Did My Vote Count?

I cast my vote yesterday at Fire Station No. 3.  Election officials had raised the garage doors to a beautiful Mississippi day, and it made for a nice open-air exercising of my “right” as an American citizen.  It took me about 45 minutes, including the drive across town from work–and that was a long time for my neck of the woods.  I went during the lunch hour expecting some sort of a line, but there were only two people in front of me at the M-Z table.  Yes, I live in a precinct requiring only two alphabetical tables.  The reason it took me so long was that my name was not on the registered voter list.  

I’ve voted in this location before, but only by affidavit.  I had also failed to return the change of registration form I got in the mail after the last election, so the absence of my name was only a minor surprise.  The ladies checked my street name to make sure I was at the right polling station, and then called over an apparently more authoritative poll worker to find out what to do.  He decided to call the Chancery Clerk’s office to determine how best to afford me my one vote.  The Clerk confirmed that another affidavit ballot would be the answer, and I was ushered to a table for further instructions.  The table happened to be in full sun, and I was somewhat blinded by the ballot.  But, having come this far, I was eager to let my voice be heard.  After a brief disappointment that I would not get to use the new electronic voting machines (yes, further evidence of my rural setting), I grabbed my nubby Ebony pencil, ready to avail myself of my enfranchisement.  

Another poll worker showed me the parts of the ballot envelope to complete with my personal information and after a few “hey theres,” “hellos,” and “I’m retired nows” in response to passing voters, he demonstrated how to fold the ballot so that the poll worker initials were in the right spot.  Interesting that no one requested to see any identification, but I suppose Starkville, Mississippi is not a hot bed for over-zealous ACORN voter registration volunteers.  The poll worker signed his name below mine on the completed ballot envelope and gave me a sheet of paper explaining affidavit ballots.  He pointed out the telephone number that I could call “not less than 10 days from this date” to find out (in his words) if my vote counts.  Hmmm.

After a few more reiterations of how to insert my folded ballot (apparently the location of the initials is crucial), I was left to my own voting devices.  When I had finished blackening circles for president, a senator, a representative, a few judges and a hospital bond issue, I inserted my ballot appropriately into the envelope and called over the poll worker.  He again reminded me of the phone number determining if my vote would count and directed me to the ballot box.  It was not the rough wooden ones I’d used in previous years, but a nice, blue canvas one with a seamed slit in the top.  I dropped the envelope in, said my thank yous, and voting was complete.

After what seems like years of campaign coverage, the election is over.  Regardless of which camp you favored, we now know the next president of the United States (and not just because CNN said so.)  Barak Obama has already been declared the 44th president, and I’m still left to wonder (and wait ten days to discover): did my vote count?  

This election was different, somehow.  News reports and candidate speeches indicate that there was a healthy voter turn-out, particularly among younger voters who haven’t been as engaged in the process in previous years.  The sheer months of constant news coverage has given the impression of greater interest this time around.  We’ve been trained by the last two presidential elections to monitor electoral votes, and cable news has been sporting the maps for weeks now.  I noticed that even in my small town precinct there was fallout from voter fraud concerns.  My polling station offered a tabletop display of voting “rules”, the reasons voter identification might be required and the appropriate documents or cards that might qualify.  I haven’t noticed that before.  There was also a huge stop sign printed with a warning that state law prohibits campaigning of any kind within 150 feet of the polling station.  That’s always been the case, but given the overload of media coverage, ad spots and road signs we’ve seen for almost two years now, that 150-foot campaigning-free zone around Fire Station No. 3 was a welcomed relief.

Still,  I’m left to wonder:  did my vote count?  A winner has been announced in most races.  Mississippi belonged to John McCain for the night, and not by a close margin.  News anchors had all but declared Obama the next president before the polls had even closed in California.  The final word on whether my ballot was thrown out will not be determined for 10 more days.   So, did my vote count?  Was it worth the time if my state’s six electoral votes are only a drop in the margin of victory bucket?  Was my trip to Fire Station No. 3 important even it had little to no effect on the election’s outcome?  

