Trump country, through the eyes of love

Photo by Laura Seaman on Unsplash

A few days ago, we drove through Trump country, Maine, which seems to be any place outside the cities. What I saw inspired me to write the title “Trump country, through the eyes of love,” and a long post to explain the title.

This isn’t that post. I pulled it back before publishing it and I’ve rewritten it again and again. Maybe it’s because the topic is radioactive. Maybe because love is beyond words. But I’m determined to publish something. The idea “Trump country, through the eyes of love” had come to me and I was determined to write something worthy.

“Thank you,” I imagine the idea saying to me. “Perhaps let me let me explain myself, and you just type.”

“Fine with me,” I imagine saying

What the fingers ended up typing

“When a pickpocket meets a saint, all he sees are pockets,” the saying goes. What you see depends on what’s there and on the eyes you choose to see with.

Here’s how Mike started to explain it in his long-winded post.

During the 2016 and 2020 campaigns, millions of people would have said they loved Trump and acted as if they did. Trump acted as if he loved them back. Maybe it was all an act; maybe not. No one but Trump knows what’s in Trump’s mind. Maybe not even Trump. Certainly, not you or me or Trump’s friends or critics.

Blah, blah, blah. Blah, blah, blah.

He makes things so complicated sometimes!

4 Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. 5 It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. 6 Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 7 It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. 8 Love never fails.
1 Corinthians 13

Trump doesn’t seem patient or kind. He’s a boaster and proud. He seems the antithesis of this description of love.

So how did he see love in Trump country?

It’s simple.

If you look through the eyes love you see love.

And in conclusion

“Is that it?” I asked. “All my writing, gone?”

“Yes,” I imagined the answer. “You have much more important things to write. Now publish me, and get on with your life.”

Apparently I did.