JIMMY CARTER
- Greg McNeilly
- Oct 1
- 1 min read
October 1. Jimmy Carter’s birthday. Plains, Georgia still on the map. A boy who walked barefoot in red dirt and ended up in the White House.
He was humble. No question about that. He taught Sunday school, he wore sweaters when the oil shocks came. He believed in sacrifice. He believed in peace.
And yet. The gas lines. The hostages. The soft drift of a country that seemed, in those years, uncertain of itself. He leaned left. Too far. His voice was quiet when the hour demanded thunder.
This is the paradox of Carter. The man and the president. The faith and the failure.
JIMMY CARTER
Just a farmer’s son, with soil on his hand,
In quiet devotion, he served his land.
Modest in spirit, he shunned the parade,
Mild in his dealings, a humble shade.
Yet when the storms of the world pressed near,
Courage faltered, resolve unclear.
A tangle of policies, drifting left,
Right or wrong, the nation felt bereft.
Trust in his leadership ebbed away,
Even as he knelt in prayer each day.
Remembered for heart, not for might of reign.
