Here is the key paragraph in the story:
It would be curious to tally how many times any or all of us reject, or fail to observe, moments of grace. Another way in which Susan and I differ from most of the anarchists and militia members up here is that we believe there is still green fire in the hearts of our citizens, beneath this long snowy winter--beneath the chitin of the insipid. That there is still something beneath the surface: that our souls and spirits are still of more worth, more value, than the glassine, latticed ice-structures visible only now at the surface of things. We still believe there's something down there beneath us, as a country. Not that we're better than other countries, by any means, but that we're luckier. That ribbons of grace are still passing through and around us--even now, and for whatever reasons, certainly unbeknownst to us, and certainly undeserved, unearned.We stumble along, thinking we have earned our privileged position, that we deserve it. We were born on third base, and think we hit a triple. Lord, may we wake up.
