It was messy.
America is messy. And loud. We're like children who cry in our cribs and our parents stand at the door wringing their hands. "Should we go in? Should we comfort them? If we go in there, they'll cry again next time and they'll never learn that we are the parents. They'll think they can cry about anything, if we go in . . ."
I've always been a sucker. I could never let my children cry. I hold them, I ask them, "What's wrong? How can I help you? What will make this better?" It always seems much better to have a child who knows that, while I am in control, they still have a voice and freedom.
So the camps go, piece by piece. And the people leave, one by one. And the banks and Wall Street and the naysayers all breathe a sigh of relief.
But I can still hear the many voices that made one. It wasn't in vain. You didn't fail. Go home now and rest. Thank you for what you did. The message is still echoing. It is still being heard.