A Vote to be Counted
It was cell group night and the big back room hummed with conversation and laughter as we shared a meal. Around the big, oval table, there were three generations of our family, and friends who had gathered to do a study after supper. Brenda was still dressed in a suit jacket and skirt as she hadn’t changed since coming home from work. She was animatedly telling a funny story from her day, when we heard the distant chime of the doorbell from the front of the house. I opened the door to find a canvasser from one of the main political parties, holding a clipboard. A young girl that looked like she might be his daughter was with him. He wanted to verify the people he had on his list as residing in our home and also asked if we planned to vote in the upcoming election. I quickly confirmed the names, and said that Paul and I would be voting. “What about Brenda?” he asked. “She doesn’t vote,” I said, sure that I remembered that from a recent conversation. “Oh,” he said, with an understanding ...