As I’m racing downtown to drop another project in the mailbox, I see them — five or six women gathered on the corner of Fourth and Main. They are wearing black and holding signs that say “War Is Not the Answer” and “Peace to All the World’s People.” And as I eye them from the stoplight, I recognize a few faces. There’s Christine, with her intense, dark eyes, in her wheelchair. And there’s gentle Madeline, who just turned 80. They are part of the local chapter of Women in Black and are holding a silent vigil against violence. I admire them.

I admire any woman who takes time out of her busy life to take a stand, quiet or otherwise, for something she believes in. And in my community of La Crosse, Wisconsin, I have many rich examples to look up to.

There’s June Kjome, a Lutheran activist who spent 19 years in South Africa as a nurse, midwife, and missionary during apartheid. Now, at age 87, she is an activist with such boldness that she is regularly celebrated and occasionally arrested for her protests. There’s Paula Murphy, who travels to India to work with a community called Auroville, a model for peace and human unity. She’s particularly passionate about the rights of women and a microloan program that helps women develop cottage industries and rise out of poverty. I know women who travel across the world on volunteer vacations, who climb on buses bound for war protests in Washington, and who diligently call their representatives. I admire them. But can I call myself one of them?

Maybe I am like you: I learn of injustice in the world and it hurts my heart. I hear of war and it makes me ask hard questions. I see the inequality in our country —i n my own community — and it makes me furious. I would take an hour to stand with the Women in Black, but I also have a job, a husband, and a small child, and there are meals to make and bills to pay and so much laundry to do. My greatest act of activism these days has been putting an “End the War” sign in my yard, which I might not have thought to do had not a friend — an ardent pacifist and the mother of a Marine — given me one.

When one considers what it means to be an activist, it’s easy to think in extremes. It’s true that the women I call activists are stunning examples of that term. But I am coming to realize that there are levels of activism, levels that are much more attainable and perhaps much less visible, but no less heartfelt and very important. We do ourselves — and the world — a disservice when we set the bar too high. More

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