Fruits of Fathers

I love the words of Edmund Burke, considered the father of “modern” conservatism, as well as those of the recently deceased William F. Buckley, Jr., now considered the father of “contemporary” conservatism.  Those terms alone makes me feel as though I were shopping for furniture.  Never mind the definitions:  these men gave us thoughtful insights on how to structure our society then, as well as now, and indeed into the future.

Although I agree with most of these men’s sentiments, I diverge on some points.  This is to be expected, as my personal line of demarcation between conservatism and liberalism is not linear, but of the writhing, sinusoidal type; I often refer back to classical ideals and the intentions of our federalist forefathers.  As Ronald Reagan reminded us, though, someone you agree with 80% of the time is not your 20% enemy, but instead, an ally; I therefore associate with conservatives mostly, while never receiving their brand myself.  Buckley himself endorsed the independence of thought, expressed in a speech at which Reagan was present, when he said, “Freedom anticipates, and contingently welcomes and profits from, what happens following the calisthenics of the free mind.”

I initially agreed with Edmund Burke’s idea taken from his book, Reflections on the Revolution in France, when he said, “To make us love our country, our country ought to be lovely.”  This statement sets a standard and demands results.  The union of thought between Edmund Burke and myself, on this point, broke earlier this week, when I realized you do not have to know a thing to love it; instead, you can be in love with merely an idea, and if that renders me idealistic, I gladly accept the label. 

The words of these conservative fathers brought about ideals that mankind can love.  Did their ideals ever come to light?  Most would say so, but saying so is merely assumption.  What is it, then, that these men fathered?  Did they live to see the fruits of their labor?  Did their fruits ever come to life, as they intended?  These intellectual ideologues worked incessantly and vociferously towards some goal, some notion, setting out to achieve something wholly good, even when the world was working against them. 

What if something unanticipated occurs, and the course of history is forever altered?  With this come unexpected outcomes, and sometimes, astonishment instead of reaction, because sometimes, there is no feasible response to give.  Can you in fact love something if it never occurs, when you intended to bring about specific results, but instead rendered only an idea for discussion?  Something intangible, not even made from dust, as we were, simply to return to dust. 

It is from this lengthy discourse that I now profess the following, disproving the notion that something must be lovely in order to be loved:  I was in love with my unborn child, now deceased.  I know this with all of my being. I talked to my baby.  I literally wrote pages of notes to it.  I bought baby clothes for it, as well as flowers for my wife, signed “from the both of us,” and cards, titled “for my wife and child.”  We planned for this baby, prayed for it, and rejoiced over it.  I never met this child of mine, twelve weeks along today, but I will never cease to love it, even if all I knew of it was an idea.  This love is a gift that can never be taken away.  While I never will cease to mourn, I will never forget such a lovely idea.