It’s
been a while since I’ve shared what’s going on in my noodle. That’s not because
there’s nothing going on. It’s because there’s so much going on that I don’t
know how to manage it all.
I am grateful.
I am grateful for the signs of community all around me. For the handwritten cards of encouragement. For the cookies, bread, home-cooked meals, yeast, left on my porch by dear friends. For the yard sign I see every time I look out my window that reminds me I am loved. For the internet that keeps me connected with my congregation, especially the noon Zoom group of friends who are my life-line in this time of isolation. For screen time with my grandsons, Nick and Justin, as I watch them grow before my very eyes (and my aching arms). I am grateful for each breath, reminding me that I am protected in my home, healthy… and alive.
I am guilt-ridden.
My gratitude is accompanied by a whole lotta guilt. It’s difficult for me to lean back in my recliner, flipping through the remote, reviewing hundreds of viewing options, knowing that so many others have little control over their lives. They struggle to find safe shelter. They work in places that expose them to the virus and are in danger every day. They compassionately care for the sick at great cost. All this while I sit home and watch Parasite, feeling quite parasitic myself. Injustices that normally nibble at me are unrelentingly gnawing on my soul.
I am anxious.
Nearly every day I search the internet for news about vaccines. As I read the timelines, a cannonball blows a hole in my chest. We are going to be living with this pandemic for a year or maybe two. How will we ever do that? Then I read about how restrictions will be lifted in stages. And how to avoid risk when we all come out of hiding. Yesterday, my daughter Gretchen and I talked about when we might be able to see one another again. She told me it will have to be before my son-in-law Jon goes back to work, because he will be exposed, which means she and my grandsons will, too. This is the first I thought about what the end of this stay-at-home-time will mean for them. And for me. I am an at-risk person. And, eventually, I will need to leave the house.
I am grieving.
Tears come easily for me these days. I grieve for the college graduates who will never be in college again, for the seniors who will never be in high school again, for my grandson Nick, who will never be in kindergarten again. I grieve for my congregation that may not sing together again for a year or more. And I think about what Christmas will be like without singing. I weep for all those who are struggling under normal conditions, but feel it all the more now, like children who can’t be with their parents as they die, and all who grieve the loss of a loved one without the support of the community gathered. I grieve for my country that is divided and directionless in a time when we so desperately need strong leadership to guide us.
I am despairing.
In my head, I know this won't last forever. We'll get past it, and life will go on. There is a lot that I'm learning in this time that will be useful: editing a video on YouTube, baking bread, replacing the inside of my toilet. Most importantly, I've learned how life-giving the people God has placed in my life are for me. I don't think I'll ever take those relationships for granted again. But all my learnings are closely related to surviving. I am doing what I can to survive this. And I don't know that I have the strength to do that.
Day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute... they swim under water, just below the surface--gratitude, guilt, anxiety, grief, despair. Randomly, one pops up for a breath of air, and then another, and another after that. I worry that I may not be able to continue carrying them all at once. And yet, I pray that I will. I keep clinging to the words from 2 Corinthians 12: "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." I need to trust that's true, even when I'm having trouble believing it.
I am grateful.
I am grateful for the signs of community all around me. For the handwritten cards of encouragement. For the cookies, bread, home-cooked meals, yeast, left on my porch by dear friends. For the yard sign I see every time I look out my window that reminds me I am loved. For the internet that keeps me connected with my congregation, especially the noon Zoom group of friends who are my life-line in this time of isolation. For screen time with my grandsons, Nick and Justin, as I watch them grow before my very eyes (and my aching arms). I am grateful for each breath, reminding me that I am protected in my home, healthy… and alive.
I am guilt-ridden.
My gratitude is accompanied by a whole lotta guilt. It’s difficult for me to lean back in my recliner, flipping through the remote, reviewing hundreds of viewing options, knowing that so many others have little control over their lives. They struggle to find safe shelter. They work in places that expose them to the virus and are in danger every day. They compassionately care for the sick at great cost. All this while I sit home and watch Parasite, feeling quite parasitic myself. Injustices that normally nibble at me are unrelentingly gnawing on my soul.
I am anxious.
Nearly every day I search the internet for news about vaccines. As I read the timelines, a cannonball blows a hole in my chest. We are going to be living with this pandemic for a year or maybe two. How will we ever do that? Then I read about how restrictions will be lifted in stages. And how to avoid risk when we all come out of hiding. Yesterday, my daughter Gretchen and I talked about when we might be able to see one another again. She told me it will have to be before my son-in-law Jon goes back to work, because he will be exposed, which means she and my grandsons will, too. This is the first I thought about what the end of this stay-at-home-time will mean for them. And for me. I am an at-risk person. And, eventually, I will need to leave the house.
I am grieving.
Tears come easily for me these days. I grieve for the college graduates who will never be in college again, for the seniors who will never be in high school again, for my grandson Nick, who will never be in kindergarten again. I grieve for my congregation that may not sing together again for a year or more. And I think about what Christmas will be like without singing. I weep for all those who are struggling under normal conditions, but feel it all the more now, like children who can’t be with their parents as they die, and all who grieve the loss of a loved one without the support of the community gathered. I grieve for my country that is divided and directionless in a time when we so desperately need strong leadership to guide us.
I am despairing.
In my head, I know this won't last forever. We'll get past it, and life will go on. There is a lot that I'm learning in this time that will be useful: editing a video on YouTube, baking bread, replacing the inside of my toilet. Most importantly, I've learned how life-giving the people God has placed in my life are for me. I don't think I'll ever take those relationships for granted again. But all my learnings are closely related to surviving. I am doing what I can to survive this. And I don't know that I have the strength to do that.
Day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute... they swim under water, just below the surface--gratitude, guilt, anxiety, grief, despair. Randomly, one pops up for a breath of air, and then another, and another after that. I worry that I may not be able to continue carrying them all at once. And yet, I pray that I will. I keep clinging to the words from 2 Corinthians 12: "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." I need to trust that's true, even when I'm having trouble believing it.
How beautifully you share what is also in my heart. Thank you, Nancy. So glad you have people to whom you can reach out. For me, it is the uncertainty that persists, even as I try to trust the God who loves. And I keep asking what learnings I am to be drawing from this peculiar time. Blessings, dear girl. You are in my prayers.
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