Hyacinths to Feed the Soul

Home is the place where, when you go there, they have to take you in.

Robert Frost

I’ve lived a long time, but the pictures of citizens storming the seat of our government in Washington, D. C., this week came close to breaking my heart. Years ago, I spent a summer between my sophomore and junior year at BYU in Baltimore. My dad was stationed as the Air Force liaison officer at what was then center of the National Security Agency in Ft. Meade, Maryland. I never actually saw his office—just the acres of roof which jutted up maybe four or six feet off the ground and dotted with hundreds of HVAC components to control the atmosphere for the unimaginable millions of stored records and technology the government used as a basis for our national internal security in the building beneath. To enter, there was a steep set of stairs with an iron gate and two guards equipped with machine guns. Nobody passed that point without top security clearance. The guards were mostly young soldiers who smiled at me when I dropped in several times to pick up my dad after work. In less tense times, I think one or two of them might have asked me out.

My dad was also a member of the Bishopric in the Annapolis Ward. We went to church every Sunday not far from the gates of the Naval Academy. It was a memorable summer. My Sunday School class consisted of my friend and I, both out of college for the summer, and 60 LDS Midshipmen—all seniors. No underclassmen were allowed to leave the campus. I’d venture to say it was one of the most remarkable dating pools any young American co-ed ever encountered. Handsome boys with top-notch grades, serious ambition, remarkable patriotism, and universally wicked senses of humor.

In one storied tale, a senior Mid was famous for playing practical jokes on his buddies, but no one had ever been able to provide payback until he was called away by a family emergency. While he was gone, the Mids in his dorm (which was all 2500 of them since there was only one huge dorm at the Academy!) covered the walls and floor of his room with construction plastic, sealed the seams with duct tape, and filled his room with hundreds of thousands of gallons of water. Then each Mid bought a discount store goldfish, shoved it into the “tank” and locked the door.  When the luckless Mid returned and unlocked his door, a flood reminiscent of Noah engulfed him, his floor, and everything in its path. Rumor had it, there were some serious “demerits” as punishment, but nobody was thrown out of the Academy. I’m guessing the Academy senior officers had some memories of their own plebe days.

We did date some that summer, my friend and I, but mostly after work, we drove to Washington, D. C. once or twice a week and took in the sites. We spent literally days at the Smithsonian, visited art galleries one after another filled with works which Americans have cherished by centuries. We saw the Capitol, the White House, the National Archives, the Supreme Court, the Constitution, and the Declaration of Independence. I sat on the steps in front of the Lincoln Monument and visited Washington and Jefferson’s homes. Tears often glistened on my checks as I walked the holy ground of American’s history that summer.

I was in the hospital with blood clots in both my lungs and a positive COVID test this week when angry citizens stormed the Capitol, so it was a couple of days before I was confronted with the images of violence across the city which I had learned to love. It wasn’t the first time in my life such rage had taken to the streets in D. C. I’d watched violent protests against the war in Viet Nam and the compelling images of millions of Civil Rights supporters marching shoulder to shoulder in the streets. But the violence last week more closely resembled a scene from a horror movie. No American could watch those scenes without being shaken.

Then last night, a ½ dozen Young Women from my local church congregation knocked at my door; they were bearing a poster board get-well card and a stunning bouquet of purple Irises. I could see their eyes beaming behind their masks. They handed my daughter their gifts as I stood across the room, tears leaping unexpectedly to my eyes.

This the was America I knew. All the scenes of violent rage simply faded from view, and I was reminded of the lines from a poem by American John Greenleaf Whittier:

                                           If thou of fortune be bereft,

                                           And in thy store there be but left two loaves,

                                           Sell one, and with the dole,

                                           Buy hyacinths to feed thy soul.