Am I proud to be an American?

DREAM: I'm inside a building as a huge crowd is outside gaping at a large steam ship with lucky people chosen to be aboard. I stand at the door as England's national anthem plays. Those from the US are standing by uninterested. Next comes only the chorus of “I'm proud to be an American” as our national anthem. There are a couple of people on the ship singing while stepping forward to do a dance with top hats and canes while the Englanders behind them do a mix between air claps and jazz hands in support. There are also a few people at the very back of the ship, just gazing at the water, completely uninterested in either song. I lean up against the door frame watching them all.

I've no interest in starting a blog - at least I don't believe I do. Sure, I tried it over a decade ago and I still log in occasionally to visit those words attempting to make sense of what I saw around me, those moved into the Drafts section after I reread a few and figured that they were safer if kept hidden (or more honestly that I would be safer, as I did not want to risk angering an unseen mob), but I awoke this morning with that dream, a few others, and what felt like a direct command short and simple.

"Start a blog"

That kind of internal monologue is dangerous; the dream it felt connected to even more so. Am I proud to be an American?

I cannot answer that.

I cannot even hear the question without imagining the post on r/USDefaultism. Lots of non-USA'rs are from North, Latin, or South America.

Am I a proud person?

Oh, absolutely.

Even constant insecurity is an insidious form of pride so pride comes for us all, that sneaky shapeshifter.

Afterall, motives are difficult to pin down; can we ever really know exactly why we do what we do?

Do I write from boredom, from an aggrandized sense of self-importance, from an urge to get an urgent message out that the world desperately needs. Am I feeling rushed, stressed over a contentious election year, afraid? Sometimes all of the above. Are any of the above valid reasons or are they excuses for neglecting whatever I should be doing? Are they more clanging symbols?

How do I figure out what I should be doing?

Do I merely enjoy the sound of typing? Maybe, but that doesn't explain Zeal - the book-length poem I've been writing, largely on my phone when I wake up before the alarm and lie by my sleeping husband, pondering the meaning of the word.

What does it mean for "Zeal for [the Lord's] house [to] consume [us]"?

Psalm 69:9 (BSB)

9 because zeal for Your house has consumed me,

and the insults of those who insult You have fallen on me.

John 2:17 (NIV)

17 His disciples remembered that it is written: “Zeal for your house will consume me.”

Was David being a tough guy, bragging to the Lord (aka his dad/boss) about how he tells his enemies when they attempt to insult the Lord's name (aka the family surname/brand name) - "Oh yeah? Pick on someone your own size!" - despite his inability to outrun those he was taunting? Had he been taunting anyone or simply stating a fact?

Was he heartbroken about how his countrymen hated him because they hated who he was desperately trying to represent well? How well did he try? David knew his faults better than we do, but those who have heard of David and Goliath have also probably heard of David and Bathsheba.

At least one source estimates that the Psalm was written towards the end of his life. Was David proud of how well he had represented his Lord or lamenting that he was ridiculed for staying loyal to his God despite what seemed to those around him as ample cause for abandoning that relationship? Neither was providing what the other wanted. David had not been faithful; the Lord seemed even less so as His beloved was not doing well. Where was Jehovah Jireh, the one who provides?

What was the source of his zeal? The effects?

When speaking of being zealous for the Lord and/or the reputation of His house; are we speaking of past, present, or future pride or past, present, or future grief?

Psalm 69:5-12 (BSB)

5 You know my folly, O God,

and my guilt is not hidden from You.

6 May those who hope in You not be ashamed through me,

O Lord GOD of Hosts;

may those who seek You not be dishonored through me,

O God of Israel.

7 For I have endured scorn for Your sake,

and shame has covered my face.

8 I have become a stranger to my brothers

and a foreigner to my mother’s sons,

9 because zeal for Your house has consumed me,

and the insults of those who insult You have fallen on me.

10 I wept and fasted,

but it brought me reproach.

11 I made sackcloth my clothing,

and I was sport to them.

12 Those who sit at the gate mock me,

and I am the song of drunkards.

My Zeal has been a labor of love, one I've cried over and with. It grieves me just thinking about how much it grieves me to write. I'm crying because it started from tears and tears are what continues to breathe new life into it.

I started in 2020, grieving what a friend was going through. I stopped and started and stopped again only to start back up again in the middle of the night after months and months and months of barely being able to look at it because of a tragic situation with a friend that made me revisit the topic of addiction.

Addiction, at its basic core, is devilishly easy to fall into; the guileless help without intending to.

As did the first attempt to understand grief that was not directly mine, it morphed into a prayer:

You - Savior of sinners such as these - Savior of sinners such as me who struggle with separate self-sabotaging responses to a perilous world - are the Savior of sinners such as we.

which turned into a philosophical plea:

The radio was discussing some test to see if teens whose short sob story resulted in someone else's story being shortened were irredeemable.

I screamed at the statement, "The prosecutors must also prove that the youth is irreparably corrupt and incapable of rehabilitation." that not a single soul fits that description and turned it off before I too shortened someone's story by not seeing someone stroll across the road or something.

I couldn't afford to be rendered sightless by rage so I turned off the stimulus but what about someone stuck in stimulating situations?

Who snaps when?

Who is provided the space to do so?

complete with big questions directed back at a big God:

• How could it be that Christ currently considers us beautiful even as we're clothed in our own stubborn betrayal of all that the Almighty asks of us?
• Could it be that while we seem stuck in the sixth day with stress and suffering and strife, we're surrounded by the seventh, scientifically speaking?
• Could it be that a Christian is one who dies to themselves early and experiences Day Seven rest in the soul, even while the body exists in Day Six?
• Death, where is your sting?

I tell myself that it makes sense in context.