By Betsy Gonwa, 
At a little after 4:30 on a Friday afternoon, I arrived at the City Clerk’s office to cast my ballot, and when I saw how empty the parking lot was, my confidence wavered. Was it still open? At the top of the stairs, when I turned the corner and saw the metal gate pulled down, I felt a sensation of something dropping within me.
Though I saw people clearly visible through the bars of the closed gate, sitting there at their desks, their heads bent over their work, this sinking sensation stopped me in my tracks. A voice inside my head began childing me for my carelessness and poor planning. My feet stopped moving forward, and I stood there in indecision and doubt.
A hopeful voice gained a footing for a brief second. Just because the gate is down might not mean they are not accepting ballots. You could ask them if they would accept your ballot anyway. Perhaps they will make an exception for you. But the voices of self-judgment and criticism were louder and stronger. These voices said, You should have come here first! and Why didn’t you call to verify what time they closed? In that moment, the criticizing voices had the final word, and instead of speaking up, I turned and walked away.
Fifteen minutes later, I saw my husband arrive, coasting into the parking lot on his bicycle. I greeted him with the bad news. “It’s closed,” I said. “Closed at 4:30.”
I knew he had biked hard against the wind to make it there before 5:00 to please me. I was the one who had wanted to turn in our ballots in person; he had been willing to put them in the US mail. I also knew that his time was more limited than mine, and he might not have a chance to make it back.
“There were still people there,” I said, my words coming out hesitantly but steadily. “They might still be there . . . They might take your ballot . . . You can ask them.”
So, I unlocked my bike from the bike rack and together we biked closer to the door to city hall, at the other end of the building. Against the wall next to the entrance closest to the interior stairway that I had walked up earlier, he leaned his bike and entered the building, ballot in hand. By the bikes, I waited, hoping. For his sake. A few minutes later, he came out, triumphant. “They took it!” he said. “And they’ll take yours, too.”
And so it was that we were able to vote early after all. All because I chose to listen for a moment to the gentle voice of hope.
When opposing voices are vying for attention in your head, which one do you choose to listen to?
