1945. I was five years old. I can’t tell you what day of the week it was or whether this event had to do with my father’s awareness that my mother was attracted to another man, or his vow to woo her back from the brink of disaster—which he did, masterfully. I don’t know if the Second War had yet been won, I think it had, and I think it was a warm summer night. I lay in my bed listening to angry voices lifted from the living room, sent across the adjoined dining room, and through the door of my bedroom left open because, dear goodness, don’t close my door and leave me completely to the power of things and thoughts that collect in darkness!

Quietly, my mother entered my room, sat her slender self on the edge of my mattress and asked, “Barbi, would you like to go with me to live with Granny for a while?”

“Is Daddy going?” I asked.

“No. Daddy will be staying here.”

“No then,” I said.

And what of the rest of that story?

I haven’t a clue. I grew up with parents solidly in sync, with the awareness that they loved each other, then loved my brother and me. I was a lucky kid whose home was stable and mostly good.

My five-year-old moment marked a beginning of my being an asker of questions. It mattered to me, the question that made a difference, the power of choice, and the dangers that lurk in contrasting things. Whether Daddy was or wasn’t coming along mattered. Is-Isn’t mattered. This-That, Light-Darkness, Either-Or, Right-Wrong, Love-Hate, More-Less, Mind-Emotion, Start-Stop, Sure-Unsure, Why-Why Not, Them-Us, Strong-Weak, Liberal-Conservative, Calm-Chaos, Belief-Doubt, Up-Down, Raw-Cooked, Either-Or, Happy-Sad, Gentle-Violent, Smooth-Coarse, Faith-Fact, Accept-Reject. Choices require good questions.

And, now, on this January 2019 Saturday, I am aware that my commitment to honest question asking has slipped some. I’ve been sucked up in the maelstrom of stubborn assertions swirling in the sea of American politics. I’ve been roughed-up some by surges of inflamed information. Righteous anger consumes occupants of taproom stools, stadium seats, padded church pews, and political parties. From the left, from the right, from the smart, and from the smug, from the informed and the ignorant—foot-stamping certitude reigns. Americans have become masters of the Imperative rather than the interrogative mood. 

It’s just a thought, but I want the door of my mind open to voices other than my own. I want hearing to hand me over to useful questions.

“What were you discussing along the way?” Jesus once asked some quarreling friends. Great question.