This morning I voted. I stood in line for just about two hours, winding up and down outdoor lines marked six feet apart. I wore my mask, of course, and boots and gloves and a hat under my hood, but the cold wind still seeped into my veins. But that didn’t matter.
The crisp air blew stronger as the lines of voters behind me grew longer. With a few obvious exceptions, there were very few signs of political affiliation. The lines moved very slowly as the sun chose to hide behind clouds.
A cemetery borders the centuries-old church property of the somewhat rural area where I voted. Tombstones— some massive and very ornate, others barely visible—dotted the sacred earth, framed by majestic trees dressed in Autumn brilliance. American flags stood at attention next to many graves.
I watched much older adults withstand the cold to exercise their right to vote, some maybe for the last time. I recognized that just over 100 years ago, I would not have had that sacred right.
As I stood there, I contemplated all those who sacrificed their lives to secure the freedom we sometimes take for granted. I thought about how fleeting life is. I thought about all I have and about all who have so very little.
I will never take my right to be heard for granted. What a responsibility. What a blessing.
Change and stagnation.
Life and death.
Joy and sorrow.
This life is fragile.
This life is so very precious.
May God bless our hurting planet, and may God unite the States of America.