When I was growing up, the 4th of July was a sacred holiday. Both of my parents served in World War II – they even met in the Army! It was clear that peace was not something to take for granted. So we celebrated – attending our town’s parade in the morning, and watching fireworks at night.
And in between, we would drive to the Armenian Congregational Church’s annual picnic. I loved watching the old people play backgammon, the men grill kebab, the women serve their hand-made baklava. It never dawned on me that they were celebrating peace too; so many of them had escaped the genocide.
I think of peace differently now than I did as a child. It is not a “given,” but a precious gift to be treasured. And, in this turbulent, uncertain season, I’m aware of how fragile this crucial gift is.
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