones
Crying to God on His eternal throne
anthony forrest
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