There is one line from my self talk helps keep me from meddling. 

“I’m not on their jury.”

When I catapult into verdicts about another person’s doings those five words slow me down. It releases me from the compulsion to opine. 

It turns out that most of my well crafted evaluations about someone else’s choices are dead ends. I don’t actually do anything. Circumstances would be different if my intention was to bring a meal, watch their children, palm them a twenty or just listen. In person. If there is no actual interaction in the very near future my judgments are like so much litter. 

But today I’m at the courthouse with a red badge. There is a chance, perhaps one in ten, that I will sit on someone’s jury. 

I thought I was unique in my response to receiving a summons. Annoyance. Anxiety. But the judge who addressed our group changed that. 

“Perhaps some of you googled ‘How not to get chosen for jury duty.’ Maybe you provided answers on the questionnaire that  you hoped would result in you being excused.” He glanced around. “But no one reads them.”

A nervous laugh skipped across the room. 

He went on to frame this opportunity as less of an interruption to our busy lives and more of an invitation to step into the parade of democracy. 

I sensed a feeling surging that has long been dormant. I felt patriotic. 

The judge mentioned having presided over the Cosby case and though it probably wasn’t to impress me, it did. Having not watched the actual coverage I imagined those twelve citizens, listening intently to heartbreaking testimony, and following their collective conscience. 

I have not yet nor will I necessarily be selected to serve. Yet already I notice a vast discrepancy between arm chair deliberation that loiters in my brain based on second hand information, and real evidence. 

It is my prayer that for whomever is sitting upstairs, their life poised in the balance, justice will prevail.