To find our way. Once again.

I’d hate to be a refugee. Especially at my age. Not that many years from 80. Starting life. All over again. That would be difficult, if not impossible, for an old man. If I were young, I might be able to handle it. Especially if I were a natural born optimist. I’d have time on my side, if nothing else. Almost every day, I look at published photos of refugees. Mostly from Syria. But from all over the world. They have no homeland. Because of political turmoil.  Indeed, a sad state of affairs. Makes one wonder. About the human condition. Of course, my condition is fine. Because I am blessed.  I’ve had an occasional pitfall. Moments of sadness. But nothing as sever as being a refugee. Homeless. Without a country, too. It could be worse. Being gravely ill. And old. At that point, one might welcome death.  Meanwhile, here I am. In America. The so-called land of opportunity. We used to welcome immigrants. Refugees. From all over the world.  But now, we don’t want ‘em. Often for silly political reasons. And fear. That they may change America. For the worse. I don’t buy that. I’m convinced it would be for the better. I’d roll out the red carpet. And welcome them. In what I once thought was the American tradition. Too bad. America has lost its way. But it’s not too late. To find our way. Once again. –Jim Broede