On the last Presidential Election Day, I cried. I was roughly 14 weeks pregnant and still emerging from first-trimester nausea. The only thing to get me through the day was eating eggs for breakfast. And I’m not talking about cooking up a little fried egg at home. The bad days required a giant breakfast burrito stuffed with eggs and cheese and potatoes. The rest of the time, I could get by with one of those $3.95 bacon gouda egg sandwiches from Starbucks as my second breakfast. The green siren lured me in on my way to teach nearly every day.
There was only one problem. The Starbucks closest to my work was regularly running out of the bacon gouda egg sandwich by my 8:45 am pit stop. The first few times, the barista simply said, “Sorry, we’re out of that kind.” But throughout my first trimester, this pattern was consistent. For an entire month, the sandwich was out of stock probably two-thirds of the time. I finally inquired about it, wondering why they were out of such a popular item so routinely, and I was told a new manager was still figuring out the ordering and inventory for the pastry case. Fair enough. In a few weeks, it would all be sorted out.
But it wasn’t sorted out. The problem continued until November 8, 2016. I found myself in Starbucks, pregnant and hungry, on the morning of Election Day, and once again… there was no bacon gouda egg to be found. Please keep in mind, this is the only sandwich I like at Starbucks. None of the alternatives appeal to me. I was done. Real tears rolled down my cheeks as I stormed out of the store. There was no bacon gouda egg. The manager was incompetent. And we would soon find out which of these two buffoons would be our next president.
The results surprised me as much as anyone else. I thought Hillary would win. I voted for neither. And the next morning, there were more tears, but they weren’t mine this time. I pulled into the parking lot at work, and one of my beloved students was standing outside her car, crying. It’s relevant here that she is black and she was overcome with fear of racism running rampant in our country. I hugged her in the parking lot. She said she wasn’t sure if she could come to class later that day; I told her she didn’t have to, but that I hoped she would, and that her classmates were kinder and more caring than she was giving them credit for in that tear-filled moment. A few hours later, she bravely walked into class and took her seat near the front.
Another student in the same class stayed after to ask questions about immigration policy under Trump. What would happen to DACA students like herself? Would she be deported? Would she be able to finish college? I didn’t know the answers, of course, but I did get some information from a DC attorney friend to share with her.
Four years later, the student crying by her car is living in New York City and just got admitted to an amazing Master’s Program in Public Policy. The DACA student graduated and is working in the U.S. I had the baby and another one after that. Four years later, we are all still here.
Tomorrow is another Election Day, but you won’t find me crying this year. You probably won’t find me at Starbucks either, since those pregnancy hormones are long gone. And you definitely won’t find me hugging any students, because you can’t touch on Zoom and hugs are outlawed, anyway.
But you will find me with a different persona than four years ago. There is a new fight within me. A fight for justice. A fight for freedom. A fight for equality for all citizens. A fight to see our rights — particularly the rights ensured in the First Amendment — protected for the sake of my children and my grandchildren. A fight for a free press. A fight to sit in the pews of my church. A fight for all Americans to say and write and share the words that match their convictions — even if their beliefs are different than mine.
No, matter what happens, I won’t have tears tomorrow. I will have resolve. My faith is not in the politics of men but in the steadfast goodness of the Lord. And I don’t say that in some trite way. I trust God’s sovereignty. I will still use every political privilege I have to try to make America a better place, and a more godly one, but I don’t fear the future regardless of who takes the presidency.
Because I know this… the church will thrive on the margins, the saints will be strengthened by persecution, and nothing can separate me from the love of Christ or snatch me from the Father’s hand. I don’t wish to hasten persecution and I will never comply with tyranny, but I know when persecution and tyranny come, God will not be moved. From above, He will laugh at those who deride him while bottling up the tears of his children as they suffer from evil. Not one ounce of unrighteousness will escape his judgment — it will either be paid for by the blood of Christ or avenged by the wrath of God.
Tomorrow, I will wake up. I will pray and read the Bible. I will work hard and be kind and love my neighbor. I will teach my kids about Jesus and make dinner for my family. And the next day, I will do the same thing. And the day after that, too.
The ballots will be counted. The nation will hold its breath. The crowds might riot. The results may be unclear.
The seats might flip… but God will still sit on his throne.
.
.
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*My Election Day post from 2016 here.
