Independence Day celebration No. 249 feels different, doesn’t it? Heavier. Underneath the obligatory noise and furor, there’s a kind of silence settling in, one that comes from weariness or wariness, or maybe both.

We’ve been through a lot this year already, and the fractures in our national foundation now feel historically wide. A week ago, our nation’s highest court handed down a ruling that many expect will ultimately narrow our freedoms rather than expand them. Our elections have become flashpoints for division rather than unity. Congress is taking a hacksaw to a range of federal programs, leaving millions who rely on them out to dry. Basic facts are up for debate. Too many Americans view fellow citizens as enemies, rather than neighbors.

Needless to say, cynicism is having a moment. A creeping sense that things may not get better, that this is simply the way things are now: Broken, mean, loud, stuck.

And yet, the Fourth of July comes anyway. It arrives as it always does: For some, a command to celebrate. For others, an invitation to reflect. And for all of us to ask, as Americans have for generations: What shall we make of this day?

This year, especially, it’s important to honor that America began as an argument. A bold idea that power should flow from the people to the leaders, not the other way around. A rebellious notion that ordinary people can govern themselves and challenge unjust authority when it fails to serve them.

That spirit, that stubborn flame of belief that first powered a motivated group of British subjects to poke a finger in a petty tyrant’s eye, hasn’t gone anywhere. It may be dimmed for the moment, but it’s far from extinguished.

So if you’re unsure what to do with your patriotism right now – if it feels strained, or bittersweet, or even distant – that’s OK. There’s space for that, too. Nowhere in the Constitution does it say that loving one’s country requires overdoing it with parades, flags, and anthems, just because it’s a certain day on the calendar.

Sometimes, patriotism is choosing to remain kind when everything around you pushes you toward cruelty. Sometimes, it means refusing to let outrage consume you or despair paralyze you. Sometimes, it means sitting with all the complexity of the United States of America, and still choosing connection over withdrawal.

And sometimes? Sometimes, it means being a spark for others, even if you don’t know who else will see it.

At our Founders’ urging, we light off fireworks on the Fourth. These pyrotechnics rise, illuminating everything around them. They demand the attention of everyone near. They create a moment of belonging (along with some righteous noise). They remind us that we, too, can still rise above. That we can draw others toward the light. That we can still be sources of joy and clarity (and sure, of a righteous noise of our own). And that when the celebration ends, we can carry that spirit forward – quietly, persistently, well beyond the holiday glow.

So if you gather for America’s 249th, may you gather in the spirit of shared hope. Not forced optimism, but real, rooted belief in one another.

If you choose to reflect, may you reflect on how we’ve come through hard times before.

And if you choose to celebrate, may you do it not with blind loyalty, but with clear eyes, an open heart, and a hopeful vigilance that outshines the cynicism of our age.

Sing along to the music if it moves you. Step outside, look up, and let yourself feel awe – not at our perfection or perceived greatness, but at our collective potential to be a more perfect union. Then, on July the Fifth, keep going. Keep showing up. Keep believing in what America is, and in what it can still become.

For now, that’s the kind of patriotism we need. And for now, that’s enough.