Let’s Not Waste It.
For the past 24 hours, I couldn’t bring myself to watch the news. I was simply too nervous about what Election Day might bring.
This morning, I finally turned on the radio.
I am writing this while sitting on the shoulder of a road, listening to the news and trying to absorb what happened yesterday. For the first time in what feels like ten very long years, something inside me has begun to change.
I am sitting here with tears in my eyes. But today, they aren’t tears of anger, fear, or exhaustion. For the first time in a long time, they are tears of hope.
It is hope that perhaps we have reached a turning point—hope that Americans are beginning to remember who we are, what we stand for, and what we owe one another. But hope comes with responsibility.
Yesterday did not erase the divisions in our country. Millions of Americans still see our nation very differently, and the forces that brought us here have not disappeared. We have not reached the end of this struggle as we begin the difficult work of repairing what has been broken.
Before we rush into the next political battle, however, I want to share something personal. I want to tell you about some of the things I lost over the past ten years—and why I am finally ready to take them back.
The Country I Served
I am a veteran of the United States Coast Guard. After my military service, I continued serving our country through civilian work with the Department of Veterans Affairs, the Department of Defense, and the Department of Homeland Security. Public service has been a significant part of my life.
I have also been an independent voter for as long as I can remember. I have never believed that loyalty to a political party should come before loyalty to our Constitution, our country, or our fellow Americans. I have voted for people, not party labels. I believe character, integrity, and truth matter.
Yet, over the past decade, I found myself doing something I never imagined: I began hiding parts of who I was.
I’m an older white man. I used to enjoy wearing red hats. They were simply hats, nothing more. But gradually, a red hat came to represent something entirely different in the public eye. I didn’t want strangers assuming I supported a political movement whose values I often found deeply troubling. So I stopped wearing them.
It seems like such a small thing, but it wasn’t the only thing I put away.
The Bible I Could No Longer Carry
There is a Bible that has traveled through much of my life:
- In uniform: As a young man in the Coast Guard, I carried it on hazardous missions. It was not a political statement; it was a source of strength that reminded me of something greater than my fear.
- In joy: Years later, that same Bible was nearby when I held my newborn children.
- In grief: It rested on the nightstand when I held my wife’s hand for the last time as cancer took her from me.
That Bible has traveled through dangerous waters and quiet hospital rooms. It is more than a book—it is part of my story.
Yet over the past ten years, I watched Christianity become increasingly entangled with political power. I watched some people use the teachings of Jesus to justify cruelty, exclusion, and hostility toward their neighbors. I watched Scripture—which had helped me survive my darkest moments—become a political weapon.
And something happened that I still struggle to explain: I stopped carrying my Bible.
I stopped not because I had abandoned my faith, but because I feared what others would assume about me. I could not bear the thought that something so sacred in my life might cause someone else to see me as a person who supported intolerance. So I quietly put it away.
Listening to the news today, I realize how much that decision cost me.
No political movement owns my Bible. No politician owns my faith. The people who turned religion into a political weapon were not standing beside me on those missions, nor were they sitting beside me when I said goodbye to my wife. Those memories belong to me—and the faith that carried me through them still belongs to me.
I want my Bible back, not as a symbol of superiority, but as the old and trusted companion it has always been.
The Flag I Took Down
There was another symbol I quietly surrendered: the American flag.
For much of my life, I proudly flew our flag outside my home. It represented the country I had served, the people I had served alongside, and the ideals I believed were worth defending: freedom, equality, justice, the rule of law, and basic human dignity.
Then I began noticing how the flag was being weaponized. Instead of bringing Americans together, it sometimes appeared alongside messages of intimidation and political hostility. I began worrying that my neighbors might look at the flag on my porch and assume I supported everything being done in its name.
So I took it down. Imagine that: a veteran becoming uncomfortable flying the flag he had served under.
I allowed other people to determine what my own country’s flag meant to me. I don’t want to do that anymore. The American flag belongs to all of us—to Republicans, Democrats, independents, immigrants, and every person who believes our country’s promises should apply equally to everyone.
I want to fly my flag again because I believe this country is worth the effort required to make it better.
Choosing Silence
Perhaps the saddest change was also the smallest.
For years, I had a simple routine of driving to our local recycling center while listening to the news on my car radio. But as political divisions deepened, I noticed something about myself: whenever I pulled up beside other cars, I would reach over and turn the radio off.
I worried that someone might hear what I was listening to and judge me. I didn’t want another argument or angry look. So I chose silence.
Think about that for a moment. I had served in the military of a country that protects freedom of speech and thought, yet I had become uncomfortable exercising those freedoms in the most ordinary moments of my life.
How did we get here? How did a hat, a Bible, a flag, or a radio station make us suspicious of our neighbors? And how do we find our way back to one another?
What Yesterday Means—and What It Doesn’t
While I feel hopeful this morning, I know an election cannot repair a country on its own. We still face profound challenges: institutional strains, threats to constitutional norms, economic uncertainty, and deep systemic anxieties.
While I may feel relief today, many of our neighbors do not. That matters. If we want a better country, our concern cannot end with the people who voted as we did. It must extend to the people who disagree with us, the people who distrust us, and especially those who have been hurt or forgotten.
We do not have to excuse cruelty, ignore dishonesty, or surrender our principles in the name of unity. But neither can we rebuild our country by allowing contempt for one another to become our guiding principle. We cannot defeat hatred by becoming what we oppose.
The Work of Hope
As people of faith, we return again and again to a simple conviction: faith means very little unless it changes how we treat one another.
It is not enough to speak about love while remaining indifferent to suffering. It is not enough to pray for peace while refusing to challenge injustice. And it is not enough to celebrate an election while leaving the hard work of democracy to someone else.
Our responsibility continues in our communities, in our conversations, in the way we welcome strangers, and in the courage we show when someone is being mistreated. It continues when we:
- Volunteer and support local food pantries
- Help a struggling family or comfort a frightened neighbor
- Speak out against injustice
- Listen deeply to someone whose life experience is different from our own
Communities are rebuilt through the accumulated actions of ordinary people who refuse to give up on one another. That is where hope becomes something more than a feeling—it becomes meaningful when we put it to work.
Taking Back What Belongs to Us
Today, I am making a choice:
- I am taking back my hats, my Bible, and my flag—without apology, and without letting fear or division dictate how I live.
- I am taking back my voice, ready to listen to the news without reaching for the volume knob in fear of judgment.
I don’t expect everyone to agree with me. But I want to live in a country where disagreement does not automatically make us enemies—where patriotism is measured by the responsibilities we accept, faith is recognized through compassion, and strength is demonstrated through character rather than cruelty.
To those who voted differently from me: you are still my neighbors. We may disagree deeply, but I have not given up on the possibility that we can find common ground in our shared humanity. I hope you haven’t either.
I am ready to work alongside anyone who believes that the measure of a great nation is not how powerful it becomes, but how it treats its people—especially those who are most vulnerable.
Today is a new day. Let’s be grateful for it. Let’s protect what matters. Let’s keep showing up for one another. And above all, let’s not waste the opportunity we’ve been given.
We have a great deal of work left to do, and we need one another for the road ahead. Be safe out there, and be kind to someone today.