The Banner He Left Me: From conversations at the kitchen table to helping others cast their vote — a quiet legacy of ballots, values, and my father’s enduring wisdom.

My dad taught me more at our kitchen table than most people learn in a lifetime. He taught me how to think, not what to think — how to listen, how to stand firm, and how to carry conviction with grace. This is the story of the last lesson he ever gave me, and how it still guides the way I help others find their voice — one ballot at a time.

The Banner He Left Me

On ballots, values, and the quiet legacy of my father’s wisdom.

From childhood until my dad passed in 2016, I went to him for all kinds of advice — even how to read a ballot. We’d sit at the kitchen table, side by side, and talk through the issues, the candidates, and the people asking for our votes.

Sometimes I voted just like him. Other times, I didn’t. But there was never judgment.

He raised me to be a conservative woman, to hold fast to my values, and to keep a moral compass pointed straight to the heavens. I’ve lost my way more than once, but I always knew where to come back to.

We talked about everything — politics, religion, history, life. Most days, we agreed. Some days, we didn’t. But we never stopped talking.

People sometimes ask why I hold my father on such a pedestal.

First, because he was my father.

Second, because I still believe he was the smartest man in any room I’ve ever been in.

He had a photographic memory. As a boy, he read encyclopedias for fun. As an adult, he devoured books on history and politics like most people flip through magazines. Maybe not everyone saw that depth in him — but I did.

In his final days, I sat by his bed and did what we’d always done: we talked.

Toward the end, the words came in fragments — sometimes clear, sometimes tangled — but the rhythm was the same. Politics. Religion. History. Life. I held his hand and listened for the threads I knew by heart: the old stories, the quiet lessons, the way he always tried to make meaning out of chaos.

Even when the sentences slipped, his eyes still spoke — still teaching. Then he began talking about knights, crosses, and vows.

I leaned in. I knew this might be the last history lesson he would ever give me.

Grief is messy, but this part remains sharp as glass: those words weren’t nonsense. He wasn’t babbling into the dark. He was reaching for something sacred — a story about steadfastness.

It felt like he was handing me a banner.

Years earlier, when The Lord of the Rings movies came out, he’d told me how he saw parallels between those characters and real knights. Off the top of his head — no Google, no notes — he told me about the Teutonic Knights.

He never mentioned them again. And I never thought about them again — until that moment by his bed.

As he drifted between this world and the next, I believe his mind reached for what was oldest and strongest — for symbols that held fast when everything else began to fade.

The Teutonic Knights stood for duty, order, guardianship.

And if he couldn’t say the words plainly, he could still point me toward the code:

Stand your ground.

Keep your promises.

Protect the weak.

Tell the truth.

Keep your faith.

Even at the edge, he was still teaching me who I’m supposed to be.

The Weight of a Ballot

After he died, I dug deeper into politics, news, and writing — trying to become the kind of person others could come to for understanding.

At some point — I don’t remember when, why, or how — people started calling me when their ballots arrived. Friends. Family. Even acquaintances. They’d ask what a proposition meant or what an amendment would actually do.

Propositions, amendments, TABOR, referendums — that alphabet soup can get confusing fast.

I never tell anyone how to vote. I just walk through it with them — the text, the fiscal notes, the mechanics behind the message. If I don’t know something, I say so. If they ask how I voted, I tell them — and I stand by it.

Every ballot is personal. Every choice — even the choice not to vote — is something you live with.

I see each ballot as a set of rules that shape my home, my children’s future, my money, and my community. That makes my vote sacred.

If something harmful to my family passes but I voted against it, my conscience is clear. If something I supported wins, I’m proud to have been a part of it.

Either way, the vote is mine — a small but serious act of stewardship over the place I call home.

That’s how my dad taught me to approach everything including how to vote — not with fear or blind loyalty, but with thought, conviction, and a clear conscience.

How I Help

When someone asks me a question, I guide them the same way my dad guided me.

Start with what it does, not what it’s called. Titles are marketing. The text is the law.

Follow the money. Who pays? How much? Where does it go? Who controls it later?

Separate values from mechanics. What you believe matters, but so does how it works in real life.

Look for tradeoffs. Every yes costs something. Every no costs something. Name both.

Read beyond the summary. The fine print is where permanence hides.

Keep your conscience in the room. Measure the policy against the code you live by.

Why I Help

I remember what it felt like to bring my dad a question and leave with a steadier heart. In his absence, I carry that banner.

We can disagree and still keep talking.

We can weigh costs and still keep our faith.

We can be brave and still be kind.

So now, when someone brings me their questions, I see more than boxes and words. I see a moment to stand steady for someone else — the way my dad once did for me.

I don’t have all the answers. And I give tremendous credit to Senator Rod Pelton and Representative Ty Winter for explaining the complex stuff in terms we can all understand.

But I also do my own digging — tracing where the money comes from, who stands to gain, and who’s quietly funding the opposition.

That’s how I honor my dad.

That’s how I help others find their footing.

And that’s how we keep the light lit — one conversation, one conscience, one vote at a time.

From The Write Side of Me — still carrying the banner, one conversation, one conscience, one vote at a time.