We early voted today. Normally I’m partial to the excitement of election day, but this year it seemed wiser not to wait and so we found ourselves in line on the first day of early voting.
I say “we” because I had my children with me. I always have my children with me—it’s 2020 and we’re homeschooling and nothing is normal and a big part of that is a level of togetherness with my offspring that I haven’t experienced since I was their sole source of sustenance. For fourteen-odd hours every single day—from the time they wake up until they finally, blessedly fall asleep, we are together.
This degree of familial unity has dispelled a lot of the mystery that used to exist around our days spent apart. Mainly, this means they watch me go about my day—hours that I used to have all to myself—and ask endless questions. Why do I go to spin class at the Y? What am I working at on my computer? Have I decided what we’re having for dinner yet? Is there time to make cookies? Most of the time this is annoying, because I’m a regular, human person who doesn’t enjoy explaining my every waking choice and movement. But sometimes, I’m better about remembering—that they ask because they’re learning how to exist in the world, that it’s my job to teach them, that they just want to know me, that it’s nice to be known.
This morning, when Nathan asked me who I was voting for and why, I remembered.
“That’s a good question, Bud,” I said. “Let’s sit down, and I’ll tell you a story to help you understand.”
Nathan and Ellie sat down on the couch, and I read them the story of The Good Samaritan. I explained that Samaritans were the enemies of the Jewish people during Jesus’ time—they didn’t talk to each other, didn’t spend time together, and didn’t get along.
“Kind of like the Slytherins and the Gryffindors?” Nathan asked. (He’s knee-deep in his second reading of the Harry Potter series; everything gets an HP tie-back.)
“Sure,” I chuckled. “We can make them Gryffindors and Slytherins, instead of Jews and Samaritans.” So I told them there was a hurt Gryffindor on the side of the road—we decided it was definitely Neville Longbottom—and that two different Gryffindors walked by without helping him. But then, along came a Slytherin and—despite everything we think we know about Slytherins—he helped Neville. And not just in the moment either, but leaving enough money behind to make sure Neville would really and truly be okay.
“So, who acted like Neville’s neighbor?” I asked.
“The Slytherin,” Nathan said.
“Exactly,” I said. I explained that Jesus’ point with this story is that our neighbor isn’t just the person who looks like us or lives near us. It isn’t even just the people we like or want to help. Our neighbor is the person who needs us, and we love them by helping them, even if it costs us something.
“But what does this have to do with voting?” Nathan asked.
“For some people it doesn’t have anything to do with voting. Some people vote for the person who’s most likely to help them or who they like the best,” I said. “And that’s fine. Honestly, until recently that’s how I decided who to vote for, too.”
“What changed your mind, Mom?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking about it and praying about it and listening a lot. And I decided that it doesn’t matter a whole lot for me and your dad which political party is in charge—our rights and freedoms are well-protected and unlikely to shift much. We might pay a little more or a little less in taxes, but our day to day life isn’t significantly affected. But that’s not true for everyone. There are people for whom it matters very much. It affects how safe they are, how free they are, and how much opportunity they have. And just because they don’t look like me or agree with me or even believe what I believe doesn’t mean they aren’t my neighbor.”
“So when you choose who to vote for,” Nathan said, puzzling it out, “you’re trying to love your neighbor?”
“Yep,” I said. I told him that he doesn’t see much of it since we don’t watch live TV, but that there are usually lots of ads around voting time. And most of them are based in fear, because fear makes people want to do something. It’s a really good motivator, but an exhausting and divisive one. Casting a vote from love instead of fear feels like an act of rebellion.
“Rebellion?” Ellie piped up. “Like in Hamilton?” (Because if it’s not Harry Potter references, it’s Hamilton at the Batchelor house.)
“Ha, not quite, Els,” I said. “Loving our neighbor isn’t an act of war.”
Or maybe, in the only battle that matters, it is.
