I grew up in Moultrie, Georgia, a small town in southwest Georgia. When I was eight years old, a peanut farmer from nearby Plains, Georgia, ran for president. Every day until the election, I wore a green and white button with “Carter ’76” on it. Later, the button was joined by one of my prized possessions: a peanut painted bright green, with a caricature of Jimmy Carter’s face on it, hanging from a green silk cord. I was ecstatic when he won the presidency, and between the button and the necklace, I felt that I somehow had done my part.

When you consider Friday morning chapel at R.B. Wright Elementary School, it is no wonder that I was such a rabid Carter supporter. He was a Georgian. I was a Georgian. Georgia was where my loyalties lie: Those assemblies practically served as a pep rally for the state. We pledged the flag, and learned about good citizenship, and had a moment in Georgia history, and sang practically every single song ever written about the state of Georgia as Mrs. Hollingsworth banged away on a piano.

My favorite Georgia song — and the song I sang the loudest (which is saying something) — was “Georgia Is the State for Me.” It had about 52 verses, all of which I remember as a 47 year-old and require little prompting to sing even now. It included this phrase, sung at a crescendo: “Farms with fertile land/cities small and grand/golden statehouse dome!” And the song itself may very well represent the limit of the internet. I googled some of the (many) lyrics, yet I could not find a reference to it anywhere. Was it a creation of Mrs. Hollingsworth? Was it a dream? Was it sung with a dose of Kool-Aid and brainwashing accompanying it?

Who knows.

Like Georgia, Jimmy Carter has been on my mind, and perhaps because of my good Moultrie upbringing, I wrote him a letter today. The President has been diagnosed with cancer, and from the news accounts that I have read, he is handling this bout of adversity with his characteristic strong faith and good humor. A short note of encouragement seemed the least that I could do. While I don’t remember exactly what I wrote, I told him something along these lines: As an eight year old in Moultrie, I wore the button and peanut necklace every day until the election; his election inspired me; his life after the presidency inspired me even more; and I was praying for him, Miss Rosalynn, and their family. I used “Mr. President” as the salutation. I hesitated — only a bit — in referring to Mrs. Carter as “Miss Rosalynn,” but having established my upbringing, I figured that she would understand. I used my best handwriting, and I proofread the letter twice. I addressed it to President Jimmy Carter, Plains, Georgia 31780.

As I sealed the envelope, I started crying.

Although I cry a lot, this surprised me. So I thought about it.

A few years ago, my life seemed to bottom out. I started to search for my own brand of happiness and meaning, so I looked to volunteering and charitable endeavors. I became involved in neighborhood issues, and I became a board member of organizations, one state-wide and one local, aimed to help the poor. My efforts have led to a single conclusion: It is hard to be good.

It is hard to ask others for money. It is hard to donate money. It is hard to find the time to listen to others complain. It is hard not to do your own share of complaining. It is hard to feel like you’re making a difference. It is hard to devote your time selflessly. It is hard to involve yourself with a large organization because you feel like a small cog in a big wheel. It is hard to involve yourself with a small organization because you feel the constant struggle to keep it afloat.

It is hard, and I am often really terrible at it. I grumble. Unlike the President’s unshakeable faith, I am possessed of only a shakeable variety, leaving me to resort to this advice that I once heard in a sermon: Even if it’s not a lot, show the faith you have. I constantly question my motives, especially when I work for the organizations that help the poor. I signed up for these duties to live outside myself, yet a lot of times it all comes back to me: I am overwhelmingly grateful for what I have, what I have been given, what I can do. In my work with neighborhood issues, I marvel that anyone actually runs for public office, with its flotsam and jetsam of constituent complaints, its fickle electorate, its armchair quarterbacking,

And it was today, after a lengthy incoming call about one of these endeavors, received when I had a million other things to do — a million other things that pay the bills, a million other things that I had to cast aside so that I could take time to listen — that I became overwhelmed with the need to write President Carter and send my best wishes. I have never met the man. I have marveled at his legacy. A peanut farmer from Plains, Georgia, who was the President of the United States and then went on to far bigger and better things. By all accounts, he is kind and committed, disciplined and determined, humble and helpful. By all accounts, he grabs a shovel, a hammer. By all accounts, he does not grumble. What he does is hard. He makes it look easy.

ALC