As America celebrates its 250th anniversary, I find myself imagining an unusual lunch guest.

What if Abigail Adams, first lady of our country from 1797–1801, joined me on the back deck for lemonade and conversation?

I picture her studying the electric fountain in my water garden, listening to the buzz of a neighbor's lawn mower, and glancing up as a jet streaks across the summer sky. Abigail was known for her curiosity, and I suspect she would have questions.

Yet many of her questions are about me and my life.

When Abigail learns that I spent decades teaching and that I'm a published author, I imagine her smiling. During her lifetime, women had few opportunities to serve as leaders or enter professions largely reserved for men. I tell her that today women serve as governors, senators, cabinet members, doctors, astronauts, and authors.

She might remind me of her famous request that her husband "remember the ladies" when creating laws for the new nation. Abigail believed people who lacked power deserved a voice. That same sense of justice showed up in other parts of her life.

She might tell me about the free Black boy she once helped teach to read. When others objected, she defended her decision. Education, she believed, should never be denied because of the color of a person's skin.

We might switch to the lighter topic of family life as I offer her croissants and chicken salad.

When she asks for the recipes, I confess that I bought both from the grocery store.

"The chicken was already cooked?" she might ask.

"And mixed with the other ingredients," I reply.

To redeem myself, I tell her how busy my writing keeps me and mention how grateful Americans are that her many letters to her husband and others were preserved. "They help us understand what life was like during the nation's founding," I say, "and we treasure them."

Before she can respond, my phone buzzes.

I explain that most people no longer communicate through letters. Instead, we send messages that arrive almost instantly.

Abigail might frown.

To make her feel better, I show her how a video call can connect grandparents with grandchildren hundreds of miles away.

That earns a nod of approval.

A butterfly lands on a nearby daylily.

Because Abigail loved the natural world, I imagine her commenting on the lack of open spaces.

I'll ease her mind by saying, "You'll be happy to know we've protected millions of acres of forests, lakes, mountains, and deserts as national parks."

The butterfly lifts away.

"And medicine?" she asks softly. "Has that improved?"

I think of the illnesses that shortened so many lives in her era, including Abigail's. She died of typhoid fever in 1818.

"We've made remarkable progress," I say. "Many diseases that were once fatal can now be treated. People often live decades longer than they did in your day."

For a moment, she is quiet.

I serve angel food cake topped with strawberries and blueberries.

The red, white, and blue dessert reminds me that her husband, John Adams, died on July 4, 1826—exactly 200 years ago.

As our imaginary lunch draws to a close, I feel compelled to confess one more thing.

"There is still plenty of room for improvement politically," I admit. "Americans still argue over policy, and the world still faces wars, conflicts, and disagreements."

Abigail doesn't appear surprised. She lived through the war years that gave birth to our nation.

Instead, she offers a thought that feels as relevant today as it did two centuries ago.

"I know America is capable of anything she undertakes with spirit and vigor."

As our lunch concludes, I watch her fade back into history and let those words linger.

If Abigail could believe in America's future back then, perhaps we can believe in it now. Happy 250th, America.