America, My Home

Posted Oct 20, 05:47 AM by Kay Camenisch

I was recently impacted by a conversation with the lady sitting beside me in the Nashville airport. She was probably about seventy years old, petite, and nicely dressed in black slacks and print top. She sat in a wheel chair, but looked energetic nonetheless. I couldn’t place her thick, but charming accent, so I asked, “Do you mind if I ask where you’re from?”

She leaned forward a bit as she said, “I’m from Austria, but I grew up in France.” She immigrated to America with her mother and had lived most of her life in California. She came to Nashville to see her new great-grandchild. She didn’t have much family left in France, just a few distant cousins. Her son kept telling her that while she’s able, she should go back and see the land of her childhood.

As she mentioned returning, she shook her head. “I don’t have any reason to go back. This is my home.” Her eyes began to fill with tears as she said, “There is no other place like it. No place like America. I could sit on the street corner all day and tell people how great America is, but they’d just look at me like I’m crazy. No. I don’t need to go back to France. This is my home.” Then she apologized for crying.

I assured her that tears are fine; more of us need to feel deeply about our country. She continued talking and took me back with her to France at the time of the Nazi occupation. She was sixteen years old.

“I’m Jewish, and my family had to be very careful,” she said. “It wasn’t safe. My father was in hiding, but somebody told on him. One day I came down the sidewalk and saw a French policeman dragging my father to the street.”

“‘Please, let him go,’ I cried as I ran toward them. ‘Please! He hasn’t done anything wrong.’”

“The French policeman’s cold eyes looked into mine. He pulled his pistol from its holster, pointed it between my eyes, and said, ‘Leave us alone, or I’ll kill you.’”

“‘Go, Denise, Go,’ said, my father.”

“‘Please. Please, don’t take him away.’ I cried as I tried to reach my father to say good-bye.”

“With gun still pointed at my head, the policeman said, ‘One . . . Two . . .’”

“Before I could say good-bye, my father said, ‘Denise, GO! NOW!’”

“I ran for my life. . . . I never saw him again.”

Denise paused in her story, then said, “I still feel guilty because my father died.”

As she told the story, Denise was passionate as if she were re-living it, but there were no tears.

I asked, “Do you know that you couldn’t have done anything to save him?”

“Oh, yes. I know,” she said. “I would’ve been killed too. But I still feel guilty.”

Tears returned to her eyes as she added, “America is my home now. This is a wonderful country. I love America. I wish everybody knew what a wonderful country this is.”

I met Denise close to a month ago, but our visit affects me still. I don’t think I know anybody else with that kind of love and appreciation for America. We take for granted our freedoms – of religion, speech, beliefs, ability to better ourselves, and so forth. We believe justice, liberty, and the privilege of voting are rights. Most of us have never experienced the lack of such things. We don’t fully appreciate them.

We guard and protect things that are dear. Do we protect America? Several months ago, a veteran told me, “Today, our nation is giving away all the things we fought for during World War II.”

Is he right? Are we giving away things we once held dear? Whether we agree with him or not, I believe we need to consider what he said. Do we love and appreciate our country? What makes America great? What are we giving away?

After a month of thinking, I don’t have all the answers. I do know that after meeting Denise, I appreciate America more. I’m more grateful for justice, liberty, and the freedoms we have—including the freedom of religion and the opportunity to vote my convictions. I don’t want to give any of those things away.

Even though Denise isn’t sitting on the corner, her message is contagious. I think it would be good if it spread and became an epidemic of love for America, our home.