It’s hard to believe that it’s Friday again. I don’t know if the week seems to go by fast because I mark the end of each one with this post, or if it seems to go by fast because it’s truly going by fast. Having a little 18 month old mini-me walking around the house, noticeably changed every single morning she wakes up, I have a sneaking suspicion it’s the latter. Time is going by fast.
On Tuesday this past week I took my toddler girl with me to vote. There was a Senate and House seat open here where we live in North Carolina, along with a Supreme Court Associate Justice seat. Typically I don’t think much about voting. It’s one of the many American things I take for granted. But this past Tuesday was different. As I walked out of the small church fellowship hall, the voting location for our area, holding my female toddler, and me of course a female too, the hundreds of girls taken captive in Nigeria flashed across my mind. I smiled at the three people handing out campaign flyers, two men and a young woman, told them to have a nice day, got in my car and started to cry. I couldn’t help it.
Here I was a woman – by the world’s standards, and even history’s standards as far back as the Old Testament, just merely a woman with no real worth or dignity – walking out of a place where I exercised my God-given right to a voice in our country’s political system. And there, on the other side of the world, young girls are enslaved primarily because they were going to school.
Pure grace.
That’s all there is to it. Pure grace reigning down on me from Heaven. Pure grace for being born in a country where the goal is for women to be treated with the integrity that God gave them. No, our country hasn’t always gotten it right. And no, in some ways it’s still not right. But at least I’m not enslaved for going to school. And not only that, I get to vote.


