A Poll Chaplain’s Diary

It’s 4 in the morning on election day. My alarm goes off and I am getting ready to take on the responsibility of being a poll chaplain for a precinct to which I had been assigned a week earlier. I have been contacted and told to appear by 6 a.m. with a folding chair, snacks, water, and layered clothing. Cleveland weather is notorious for unpredictably wild swings of temperature somewhat because of our temperamental, shallow Great Lake Erie. And today is gusty. Winds are lifting political yard signs and throwing them around like giant playing cards on neighborhood streets. The precinct is on the other side of Cleveland, Ohio, other side meaning way on the west side while I live way on the east side. 

Ah! Arrival on time and I meet another worker who represents her Methodist church as a poll observer. We eventually become friends. I bring my letter of certification and my ID Pass which I wear dangling from my neck. It says, “Poll Chaplain/Peacekeeper.” I am so happy to actively participate in the election process. After the head of the poll workers approves my letter and ID, she introduces me to the other workers setting up laptops on long tables and they respond with hearty applause and wide smiles. One of them approaches me, puts her hands on my shoulders and asks if she can pray with me. Her prayer is full of hope, and it moves me to tears which she wipes away and says with smiling assurance: “It will be all right, girl. Jesus will see us through all of this.”

I take a place in the hallway where people will be standing after they enter the building. It is so windy outside that voters are anxious to get into the building and join the lengthening line. It seems that everyone notices my ID and many start asking questions: “Why the need for a chaplain?” “Did we ever have chaplains before?” “Are you a priest, minister, rabbi?” Many add that they have been praying both for peace and for the election to turn out the way they think it should. Some look worried; some are pensive, thoughtful. Many are happy and jocular. Young parents bring little children and smile at me saying they couldn’t get a sitter, but their children will behave. I thank those parents. Others bring older children to whom I say they should remember the example of their parents bringing them to witness the duty they will some day have to perform. The children are wide-eyed and a bit awed, almost as if waiting in line to get an autograph from LeBron James or Jose Ramirez. My job is to make everyone feel welcomed and at peace as they enter the voting area.

As the line swells by mid-day, I move outside to the entrance of the building. One of our three scanners has broken, and we have to divide the line in two, one for people coming in to vote, the other for people who already voted but had to hold on to their ballots until the scanner is fixed. A poll worker informs them that they cannot give their ballots to someone else to scan for them even if they are now late for work. One person gets so agitated, I am sure something is about to occur so I approach the person and try to explain the regulations that no one can touch a ballot after a person has voted, even, I say, strongly: your husband or wife! Others in the line nod in approval. Whew!

In our orientation, we were given possible situations to discuss in groups which then were dissected by the professionals who led the orientation. “What if some Proud Boys show up,” we are asked. If their intention is not to vote but to intimidate voters, we are guided to a course of action. I spot a young man dressed completely in black leather, clanging with more chains than those around the fences of Alcatraz. They hang from his waist and his shoulders; his boots went up to his knees with metal studs and spurs and his head band was attached with a tail of some kind of animal. From his belt dangles something that looks like a sheath. But he is alone. And there are no flags nor badges for one candidate. I think the motorcycle in the lot belongs to him. He smiles at me, dare I say, sweetly? When he leaves after voting he says to me: “This is a privilege, isn’t it? Thank you for being here today.” He smiles benignly and my heart is swaddled by the kindness of this most unlikely committed citizen. 

Reflection

And so, the day went on. A ninety-year-old woman told me and all around her that she has never missed an election since she was 21 years old. Another woman was crying softly and when I asked if she wanted to pray, she said these were tears of appreciation for the privilege to vote. Another woman brought her portable stool so she could sit in line as it slowly moved. Many came in wheelchairs or with the assistance of a care giver. An elderly man asked to pray with me as his wife stood behind him. She won’t pray, he said, because she disagrees with his choice! Nearly everyone whom I encountered on this day made me feel good about the privilege of voting, about the country we live in. 

I have talked to some friends who worked other polls and from theirs and my experience on election day, I have the highest regard for these volunteers. We have all said there were things we learned about the process which we never knew. For each of us it was a lesson in humanity as well as citizenship. A swath of the American population passed by me that day; they wore hard hats, professional attire, high heels, and slippers. They were ordinary people marking their choice with much hope and saying as they left, “This is a privilege, isn’t it?”

Pray for God’s blessings on our country as we move on. And act on those blessings! We will need courage and action in the days ahead.

God bless all of you, my dear readers!