The Day After: Now What

Now that the elections of 2012 are over, I find myself wondering, what happens on the day after for those whose hopes of leadership were dashed? Did Mitt and Ann stay in bed until noon on Wednesday, ordering room service and watching cartoons? I wonder how long it took for them to have The Conversation, to sit at the breakfast table, look into each other’s eyes, and ask, ”now what?” The question is huge for the Romneys. After months and years of relentless campaigning, is there a sense of relief for them that it’s finally over? Can they somehow be themselves instead of whoever the spinmeisters tell them to be?

Most of us have never run for political office, but we’ve been in a similar place.  The long and painful death, followed by the rituals of the wake and funeral. Then one morning the doorbell rings and it’s the delivery person to pick up the hospital bed from the corner of the living room. It’s over. We look at each other and say, “what now?”

The daily commute for the job we’ve loved (or hated) for 20, 30, 40 years. Now a plant closing, a pink slip or mandatory retirement has robbed us of our identity, of our livelihood. Now what? What can we do? What should we do?

Sometimes the “now what” question comes not from a sense of loss but with a sense of expectation. Thirty-seven years ago, Larry and I were newly married and had just arrived home from our honeymoon, when Larry’s dad gave him some counsel about marriage from his own wealth of experience. “Now, be sure to have JoAnn get up each morning and fix you breakfast.” I actually did wake up early on that first morning home, and may even have scrambled some eggs for Larry. But as my memory recalls the scenario, I turned from the stove and said to him, “If you think I’m going to do this every day for the rest of my life, think again.” Unlike our favorite United Way director, there’s no oatmeal for Larry on a chilly morning.

Now what? While in some situations it’s a question tinged with sorrow, there may be an unspoken sense of relief and anticipation, even with loss. I’m not sure that we’ll hear the Romneys say it out loud, but there does come a time when we trade one dream for another and get on with life. What an opportunity they have to make a difference, even if not in the White House.

Look at Jimmy Carter, now age 88, with his support for Habitat for Humanity and his work for peace in the Middle East.  Remember Dan Quayle? I had to turn to Google to get the scoop on James Danforth Quayle, 44^th vice president of the United States, but since losing the re-election campaign in 1992, he’s written The American Family: Discovering the Values That Make Us Strong, redeeming his Murphy Brown comment that took some flack during the campaign.  And Al Gore? The young man whose desire at age 18 was to one day write novels has won the Nobel Peace Prize for his advocacy in the area of climate change.

Loss – even on such a public stage – does not mean the end.  Nor does it mean the end on our own private stages. Bell Hooks, writing in All About Love, reminds us: “Contrary to what we may have been taught to think, unnecessary and unchosen suffering wounds us but need not scar us for life. It does mark us. What we allow the mark of our suffering to become is in our own hands.”

Yes, Mr. Romney, as you noted in your concession speech, you left everything on the field. You gave your all to the campaign. And, regardless of political affiliation, we salute you for your dedication to America. So what now? Here’s my advice to Ann and Mitt from my four-month foray into a change of life-direction. Get some rest. Spend time with those 18 grandchildren. And then, as Frederick Buechner reminds us, follow your heart to the place where your deep gladness meets the world’s deep need.