How Do We Find Our Way Back?

John Prine's first album - I've owned this since 1972

Like many people, I spend a lot of time wondering how we got to where we are as a nation. I'm not talking only about politics, but about our culture, our economy, and the way we relate to one another. Constant wars. Cell phone addictions. Growing social divisions. It often feels as though we're all pulling in different directions, and I find myself asking the same question over and over:

How do we find our way back?

    Last night, while talking with a younger friend about philosophy, wisdom, and the things that shape us, I had something of a revelation. It hit me like the beacon of an ocean lighthouse piercing through the fog on a moonless night.

    Almost casually, I mentioned that much of my personal philosophy comes from listening to John Prine.

    That surprised even me.

    Realizing that not everyone had the pleasure of seeing John perform while he was alive—or of spending much time with his music—I started thinking about why his songs became such an anchor in my own life.

    It began in early 1972 when I walked into Moles Den Records in Joliet, Illinois. I spent a good portion of every paycheck there, always hunting for music that commercial radio overlooked. The owner, Denny, knew my tastes well and often steered me toward artists he thought deserved to be heard. That day, he pointed to John Prine's self-titled debut album. More than fifty years later, it's still the only album purchase I can remember that vividly. From the first spin, I knew I was hearing something unlike anything else.

    John's music wasn't polished. His voice was rough and nasal. The production was simple and understated. His guitar playing wasn't flashy, but it was unforgettable. His Travis-style fingerpicking—with the thumb laying down a steady alternating bass while the fingers carried the melody—became instantly recognizable. Like many longtime Prine fans, I can identify most of his songs within the first few notes.

    But it was the lyrics that completely changed me. John wrote about people no one else seemed interested in writing about.

    Lonely old people.

    Veterans struggling with addiction.

    Middle-aged women quietly longing for something more.

    Ordinary people trying to make sense of an increasingly confusing world.

    He even challenged shallow displays of patriotism long before that became a common topic of conversation.

    Those songs helped shape the values I've carried throughout my life.

    "Hello In There" taught me empathy. I honestly believe it influenced my willingness to become a caregiver for aging family members and friends.

    "Sam Stone" remains, in my opinion, one of the saddest songs ever written—and perhaps one of the most honest portraits of what many Vietnam veterans experienced after coming home.

    "Your Flag Decal Won't Get You Into Heaven Anymore" challenged the idea that patriotism is something you display rather than something you live. More than fifty years later, it still feels remarkably relevant.

    What amazes me most is that John Prine was only twenty-four years old when he released that first album. Kris Kristofferson summed it up perfectly when he said John was "twenty-four years old and writes like he's two hundred and twenty."

    That brings me to my point. Maybe we'd all be a little better off if we spent less time letting politicians, television personalities, and social media tell us what our values should be, and a little more time listening to artists who remind us what it means to be human. John Prine never told us how to vote. He reminded us how to care and what values really matter when it comes to building a community or nation that truly cares for one another.

    He reminded us to notice the lonely, the forgotten, the broken, and the ordinary people who quietly carry the weight of the world. Those lessons seem just as important today as they were to me in 1972.

    If you've never listened to that first John Prine album, give it an hour of your time. Then share it with a friend.  Who knows? If enough people did that, we might just straighten out this big ol' goofy world. You can listen to the whole album with commentary here.

    I’d genuinely like to hear your thoughts. Are you familiar with John Prine’s music?  If so, how has his music affected your values?  Are there other artists who have affected you in similar ways? Let me know in the comments. The questions are open to everyone.  I hope our exchanges remain thoughtful, respectful, and productive. 

    If you try to comment and receive an error message, your browser may be blocking third-party cookies. You can select “Anonymous” in the “Comment as” field and simply include your name or initials if you prefer.

    Thank you for reading, and for walking this road with me.

What the Fourth of July Means to Me

The Mill Mountain Star, Roanoke, VA

As we, as a nation, prepare to celebrate the Fourth of July—and America's 250th birthday—I find myself thinking back to my childhood and the experiences that shaped my understanding of what Independence Day is all about. It was a different time and, in many ways, a different country. Whether those memories are completely accurate or simply the way a child remembers them, they are worth reflecting on.

    My father, my uncles, and almost every adult man I knew had served during World War II, fighting against the Nazis and fascism led by men like Adolf Hitler and Benito Mussolini. It was a brutal war. Not everyone came home, and those who did rarely talked about what they had endured. But their quiet courage formed my earliest associations with the Fourth of July: sacrifice, strength, patriotism, and gratitude.

