Preparing to celebrate 250 years of American flourishing because of the endurance of our Founders

From the desk of Chuck Fuller

In three days, the United States of America will celebrate her 247^th year of existence.

Compared to the dynastic empires of old, we’re still in our youth. The Ottoman Empire, for example, persisted under a sultanate for 642 years (1280-1922). Rome traces the origins of its 1,000-year history to 509 BC. The Republic dissolved and the Empire was born in 27 BC, lasting until 476.

But under the standard definition of democracy, America is the wise elder – the oldest of them all.

That in itself calls for celebration. We’ve flourished under the same founding document (with a few amendments along the way) through many challenging epochs.

And in three years, we’ll mark a quarter-of-a-millennium of survival, endurance, and growth. Planning for that milestone celebration is already underway under the name of A250, the private nonprofit partner of the Congressionally-appointed United States Semiquincentennial Commission. The anniversary push will formally launch July 4 with an event during a Major League Baseball game between the Milwaukee Brewers and the Chicago Cubs at American Family Field in Milwaukee – All Americans are invited to share their story – their history, and their hopes and dreams for the future of our country. 

I’m honored to be a part of that planning process. North Carolinians were integral to America’s founding, and we feature prominently in celebrating our 250-year story.

But before I get into all that, I think it appropriate to consider an oft-overlooked aspect of our country’s founding: The brutal emotional toll the struggle exacted on the men and women involved.

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In telling the story of our founding, we focus on the dates, events, politics, and military strategies, and rightly so. But we’re so removed from the time that it’s difficult to grasp the personal story. John Trumbull’s paintings can give us an observer’s snapshot of a historical moment, but they can’t help us feel that moment.

That’s why I find Robert Middlekauff’s The Glorious Cause a helpful crutch as I try to imagine the sheer weight of emotion carried by the men and women of that time.

In a particularly moving passage, Middlekauff recounts a reunion of sorts between George Washington and his military cabinet on December 4, 1783 – two months after the signing of the Treaty of Paris. The men were trying to find their bearings after nearly nine years of violence, death, and struggle:

They were not many, less than a dozen men, but he would show no disappointment. So many had gone home, so many others were still involved in the business of the army, spread out all through the nation. As he sat at the head of the table, he realized the small number of men was something of a blessing, that he could speak to each of them, try to offer some kind of personal appreciation. As the food was set before him, and the wine goblets filled, he knew it was not to be. There was no appetite, and no conversation. Every man in the room looked down to his plate with emotion too deep for anyone to speak. After a long moment of silence, he said, “I am sorry … I had hoped this would be a time of elation. I am fortunate to be allowed to return to my home.”  

He saw nods, most of the faces still turned away. He reached for the wine goblet, his hand shaking, and he steadied it on the table, said, “We should have a toast.” He raised the goblet. “With a heart full of love and gratitude, I now take leave of you. I most devoutly wish that your latter days may be as prosperous and happy as your former ones have been glorious and honorable.”      

He let out a breath, raised the goblet, took a sip of the wine. The
men around the table followed, the goblets now back in place. He had hoped someone would speak, ease the hard emotion he could not escape. He looked around the table, Knox, von Steuben, no response. He looked to the far end, Tench Tilghman sitting beside Benjamin Tallmadge, the man who had organized Washington’s spy network in New York. No one spoke still, he nodded to Tilghman, the wonderfully reliable young man, thought, Perhaps you can assist me … one more time. But Tilghman returned the look with red eyes and a quiver in his lips, and Washington felt the man’s loyalty now in some deep place he tried to hide. It was affection now unembarrassed and pure, and he realized that he loved them all, the men in this one room, and those so far away. Lafayette was already sailing for France, Greene was still in the Carolinas. It was good that they are not here. As it is … I have no words to give these men. He reached for the goblet, stopped took a long breath, felt the tightness in his throat.

“I cannot come to each of you, but shall feel obliged if each of you will come and take me by the hand.”

Knox was first, stood, steadied his wide frame against the table, stepped close to him, stood straight as he could, held out his hand. The gesture was simple and honest and removed the last hard barrier to Washington’s emotions. Knox was already crying. Washington put his hands on the man’s shoulders, and they came together for a brief, silent embrace. Washington was blinded by his own tears as the men moved close to him in a single line, each one repeating the gesture. The last was Tilghman, and the young man stood frozen for a long moment, tried to speak, and Washington shook his head, no, it is all right. He embraced him as well, could not hold his emotions, felt Tilghman’s sobs matching his own. There were still no words, nothing he could say to any of them. He moved to the door, turned to face them, and von Steuben suddenly snapped hard to attention, the Prussian holding a firm salute for a long moment. Without a word, Washington turned out into the street.


Washington left New York that day to visit Congress to resign his commission and then make his way home to Martha in Mount Vernon, — to make plans with her for their home, their land, and their days of peace.

We often typecast men of that era as stoic, somehow less susceptible to internal toil. I know I do. But I don’t think that’s right. Surely they shouldered a heavy emotional burden: These men spent years away from their families fighting as hopeless underdogs against the world’s superpower.

And the war tore some families apart. Benjamin Franklin’s son, William – the loyalist governor of New Jersey – refused to join his father’s cause. The Continental Congress ordered William arrested, and he spent much of the Revolutionary War in solitary confinement at a Connecticut prison, even as his wife fell ill and died. The two never reconciled.

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I’m paraphrasing a quote here: They say we can’t choose who we are, yet what are we but the sum of our choices? To me, the real story of America isn’t just an amalgamation of historical events – it’s a story of choices, the people who made them, and the challenges they endured because of them.

As we celebrate our 247^th year this week, and look ahead to America’s 250^th birthday in 2026, I think it’s important to honor the figures, and the choices they made at great personal expense, to birth our great experiment in self-governance.

I speak often of the importance of looking inward to find purpose. We’re of course not facing the daunting challenges borne by the Founding Fathers, but I think we can honor them, in part, by recognizing the choices before us and acting in accord with what’s good for our fellow man and country.

We can’t look to others for direction because all we’ll find are people looking to fill us with what they wish us to feel in pursuit of their own ends. We must look inward and find our own direction, and rely on the path set before us by our faith and by the example of those who came before us and did what was right.

So, on the impending 250^th anniversary of the United States of America – as tempers rage and so many seem to have lost the true meaning of our founding – I hope we will feature the choices, and sacrifices, made by those who came before us.