When One Door Slams…
“I’m voting for God’s Kingdom to fix this mess,” she said and with that, Alice, 93, closed the door and left her groceries forlorn on the stoop of her Loma Portal home.
Our conversation began innocently enough. She’d insisted that next time I call ahead so that she could write a thank you note; I replied with a smile that “voting will be thanks enough.” “Oh, I can’t help you there. I don’t vote in elections,” Alice insisted.
“Why not?” I asked. And that’s when her reference to God’s Kingdom left me staring at her door, grocery box at my feet, alone.
For the past several weeks during my Project-19 food deliveries, I’d shared polling locations and drop-off addresses with my “customers,” hoping to do my small part for our divided democracy. Until Alice, their responses were pretty standard:
“I’ve already voted…” “My daughter’s taking me to the poll Saturday…” and the enthusiastic, “I can’t wait!”
But not Alice.
I felt crestfallen as I walked back down her timeworn garden path — unburdened by the box’s heft but saddled by her words. Surely we are all empowered, whether by God or cosmological happenstance, to change things for the better, aren’t we?
Her words ping-ponged in my mind, interrupted only by the mechanics of each delivery — fifteen in all. In addition to the seniors I typically serve, I carted food boxes to “re-homed” people displaced by the pandemic who now live in decrepit motels along the seven-laned Rosecrans Street. With names like Sea Haven and The Oasis, I couldn’t miss the irony, not to mention the odd mix of ocean air, diesel fumes, and weed.
Motivated by my encounter with Alice, I kept at it, encouraging each recipient with a smile and a “Don’t forget to vote!” In truth, I did it as much for me as for them.
My last stop took me to a weathered cottage hidden behind a pockmarked garage. I was running late and feeling a bit beleaguered as I lugged the last box in the afternoon sun. Sometimes my customers express their dissatisfaction rather clearly, so I braced for the blow as I approached two people sitting outside on a tiny brick patio. But instead of indignation over my tardiness, Bernice and her son DeShawn greeted me with smiles.
“There she is,” he said. “Thank you!”
“I lovvvvvvve your necklace,” she declared.
Placing the grocery box on a rusty blue patio chair, I looked down at my neck to see what I’d worn. “VOTE,” my pendant read.
“I wouldn’t miss this election for the world,” she added as the three of us spent the next 10 minutes sharing opinions, hopes, and perspectives for our country. Bernice is voting tomorrow and has since the Voting Rights Act of 1965 when she helped elect Lyndon B. Johnson.
But not Alice.
Alice is leaving it up to God. And God’s clearly leaving it up to us. So, c’mon citizens of God’s Kingdom, we got this.
Vote.
