A Rush of Gratitude

I know this will be an unpopular opinion among my peoples, but upon his death I am forced to reflect on a certain degree of gratitude I feel for Rush Limbaugh. 

I grew up listening to him from the back seat of the car. My dad would tune in to his AM station all the way across Kansas, often turning it up loud to make out his words through the static.

From a very young age, Rush's program taught me to question the adults—the "experts"—around me. I would hear his words and think to myself: That can't be right. Those words sound like hate, not love. 

My childhood was confusing. Whose wasn't? I spent a lot of time trying to parse all the mixed messages in a brain that really wasn't sophisticated enough to do that kind of work. As a result, I often felt confused. Out of place. A disappointment to the people I was supposed to be pleasing. 

But all that melted away whenever I heard Rush speak. Even through the static I could hear a message loud and clear: "Resist." I was too young to feel like I could resist what my parents said or what my teachers said or what I learned in Sunday school. But Rush? Now here was a guy who had earned none of my respect—a guy who, frankly, sounded like a real asshole, even to my tiny ears—and I withheld it with a certain measure of pride right up until his dying day.

Like kids do, I grew up. It got easier for me to think for myself and to resist the messages that didn't speak to my heart. These days, with the static around me as loud as ever, I feel strong in my convictions—confident in my calling to spread love, not hate. 

The truth is, I'm not sure I'd be the person I am if Rush hadn't sparked resistance in my heart. Though you may not think of me this way now, I'm a people pleaser at heart. Especially when I was young, I found it very hard to sort out who I was going to be when the people around me were hoping I'd be something else. 

To those people's credit, resisting who they wanted me to be wasn't the disaster I'd imagined it would be. A lot of that is in your head, especially when you're a kid. I know I'm not exactly who my parents raised me to be, but I also know they're proud of me anyway. Sometimes I think they even like that I have a resister's heart. In fact, I think sometimes they may even fancy themselves responsible for it, and I'm pleased to give them the credit they're due.

But it's not all to them. Since I'm sure this bleeding heart's gratitude would roll him right over in his grave, I won't say thank you to Mr. Limbaugh. But I would be remiss if I didn't give him a little credit too. He taught me who I didn't want to be. And while I'll never be as influential or powerful or loud as he was, I hear that love speaks volumes. So in his honor, I'll be turning it up to eleven. I know he had an ear thing on earth, but I hope he got that sorted so he can hear the noise.