Back Support
Somewhere in a photo album packed away in a closet, I have a photograph of my husband, my younger daughter, and me standing with Jimmy and Rosalynn Carter outside of their church in Plains, Georgia. We traveled there to hear the former president’s Sunday School lesson. Although we never subscribed to the Carters’ religious faith, my husband and I had long held Jimmy Carter in the highest esteem, and wanted to hear what he would have to say face to face with a congregation of everyday people.
And being good sports, the Carters agreed to pose with individual families for photos after church. Each family had to supply its own camera, which secret service personnel tested for incendiary qualities by taking a picture of the camera’s owner with said camera. So somewhere in a box, I also have a snapshot of my own face as interpreted by the Secret Service.
I no longer remember the specifics of what Carter talked about in his church that day, but I do remember taking umbrage with aspects of it. I even started to write him a letter about it after I returned home—but never finished. While I was thrilled at the chance to hear this great man in such an intimate setting, I was a little disappointed with the message.
But that’s how it happens with people—even people we admire. Maybe especially with people we admire. We want them to consistently fit the picture we hold in our heads of who they are. When they color outside the lines we have prescribed, we wince.
I loved my late husband more than I can say. Higher than I can count. Bigger than the starry skies at night. But I also regarded him as an SOB on occasion—to the point where I let ugly words escape my mouth in his presence. (The kind of words I would never use in Jimmy Carter’s church.) But even when I was spitting mad at my spouse, I knew he cared deeply about me.
When my husband died nearly four years ago, my foothold was threatened. I felt unbalanced. Confused about the details of living. Because he was no longer there to counterbalance the anxieties that life steadfastly creates. Even when we didn’t see eye-to-eye, he was my rock. I knew he always had my back.
And I have long thought that our country—nay, the entire world—could ascribe this same kind of back support to Jimmy Carter. Even if we didn’t agree with every word he spoke.
Carter was one of those exceedingly rare public figures who wanted everyone to thrive—not just the white or the wealthy. He was someone who genuinely wanted to house the homeless. Cure the sick. End the isms that continually tear at the fabric of our society. He was a do-gooder whose motives never needed questioning.
Many people found Carter’s presidency to be less than adequate. (Although, since his death, opinions in the press have presented an alternate view: Carter was ahead of his time. He put solar panels on the White House and suggested Americans put on sweaters rather than turn up their thermostats—long before the term “climate change” became commonplace.) But whatever one thought about his one term in the highest office, there can be no argument that outside of the presidency, Carter supported humankind: Establishing the Carter Center, helping to expand Habitat for Humanity, traveling the world to conduct peace negotiations and monitor elections.
And posing for pictures with everyday people outside his church.
The world has lost a great man—at a time when we can ill-afford such a loss. Who will have our backs now?