Along the way... by Rosie
Misty memories…
at the voting booth!
Tears misted my eyes as I checked off the names of friends and strangers in the voter registry while I was a judge at our township hall in the recent election.
But I wasn’t upset because I might not like whoever they were voting for!
It was because I had just watched a TV program a couple nights before about some folks in this world who wouldn’t allow me to have this experience of voting.
Or probably even to live.
Their reason was that they wouldn’t approve of the way I dress or worship or what I eat or drink, etc.
(Now keep in mind that I don’t always approve of me either!)
Studied many ideas...
Over the years I’ve tried to study up on many different religions.
Some relatives are in one of these groups. I’d see them at family reunions. I believe they would rather I wear long hair and long skirts - not jeans and cowboy boots.
But we all loved to get together and talk about our belief in God.
And one year I told them how much I looked forward to seeing them because even though I probably irritated the "heck" out of them, (my word not theirs!), I had a great time feeling their love.
Plus those "non religious" ones...
Also, there is an atheist group that has kind of “adopted” me as their “token Christian”! We get together because we are interested in similar topics of discussion.
And now I’m wondering if we both might be combined as a target for some other group?
But why get misty eyes?
But back to the importance of voting. My dad taught me how much it meant to him. Not by saying anything. But by what he did.
He was older at the time and had just gotten out of the hospital. He probably only had a few months to live.
But he was determined to go to his poling center and vote.
I wondered if I would have done that.
Why bother?
But remember...
But then I remembered... he was an immigrant... had come over after WWI to start a new life.
And when I was a little kid... when my friends were all bragging about their ancestors coming from a variety of countries, my mother wouldn’t let me do that. She told me that I was an American... and that was that.
So I understood that it wasn’t so important who my ancestors were... or what my religion was... or who I was going to vote for...
But that I just take part in a process that is historically unique... and will bring me misty eyes.
.
.
