America’s birth defect did not define our destiny

A friend recently asked why so many Americans seem embarrassed by their own country.

The question came during the annual Fourth of July arguments about patriotism, flags, and whether America deserves to be celebrated. It reminded me of something the late Robert Woodson often said about America’s beginning.

Love does not require perfection. It requires stewardship. That seems like a good way to care for a family. And it seems like a good way to care for a nation.

Woodson acknowledged the contradiction at our founding: a nation proclaiming that all men are created equal while tolerating slavery. Others point to limited rights for women and other shortcomings present at the nation’s birth.

What interested Woodson was not the diagnosis but the response. He compared America to a child born with a birth defect. Loving parents do not deny the condition or abandon the child because of it. They adapt, advocate, protect, teach, accommodate, and love.

They learn stewardship.

Caregiving taught me that lesson long before I heard Woodson apply it to a nation. During one particularly difficult season, a wise friend told me something that permanently changed the way I viewed caregiving.

“Your wife has a Savior. You are not that Savior.”

For years I had lived as though my job was to fix everything. If I researched enough, worked hard enough, and sacrificed enough, I could somehow force life toward the outcome I wanted.

Eventually I collided with a truth every caregiver must learn. I could not control the outcome. I was accountable for my stewardship.

That realization changed the way I looked at life and the world.

For years I believed life would finally begin after the next surgery, the next recovery, the next crisis, or the next milestone. Like many caregivers, I kept telling myself that if we could just get through this one thing, then we could finally get on with our lives.

Eventually I realized this wasn’t a rehearsal. This was my life.

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When I stopped trying to get through life in order to get on with life, I quit treading water waiting for rescue and learned to swim.

The problems remained. My stewardship changed.

Too often we tell ourselves that happiness waits on the other side of some future event. If only this election goes differently. If only this grievance is resolved. Then we can finally live.

Stewardship asks another question. Not, “Why wasn’t I given something better?” But, “What am I going to do with what I’ve been given?”

I’ve seen the difference between cultures that cultivate stewardship and cultures that discourage it.

Years ago, while helping establish our prosthetic limb outreach in West Africa, I worked alongside local technicians learning to build prosthetic legs for their own people. In one clinic, nearly every decision required approval from above.

One day I asked a technician a simple question. “What do you think?”

The puzzled expression on his face answered before he spoke. It wasn’t that he lacked intelligence. No one had ever expected him to own the decision.

America, at its best, asks that question every day. What do you think? What will you build? What responsibility are you willing to carry? That expectation lies near the heart of the American experiment.

America’s founding principles created room for reform because the nation’s founding documents proclaimed truths many of the founders themselves failed to live fully. Those same principles later became the standard by which Americans challenged slavery and expanded civil rights.

The story of America is not one of perfection. It is one of stewardship.

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Of course, stewardship is not the only response to a defect. Some people learn from it. Others exploit it.

Every family caring for someone with disabilities eventually encounters people more interested in the diagnosis than the person. Nations experience something similar. America’s original contradiction has served both as a call to greater fidelity and as a tool for those seeking power through perpetual grievance.

Woodson understood the difference. One path produces stewardship. The other manufactures resentment.

I love this country not because it is flawless, but because it repeatedly calls each generation to measure itself against ideals higher than itself.

When I look at my grandchildren, I hope they inherit a nation that prizes freedom, embraces responsibility, rewards merit, and teaches that life is shaped more by stewardship than by grievance.

What if we stopped waiting for the perfect election, the perfect apology, the perfect reckoning, or the perfect outcome before deciding to engage faithfully with the country we have? Imagine the gratitude, creativity, service, and responsibility that would follow.

Parents of children with disabilities understand this. Caregivers understand this. Love does not require perfection. It requires stewardship.

That seems like a good way to care for a family. And it seems like a good way to care for a nation.