    The parades were filled with red, white, and blue—not just red and blue. Sometimes I wonder whatever happened to the color white. To me, it symbolized the common ground that held us together.

    Most Americans can trace their family history to ancestors who came from somewhere else. Some arrived through Ellis Island, others through different ports and in different centuries. Many spoke little English and arrived with little more than hope. The Statue of Liberty has long reminded us that America has been shaped by generations of newcomers seeking freedom and opportunity.

    Our diversity has always been one of our greatest strengths. In World War II, Americans from every background served together—from the Navajo Code Talkers and the Tuskegee Airmen to immigrants and the children of immigrants whose families had only recently arrived. They fought as one nation.

    I remember President John F. Kennedy as the youngest president of my lifetime. He was also a decorated World War II veteran who commanded PT-109 in the Pacific and was seriously injured in combat. He came from wealth and could have avoided dangerous service, but instead chose to lead from the front.

    His words still echo more than sixty years later:

"Ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country."

    That simple challenge inspired millions of Americans to think about service instead of self.

    When the Soviet Union secretly placed nuclear missiles in Cuba in 1962, the world stood on the brink of nuclear war. President Kennedy made it clear that any nuclear attack launched from Cuba would be regarded as an attack by the Soviet Union itself. It was one of the most dangerous moments in modern history. Through determination—and diplomacy—the crisis ended with the removal of the missiles.

    During the Cold War, there was little confusion about who America's principal adversary was. Political disagreements certainly existed at home, but there was also a broad national consensus about defending democracy and protecting the country.

    President Kennedy's wife, Jacqueline, became admired not only for her grace but for restoring the White House (especially the famous rose garden) and helping Americans appreciate its history. Together they projected youth, optimism, and confidence that seemed to reflect the nation's own aspirations.

    When President Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas on November 22, 1963, the nation mourned together. I'll never forget the black-and-white television images of Jacqueline Kennedy and her young children walking behind the caisson carrying the President's casket. The eternal flame at his grave in Arlington National Cemetery still burns as a quiet reminder of service, sacrifice, and unfinished promise. The grave site has no golden statues or other overt signs of power or wealth, just his words.  

    After his death, the phrase "Camelot" became forever associated with the Kennedy presidency. Jacqueline Kennedy herself encouraged the comparison, portraying those years as a brief but inspiring era of idealism, hope, and public service. Whether entirely deserved or not, the image has endured for generations.

    The 1960s were also the years of America's greatest adventure in space. In 1961, President Kennedy challenged the nation to land a man on the Moon before the decade was over. On July 20, 1969, the crew of Apollo 11—Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin, and Michael Collins—fulfilled that promise.

    For those of us who watched it happen, it remains one of the defining moments of our lives. We witnessed something that many people thought impossible become reality. Despite the conspiracy theories that appeared later, the overwhelming evidence confirms that the Moon landing happened exactly as history records it.

    Freedom of speech also carried enormous weight during those years. I think of Martin Luther King Jr.'s "I Have a Dream" speech and his "Letter from Birmingham Jail." America still struggles to fulfill the ideals he articulated, but his words continue to remind us that equality, justice, and dignity require constant effort.

    Narrating much of that era was CBS News anchor Walter Cronkite. His nightly sign-off—"And that's the way it is"—became synonymous with honest journalism. Whether every report was perfect is beside the point. Millions of Americans trusted him because they believed his first loyalty was to the truth.

    Those are the memories that come to mind every Fourth of July.

    Today, those values often seem overshadowed by division, outrage, and the endless stream of anger that pours across social media. Sometimes it feels as though we've forgotten how to disagree without hating one another.

    Perhaps my memories are colored by nostalgia. Every generation remembers its youth a little more fondly than it really was. The 1960s certainly had their share of turmoil, injustice, and conflict. But I also remember a stronger sense that we were all Americans first.

    I miss a time when friends were people you sat across from instead of people behind a screen. When disagreements usually ended with a handshake instead of an online pile-on. When people could hold different opinions and still recognize each other's humanity.

    As we celebrate the Fourth of July—and 250 years of this remarkable experiment in self-government—I hope we remember that the strength of America has never rested solely in its military, its economy, or its political leaders. It has always rested in its people.

Happy Independence Day.

    I’d genuinely like to hear your thoughts. What memories or experiences do you associate with Independence Day?  How do they shape your ideals today?  Let me know in the comments. The questions are open to everyone.  I hope our exchanges remain thoughtful, respectful, and productive. 

    If you try to comment and receive an error message, your browser may be blocking third-party cookies. You can select “Anonymous” in the “Comment as” field and simply include your name or initials if you prefer.

    Thank you for reading, and for walking this road with me.