The Do-Nuts

My child’s face showed a wide grin. Ear to ear. His eyes growing bigger as he marveled at the dozen, different sort of do-nuts in that pink box his father put down on the table. A feast rarely eaten at this household as his mother became more careful to have better options of eating healthier, less-preserved foods.

But this morning was a rush. My husband and I trying to beat the sweltering sun soon to be approaching in the eastern skies. Trying to run and finish the errands before we both got baked in this summer heat.

“Hmmm…I think that store had a change of ownership,” I told my husband, as we both sipped our brewed coffee, its wonderful scent spilling all over the corners of our kitchen.

“Why do you say that?” he asked as he slowly savored the first morsel of the coveted treat.

My son just listening, smiling still, as he quietly took a bite and each time, fueled that smile that wouldn’t dare disappear.

“I think years ago, Chinese people owned that place. Now, he looked Vietnamese.”

“Okay, what do you guys want next?” my husband’s query cutting through my reply.

The three of us, smiling altogether by now in harmony, started staring at the different kinds of do-nuts. Some with chocolate glaze. Some with just plain sugar. But I didn’t get those cream-filled ones.  Some rounds. Some twisted.

As the early morning conversation shifted to politics that had been making us tired lately. Of how this simple town was depicted as if the residents were kid-haters of those children of illegal immigrants. Of how the love for this country was reported as being bigots and racists. Of how the protesters would go to eternal punishment for not showing God’s love towards those children. How the media hated the peace-loving, God-fearing, welcoming residents of this small town. Not well-known but now had been flashed as a nice town with the residents having a bad reputation of hating people just because some didn’t let the buses carrying illegal immigrants to be processed in this town’s small Border Patrol station.

“I want that sugar-raised one,” I asked my hubby to get it for me, across from the table where he was sitting and put it on my paper plate.

“You know…” I told my child, “I told your daddy to give that owner a tip because small businesses like that needed to survive.”

The sugar stuck to my lips as I took my bite. Of remembering how such wonderful breakfast treats were made by that hard-working immigrant. Who strived for a better life, away from poverty and his country’s ills. And not only him, but many others, like my family and I, came to America, all with that same dream not only for a better way of life but for equality and freedom. And as sworn in, to give that loyalty to this blessed land.

A land that is now our home.

A home that needs to be guarded against those who are willing to break in and steal everything it has. While many just watch and are quick to judge when its true residents are just willing to stand up to fight for the hard-fought freedom it enjoys. To savor the fruits produced by the many sacrifices to get to where we are that others try to steal and demand.

This is America. Like the different varieties of those delicious donuts in a box. Expensive but worth paying for it. For freedom is costly. No one just dare come crashing through to demand for it for FREE. Then again, the true worth is being lost. That America welcomes anyone who is honestly running away from religious or political threats and other kinds of persecution.

My son closed the box with three remaining kinds of do-nuts. My husband and I laughed as he teasingly took it away from both of us.

“That’s for later,” he said, guarding the box.

And this land, with laws established not by many gods but by One God, with its laws put in by God should be guarded if no one shows respect and tries to steal its freedom. And though God’s commandment says to “love others” but if we are to love those who are breaking laws here and there, are we not violating God’s Word, too? Don’t get me wrong. I know America will always accept and love those who are truly oppressed. For I will do the same when a stranger comes hungry into our home. The homeless. The old. The veterans. The CHILDREN…Who don’t come, trespassing but softly knocking and asking for permission to enter my home the right way.