Psalm 137 begins with these poignant words, written by an exile from the Promised Land, his homeland. He, and others, were asked by their overlords to “play the songs of Zion”, songs of joy. “We wept” as they remembered their native land, they hung up their harps as they refused to give joy to the conquerors.
Most Americans cannot imagine being forcibly removed from the land of our birth. We are free to travel, but are very happy to return to the “land of the free”. The fires of patriotism should burn in each of us, but does not seem to do so for most of our citizens.
Visible signs of the level of love of country come, in part, by the flying of the national flag. I have been privileged to tour several nations over the last thirty years, and one instance impressed on me the difference in attitudes people have for the land of their nativity.
1986 was the year, and a group of students, parents and even grandparents were on a trip from Paris, Illinois to Western Europe. We had crossed from West Germany, as it was known then, into the communist regime of Czechoslovakia. From Pilsen to Prague, the people and places were drab, almost colorless, the architecture featureless, Spartan in its functionality.
After a couple of days of enjoying communist hospitality (and listening to the virtues of their system from one of our local guides), we departed Prague to travel east, and then south to Austria. On the superhighway, similar to our interstate, a light rain accompanied our journey. The bus driver, Peter from Yugoslavia, who had a sweetheart in each port of call, managed to sideswipe the center guardrail on the slick roadway, but we survived to make the turn south toward Austria.
A note on this nation: In the waning days of World War 2, the leaders of the Allies had gathered to determine the makeup of Europe after the end of conflict. Effectively, Western Europe would consist of two armed camps, those in the east under Soviet Russia’s control, while in the west governments would be free and democratic. Austria, through some machinations, became a sort of neutral state, owing allegiance to neither bloc. With the ancient city Vienna as its capital, the country flourished.
Back to the bus: We were driving through a miserable, cold rain, clouds hanging low. Imagine how our spirits lifted when we reached the border between communist Czechoslovakia and free Austria. The rain stopped, the clouds parted, the sun shone brightly — and lest you think this is hyperbole, it really did happen that way!
But that was just preliminary to what we saw next. Our first Austrian town showed us a kaleidoscope of color. A band, in brightly colored uniforms, forced our bus to slow down. We were also greeted with a varied architectural style of houses and government buildings. In addition, it seemed that every window had their boxes filled with the brightest flowers; in short, it was a profusion of color and life.
However, one other aspect of moving from a conquered land to one of freedom was the national flag of Austria flying from virtually every house, every official building, on every street corner. Brilliant colors of red over white over red, and a center of an eagle crest, lent a most festive air to the street we rolled over. One can almost imagine an Austrian, trapped on the other side of the border in Czechoslovakia, “on the banks of the River Charles, we wept when we remembered Vienna!”
Flags come out in America during the most patriotic times. The Fourth of July, on inauguration days, Memorial Days and other holidays feature, in some places, Old Glory, the Stars and Stripes. But those days are few, it seems, and until last summer, included our own household. Oh, we had a flag we stuck on a short holder on the side of the house, but had not flown it for some time. A remodeling project, we decided, would be complete if we put up a flagpole. For those of you who would believe that such is an easy task, not so.
Finally finished, our 25 foot tall flagstaff sports two flags continuously: the American flag, and below it, the Christian flag. With a spot for a third banner, we will switch with seasons, a St. Louis Cardinal flag during most of the year during baseball season, and one for our preferred Presidential candidate the rest of the time. Without being egotistical about it, it is a pleasure to come home to that visible indication of our loyalties and loves.
Coming home from Indianapolis Thursday, with Jane driving, I tried to count how many of the hundreds of homes we passed were flying our national banner. From Plainfield on US 40, I managed to see about 30 or so, but I know some were missed. From Terre Haute to Paris, on US 150, only six were seen.
That seems about right. In our subdivision, only two other flagpoles adorn the properties. One greets visitors as they enter the area, while my neighbor has the other. He flies Old Glory day and night; a Cub fan, he also has a flag which is flown whenever the Cubs win a playoff game!
What does this paucity of the symbol of our nation mean? Are we here in Middle America lacking in our love for the United States? I would hope not, but comparing the experience we had thirty years ago in Austria, we fall short. We imagined every Austrian’s heart filled with pride at the sight of their beloved banner so prominently displayed.
We need to get back to a visible demonstration that patriots live here. Show to those traveling through our town and countryside the flag of our fathers, the flag so many fought and died for over the last 244 years. Should those who, in Lincoln’s words, gave “their last full measure of devotion” to America, expect any less?