Tonight I will be watching election returns. This presidential election season has been painful and long, with angry, ugly rhetoric within parties, between candidates, on social media–and even between family and friends. Everyone is afraid; fearful of losing something or not having enough, or of someone else having too much, convinced that disaster is looming.

I can’t wait for it to be over, but I’m also worried.

I have liked watching our political process unfold on election night for as long as I can remember. I enjoy making a festive fall meal and gathering ’round the television to see the drama of precincts reporting and races being called when enough votes are counted, electoral votes tipping toward one candidate or the other, and California numbers finally coming in as closing time at the polls moves across the time zones. It is important; it matters who our president is.

As a child, I walked with my parents to the polling place near our house, the wobbly voting booths set up in a neighbor’s garage. It felt like a holiday, the whole family participating in this national event. An air of secrecy surrounded the little curtained cubbies; no one asked or told how they had voted. My mom was never much interested in politics, so my dad would study the issues and she would vote just like he did, trusting that he knew best.

The first time I voted in Berkeley, my husband and I had been married only five months, and we walked down the street from our little apartment near Cal to our polling place in a fraternity house. We stood in line and took our turn marking the ballot in the cardboard voting stations. Ronald Reagan and Walter Mondale were the candidates. We walked back to our apartment, adjusted the rabbit ears on our little TV, and ate stuffed green peppers as we watched the returns come in.

It always feels like a contest, but I have been certain in the past that whoever wins, we will ultimately remember that we are all in this together, and in January, we will rise above the differences and disappointments to inaugurate the new president. I am proud of the way the system works. This year, it feels different. There is a desperate and mean spirit that threatens the peaceful transfer of power.

I’ve been feeling anxious, not just about the outcome, but about the deep divide in our country, and the way we’ve been talking to and about each other.  How can we recover? There are rumors of violence if it goes one way and not another. It seems almost impossible to go back to normal life after this bitter fight.

Sunday I was feeling sick, literally.

I wanted to stay home from church and sleep, but I sensed that my headache and malaise was at least partly emotional, and decided to get up and go in hopes of finding some encouragement there. The service was fine, but there was no obvious fix for my funk. I can’t remember exactly what stirred this thought, but as the last song was being sung, a little bit of hope broke through at this simple realization: No matter who wins this election, I can keep doing what’s important to me.

Later that afternoon, I sat down to mark my sample ballot–I needed to review what is up for a vote besides the presidency and try to make sense of all the propaganda that has been crammed into my mailbox the last several weeks. It felt good to sit down with all the information–ah, the wonders of the internet!–and choose what I believe to be best.

I voted, and if my candidate wins, we’ll pop the champagne; if not, shots will be more in keeping with the mood, but I don’t even want to think about that.

The work of building community, bringing light and hope to the hurting, feeding the hungry and seeking justice for the oppressed can continue regardless of what happens in this election. I can turn off the news and keep doing what comes my way, responding to the people I meet.

That gives me something to hold onto when the future feels uncertain; it is a small way to move toward healing in my corner of the world when chaos threatens.