DARIN MICHAEL SHAW

It was a Sunday morning.

July 4, 1976.

America’s Bicentennial.

I was nine years old, and from my perspective, the celebration was unlike anything I’d ever seen.

Entire communities gathered along parade routes draped in red, white, and blue. Nearly every television program had been preempted or transformed into patriotic programming. It seemed as though the entire country had agreed to pause for one long birthday party.

Somewhere that weekend, my family watched a movie about George M. Cohan—the songwriter who gave America classics like I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy, You’re a Grand Old Flag, and Over There. Mom, a veritable encyclopedia of entertainment history, filled in all the details the movie left out. When World War I broke out, she explained, Cohan tried to enlist but was turned away. At thirty-eight, he was considered too old to serve. So instead, he did what he knew how to do. He wrote songs that lifted a nation’s spirit.

I remember singing along from the living room couch, convinced every one of those songs had been written just for the Bicentennial.

A few weeks later came the Summer Olympics.

Bruce Jenner won the decathlon, the event many considered the ultimate test of athletic ability. I can still picture the moment a fan handed him an American flag after he crossed the finish line. Jenner draped it across his shoulders and took a victory lap that instantly became one of the defining images of the 1976 Games.

For the rest of that summer, I was Bruce Jenner.

At least in my backyard.

Trash cans became hurdles. Sticks became javelins. Anything remotely heavy became a shot put. Every imaginary victory deserved another triumphant lap around the yard with an imaginary American flag—an old beach towel—fluttering behind me. Nine-year-old boys don’t need much. Just a little imagination.

And freedom.

Looking back, I realize that the Bicentennial wasn’t memorable simply because America turned two hundred years old. It was memorable because, for a brief moment, it felt like everyone was celebrating something together.

In my lifetime, the only event that comes close to producing that same sense of national unity was September 11, 2001. Different emotions, certainly. One was joyful celebration. The other profound grief. Yet both reminded us that beneath our disagreements, there remains something that binds us together.

This year, as America marks 250 years since the signing of the Declaration of Independence, I find myself grateful once again. Grateful for the men and women who risked everything to secure the freedoms we enjoy. Grateful for those who have continued to preserve them.

Grateful to live in a nation where we are free to speak, worship, disagree, create, dream, and pursue the lives we believe we’re called to live. I have visited nations where this is not possible. 

Freedom is worth celebrating.

But over the years I’ve come to believe freedom eventually asks each of us a second question.

Not simply… What am I free from?

But… What am I free for?

That may be one of the most important questions we’ll ever answer.

The Apostle Paul once wrote, “You, my brothers and sisters, were called to be free. But do not use your freedom to indulge the flesh; rather, serve one another humbly in love.”

I smile every time I read that little conjunction. Paul doesn’t diminish freedom. He gives it direction.

Freedom isn’t merely the absence of restraint. It’s the presence of opportunity. The opportunity to become the kind of person who loves well.

Free people can forgive.

Free people can serve.

Free people can choose generosity over selfishness, kindness over anger, compassion over indifference.

They don’t have to. They get to.

Perhaps that’s the highest purpose of freedom—not simply protecting our own rights, but creating space to pursue what is good, honorable, and loving toward others.

As Christ-followers, we can celebrate our nation’s freedoms wholeheartedly without confusing them with God’s Kingdom. History reminds us that governments rise and fall. Borders shift. Constitutions are amended. Elections come and go. 

But God’s work has always moved forward in quieter ways.

One forgiven offense.

One neighbor loved.

One burden shared.

One lonely person noticed.

One act of grace that changes another life.

Those moments rarely make the evening news. Yet they are the moments that slowly change the world.

So this Independence Day, enjoy the fireworks. Fly the flag. Gather with family. Tell old stories. Laugh with friends. Sing a few George M. Cohan tunes! Give thanks for those whose courage purchased freedoms we continue to enjoy.

And somewhere in the middle of the celebration, perhaps ask yourself one more question.

Not only… What am I free from?

But… What am I free to become?

I suspect the answer to that question has the power to shape not only our own lives, but our homes, our communities, and perhaps even our nation itself.

The Valedictorian’s Story

I could go on for days about Mom and all she meant to me. I’d say the most indelible impression she made was in cultivating our family narrative and instilling in us all a sense that our own lives were unfolding stories, intertwined together, as part of a larger whole. We belonged. 

My entry into the family narrative began on April 20, 1967, in Waukegan, Illinois. A band of tornados made its way across the Midwest, touching down in Chicagoland just as I arrived. With word of tornadoes hitting our neighborhood and fearing the worst for my brothers and sisters, Dad raced home from the hospital. Story goes, he burst in to find all four kids huddled safe and sound in the basement—14-year-old brother Dave had grabbed his siblings, games and snacks, and rushed them all downstairs as tornado warnings sounded. (It’s amazing how many of big brother Dave’s stories go like that, Dave, always doing the right thing. Brother Doug’s stories … not so much.)

In a J.R.R. Martin sense, I was storm-born. Thankfully, the only local damage reported of my birth-storm was to some farm equipment that was … relocated. 

For my thinking, the greatest gift our parents gave us was their example. My brothers, sisters, and I, all learned what unconditional love was by experiencing it. We got to see what it looked like in their marriage, in parenting, and in family. Growing up, I looked forward to having the same love, marriage, and family Mom and Dad did. I think it was true for all five of us, as we all have, in turn, married and raised our families much like Mom and Dad did … each adding our own chapters to the larger family narrative, and are now watching the next generation of our family carrying the narrative forward.

[An attempt at the family tree as of this post: Mom and Dad have five children, three daughters-in-law and two sons-in-law (almost 200 years of combined marriage experience between us), twenty-four grandchildren, nineteen grand ‘in-laws’, forty-four great-grandchildren. And as I’m typing this, we’ve just learned a first great-great-grand is on the way.] 

The story lives on. Nothing would make Mom happier.

My kids know all the old growing-up-Shaw stories, and they know Shari’s and my stories, and we have our family’s growing-up stories. Today, our girls are all adding their family’s stories to the whole. Into the fourth generation now, it’s an amazing gift Mom left us. And I think we all have a sense that this is Mom’s legacy. When Mom died, our girls all got tattoos that read, “Love always, Grandma XOXO” in Mom’s handwriting. 

Phyllis’ legacy is our story.  

I could say a lot more about the importance of story in my life—I do make my living as a storyteller—but for now, I’ll get back to my story. 

Which brings us to Bruce Springsteen. 

To be continued …