Beneficial Freedom

The other day Jason and I went to support our local and state governement by voting. We went to a rural volunteer fire department to vote. Knowing that it might be a while I stocked Sienna's diaper bag with a bottle and yummy crackers (must take after mommy). We arrive and the line is almost pouring out the building into the rain. I was a little sad that we would be in line for awhile, but we struck up a conversation with a friendly family who goes to our church. It really helps when you can have someone to talk to.

After winding around fire equipment and smelly fire boots, we could see the voting area. I was thrilled because Sienna had just downed 10oz. like it was nothing and scarved down her crackers. We give a man, who is as old as Moses', our name. He flips through his thick folder and then looks up and tells us we aren't there. He calls over a women whose tag reads, "Voter Judge." Not sure what her role is, but know it can't be good for us. She directs us through the crowd to a private room (it actually looks like a 70's church youth room, you know, the ones with the old couches and smelly rugs). She begins to ask us a series of questions and then determins that we might be at the wrong place, even though we had voted there last time. She gets on a phone that has a cord, didn't know they made those still, and tells us she is put on hold. We find out that this has happened to a number of others as well.

Considering the situation, Sienna is doing very well. The woman is quite nice and turns out to have a little baby the same age. This is no joke, she is put on hold for 15 minutes, which is a little ackward. I begin to look in my wallet and find a voting card that says where we are to vote, which isn't where we presently are. At this time the "Judge" tells us the same location that is on my voting card. We thank her and with heavy hearts walk through the crowd and run in the ran to our Jeep.

At this point I am quite frustrated because we had just waited for over an hour to find out we are in the wrong location and the correct one was literally just two blocks from our house. I am ranting about the lack of communication and telling Jason that I will not wait in another long line with Sienna. Jason doesn't respond in the same way as me. He wasn't understanding and supportive. How could he not be mad? Or frustrated? Instead of complaining like I was, he began to tell me of how long some people in a country who had never had a chance to vote before, had waited in line. That in this freedom land we live in many years early women didn't have the chance to vote.

His words were a sting to me. I couldn't argue him. He was right. What was my committment to this freedom I have. Where would I be if my fellow women years early responded the way I had? My commitment to this freedom seemed only beneficial to me when it came easy. I take for granted my abilities to vote and to live in a country that gives citizens the chance to have some sort of control of our destiny.

As we drove to the next voting area, I realized that if I had to stand in line for another hour, I would. So, as sat down to place my vote, my sense of freedom was filled in my heart and I knew that I was blessed to be apart of our countries history!