GWEN FAULKENBERRY: Offering a legacy that makes up better

It was the end of Labor Day weekend. Monday’s gloaming. There were undone dishes to remind me of meals around the table. The washer churned with dirty towels from the pool party ended just a couple of hours before, but over forever, as the summer of 2022. Sealed in memory. Like the pool itself, tucked tight under its thick green vinyl cover.

My two older kids made trips back and forth to their cars with paraphernalia they haul into the wood between their worlds, home and school. I made sure they had money; we hugged and kissed goodbye. Their vehicles disappeared in a cloud of dust down the driveway.

It was one more time after a weekend when I, as a strong, liberated, modern woman with meaningful work, good health, a rich inner life, beautiful family, and great friends, became pathetic.

Haunted by words from Pablo Neruda: “Tonight I can write the saddest lines. Write, for example, ‘The night is starry and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.'”

There was no reason to be shivering, not for a star and not for me. Stars are exploding balls of gas. According to the thermometer, summer in Arkansas didn’t know it was over. And yet it’s a cold wind that blows no good through my heart every time they leave.

It is not because I want them to stay. I don’t. Nothing gold can stay, and I am well aware that leaf subsides to leaf by turning brown and dying. I am so thankful my big kids grow and thrive in new places. That they are learning new things. Spreading their wings. It is just the transience of it all–life is a vaporness–that can be so jarring.

I wrote all of that in present tense a few weeks ago and then abandoned it because I was stuck. Wasting away in Neruda-ville. All I could think to write was more lines about loss; there seemed nowhere else to go with the ache. So at the 11th hour I switched to writing a new column. There seemed enough sadness in the world without me adding more.

Then, today, I heard a thing that reminded me of life’s fragility and was jolted by it again–this job that a reminder of the transience of life does so well. This time it moved me from verklemption into a better place. A place of less bitter resolution, even for this sad tale of the Momma Bird and her half-empty nest.

It was on Twitter: The announcement that Sarah Huckabee Sanders was diagnosed with thyroid cancer and underwent surgery that was deemed successful, along with the assurance that she was cancer-free. Ready to return to the campaign trail soon. Her doctor expects no further problems , although she will face further treatment.

This tweet popped up on a landscape littered with tweets ranging from things about education, faith, writing, family, health care, sports, business, and state as well as national politics. Some positive. A lot negative. And though I force myself to follow a range of political thinkers, there’s very little nuance.

Sarah, for instance, tweets mostly about how she’ll save Arkansas from the radical left agenda in all of its terrifying iterations, including public school teachers. Her supporters reply with thanksgiving and praise while non-supporters respond with eyerolls and snark.

The comments on her health announcement were no different. Cynics took even that opportunity to criticize her. To kick her while she’s down. Like Trump did with John McCain; like he’s done with so many others he considers his enemies.

This was not the approach of her opponent Chris Jones. Coming across his riposte on Twitter was like finding water in a desert. It is so good I will quote the entirety here:

Our hearts go out to you, Sarah. Our family is thinking of you and praying for you and your family. It’s truly a blessing that you caught this cancer early and were able to receive world-class treatment so quickly. From one family of Arkansans to another, we send you hope, love, and healing. Our family has been on this journey before and, while it’s not easy, we know personally the power of prayer, the healing hand of God, and the strength that comes from being surrounded by community. May you have an abundance of all in this season. We wish you a successful recovery. God bless. From the Jones Family

There is much to commend about this, most of which is obvious. It answers a question I have pondered in this column and elsewhere for months: Where is our Zelenskyy? Where are the American leaders, and the Arkansans who represent the best in us? Where is someone I don’t just have to settle for–a lesser of two evils–but a leader I would want to follow?

Here he is, in those words.

Jones’ response is better than what we’ve seen in the former president. Better than those who despise Sarah because she represents him still. Better than standing silently by, better than a token well-wish, better than some calculated political chess move.

Jones’ response is the absolute best that is in us as a people, because it shows empathy. It dignifies the experience of another. He conveys, to his opponent for the highest political office in our state: Your life matters. I care about your well-being more than I care about the differences that separate us. Our shared humanity is bigger than any political race. I want to see you heal.

This is honorable. Gracious. Hopeful. Unifying. Kind. It seeks to build up rather than tear down. It is also unblinking in its expression of faith, a faith most Arkansans claim to share. In fact, Jones’ statement is a reach deep into our shared values, and an extended hand that offers those shared values ​​across what divides us.

It is statesmanship. It is leadership. I feel inspired by the example. It reminds me that I, too, can respond from the best that is in me, instead of the worst. I, too, can be honorable, hopeful, gracious, and kind. I can choose empathy. Unity. I can choose to build up rather than tear down. I can choose this posture not because someone deserves it, or has earned it, or even ever shown that attitude toward me.

I can’t choose what other people say or do, but I get to choose who I am. And as Arkansans, we get to choose what we want our state–from the highest political office in Little Rock to the lowliest position in the smallest town–to be. We choose what to make of Arkansas politics by choosing Arkansas’ politicians.

The news of Sarah’s health scare was a reminder to all of us, and none more than her, I am sure, that life is fragile and full of things beyond our control. My prayer is that we all use this moment in a way that makes us better.

Just like the jarring realization that time is short with those in the nest with us or out, a health scare can give us pause to be more intentional about how we spend our time, and the legacy we leave to the world.

While such things are difficult, they are also opportunities to re-evaluate. And, like Chris Jones did by his example, to step forward with the best we have to offer.

Gwen Ford Faulkenberry is an English teacher and editorial director of the non-partisan group Arkansas Strong. (http://arstrong.org) Email her at [email protected]