That is the power of a true song. It doesn’t just play; it enters. It lifts. It embalms. As the Queen of Country Music, Reba McEntire, once said in that trembling, tear‑rimmed tone of hers, “I can feel it in my soul.” That is when music has done its job.
But life is not always as melodic. Sometimes you want to show love and circumstances halt you mid‑stride. Even cinema captures this truth. “Coming to America” was comedy, yes, but also a cultural jolt. Why would anyone greet a cheerful “Good morning my neighbors” with the profanity of the F‑word? That contradiction, abrasive yet oddly honest, is part of the American paradox. The irony and the beauty.
Today, if a global census were taken on who would stand up for America, the numbers might not soar as they once did. Yet anyone who has encountered Americans up close knows a quieter truth: you will struggle to find warmer, kinder, more open‑hearted people anywhere else.
I first met America in the year 2000. Twenty‑six years ago. She appeared like a pretty damsel, but her beauty was not in the highways, the skylines, the industries, or the technological bravado. Her beauty was, and remains, her people.
Two years later, the World Press Institute Fellowship carried me deeper into her soul. I lived with four families across the country, from rural Minnesota to Motown’s hum to the restless pulse of New York. One thread ran through every home, every newsroom, every classroom, every farm, every boardroom: generosity without suspicion.
I saw it in the Indian Reservations. I saw it while dining with the Vice President of the Federal Reserve Bank, one of the benefactors funding our all‑expenses‑paid intellectual and cultural immersion. I saw it in the newsrooms of TIME, The Washington Post Magazine, and the Chicago Tribune. I saw it at the NASA’s Kennedy Space Center, at Disney, on Wisconsin farms. I saw it in academic sessions at Macalester College and UCLA, and in briefings in Washington, Los Angeles, and New York. I saw it courtside watching the Chicago Bulls and the Chicago White Sox, in the cold thrill of an ice hockey game in St. Paul, and in the solemn halls of the Martin Luther King Jr. museum in Atlanta.
Never once was it about the color of my skin. It was always about the content of my character, the knowledge exchanged, the value shared, the resources offered with open hands.
As it rang through then, so it rings today.
Americans, at their core, are caring people. They live out the words of Christ, who said He would recognize His disciples by the love they show one another.
I have watched Pastor Jason Hanash labor for hours to equip himself for every good work, pouring out his faith week after week. I have seen Pastor Veronica Hanash join the ushers, welcoming people with warmth, ensuring every soul found a seat and a moment of peace. I have seen Americans rally around anyone in distress, friends, colleagues, church members, loving them, lifting them, reminding them that Jesus loves them too. I have seen GoFundMe pages spring up overnight, not as charity but as community. I have seen people give their widow’s mite with joy.
From Pastor Clarence Ramirez to Pastor Brendan, Pastor Shawn to Bob Chicoine, Mark Green, Mercedes, Lisa Bruce Witthans, Mila Moore, Wendy Balor Ogletree, Rick Ogletree, Monica Garcia-Carballo, Richard Djdrask Carballo, Maria Medina, Jeff Ruddy, Ryan Bridgen, Bob Nelson, Chris Eubank, Joe Rangel, Patrick Ndawu, Paul Davis — the list is long, the love consistent.
It is this totality of unending kindness that brought Lionel Richie’s lyrics back to me. The love I felt for America the first time I saw her has not dimmed. It has matured. It has deepened. It has remained evergreen.