The answer:  Yes.  My vote does count.  It may not be the one vote that moves the ticker to 50.1%, but it counts.  Even ten days later, it counts.  It counts when it motivates me to form an opinion.  It counts when it makes me consider how government will effect my life.  It counts when it engages me in debate over where our country is and where it’s going–even when I’m only debating the tv screen.  It counts when it entwines me in an historic moment–for African Americans, women and elder statesmen, nay, for all Americans.  It counts when it attaches responsibility to my citizenship.  It counts when it inspires me to write a post.  

In our great country, voting is a “right” of birth and the completion of a few forms.  In a generation when we, as United States citizens, have become numbed by our own entitlement to speak and be heard, my vote still counts.  It counts because it can impose a term limit that dictators around this world dread and war against.  It counts because it celebrates a “right” that many of the poorest, sickest, most uneducated and displaced citizens in this world would consider a “privilege.”

I’m marking my calendar for Friday, November 14th.  I’m calling the number.  I’m going to find out if my ballot was accepted.  Because my vote is my privilege.  And, it counts.

Gift Tag: Lessons in Recklessness

I was sitting on the floor of the living room–not necessarily an easy task at the moment with a 7-months pregnant belly out to there–and 18 months of pure squiggle (a squeal-fueled giggle) energy were coming at me full steam.  

Running at maximum toddler capacity, my little guy flung himself into my arms with a resounding super squeal.  I gave him a little squeeze, a big “I love you,” and a few cheek nibbles as the various oversized wooden screws in his hands made contact with eyeglasses, ears, nose, etc.  Then, it was full steam back to the wall at the other side of the room to start again.

We repeated the process more times than I can count, with my little guy alternating between Mommy and a left detour to give Daddy a turn.

Full steam.  Turbo drive.  Volume 10.
That’s how my little 18-month-old gift does everything.  He’s on a personal mission to prove that no matter what you do, you can have more fun and be more successful at it if you are also squiggling at the top of your lungs!

Despite the household craziness his approach sometimes creates, I often find myself just soaking it up.  He’s reckless, giving himself completely over to whatever he’s feeling at the moment–whether it’s the trying times of hurt feelings, frustration that a toy won’t work right and disappointment at hearing “no” or the joyful times of shouting newly-learned words, a full speed, fully squiggled chase with brother and the ever-popular hug episodes described above.  There’s no doubt that whatever it is, he’s completely abandoned himself to it.

It want to cultivate that caliber of freedom, to act without hesitation when I feel strongly about something.  Or, to elevate the mundane to that level of love, joy and excitement.  I can imagine it most powerfully chrystalized in that moment of an 18-month-old flinging himself into Mommy’s arms.  No reservations.  No holding back.  No fear.  Just pure joy and pure love. 

It reminds me of another love:
“In Him we have redemption through His blood, the forgiveness of our sin, according to the riches of His grace which He lavished on us.”  (Ephesians 1:7-8)

Can I be the one to fling myself without fear into the Father’s arms and bathe in His lavish love and grace?

Can I open up my arms and receive the one in need, ready to give His lavish love and grace in human form?

I hope so.

 Gift Tags are the tiny messages God continues to include with our gifts — 2 little boys and the anticipation of 1 little girl, each with open eyes, open ears, open hearts, and much to teach. “Behold children are a gift of the Lord…” (psalm 127:1)

A New Birth of Freedom

“Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate—we can not consecrate—we can not hallow—this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”

 ~ Abraham Lincoln
November 19, 1863
Gettysburg, PA

Ironically, President Lincoln was not actually the featured speaker at the dedication of the Soldiers’ National Cemetery in Gettysburg.  He was only asked to attend the ceremony seventeen days before the event.  He followed a more than 2 hour oration by Edward Everett with this 2 minute speech that is now recognized as one of the most powerful in American history.

The battle of Gettysburg ended on July 3, 1863 (144 years ago today) with the blood-soaked ground holding more than 7,500 Union and Confederate soldiers who gave the “full measure of devotion” for their respective understandings of freedom. At least 4,700 of those were Confederate soldiers who fought, in part, for the “right” to hold other human beings as possessions.

Some say that Americans have no right to speak to the world on human rights, given some of the atrocities in our own history.  I say, who better to tell the tale of each human’s value than those who have walked through the consequences of our own devaluing?  We can not change the past, but we can not live in it either.  Our voices can not be bound by it.  We can acknowledge it, take responsibility for it, learn from it, and move forward from it.  And, we must share the consequences of it.

“It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work…”