From Mountain to Beach

I’ve made a big change to the way I’m coping with the coronavirus pandemic in the past couple of weeks. And it’s all in my head. I used to think of this time like a climbing a mountain. We all had to work hard to make our way up the mountain, but we would arrive at the top eventually. Then we could coast our way down to the bottom and our lives would return to their pre-pandemic ways—hugging, singing, feasting. All the stuff that happened so long ago that I can hardly recall what it was like, but I do remember it was a better time, and I long to have it back.

Most of the people in my congregation seem to share this understanding of the pandemic. Several times a day I talk with someone who tells me they can’t wait to be back in church like it was in the good old days. When you could sit wherever you wanted. When you could see smiles on unobstructed faces. When the choir processed down the center aisle and led us from the front. When we sang all the verses to all the hymns like good Lutherans. When we passed the peace with lots of hugs and kisses. When we joined hands for the Lord’s Prayer. When we visited with friends over a cup of coffee. When children added background noise to our gatherings and filled us with joy. 

So many of the people I serve at Ascension are fervently longing for those days. In the meanwhile, they wait. Some are staying home and worshiping with us online. Others are enduring the tight restrictions we have imposed on our in-person worship. But they’re toughing it out, doing what they can to climb that mountain until we can get past it. Of course, we don’t know how long the ascent will take. But we’re hopeful it won’t be much longer. Again and again, we’re hopeful it won’t be much longer. 

Initially, I was hopeful when I learned about the omicron variant. This is great, I thought. Everyone will get the virus, but not many people will die, and then we’ll be closer to herd immunity, and this will be the beginning of the end. In my mind I had it all worked out. But I came to learn that my theory was deeply flawed and that’s not the way this damn virus works. 

In January, I reached the point where I was hope-exhausted. And I couldn’t do it anymore. The mountain metaphor had run its course for me. So now, I’m thinking of this experience in a new way. I’m done climbing that never-ending mountain. Now I’m looking at it like a day at the beach.  

I think about the way the tide guides our activities at the beach. It comes in, it goes out. When the tide comes in, you pick up your beach chair and your umbrella and your sand buckets, and you retreat. But then, when the tide goes out, it’s time to play on the beach. 

The tricky part is figuring out when the tide is coming in and when it’s going out. The coronavirus isn’t as predictable as the ocean, but we generally have some warning. We knew before omicron that it was coming. We could prepare for it. And now, we can see that it’s receding. Does that mean that the tide is going out? It appears that it is. 

So, I’m looking at Lent, and I’m thinking, let’s plan it like we will be able to play on the beach. Let’s do some things we haven’t been able to do in a while, even if only for a short time. Nothing unsafe, of course, but let’s start some learning opportunities, find ways to serve the community, worship more, sing more. Time will tell if I’m wrong about this, but it’s less than a month away, so I’m going with it. If the tide comes in unexpectedly, we can pivot just as we have for the past two years. 

As the virus ebbs and flows, we are at its mercy, in so many ways. Planning anything more than a month away continues to be frustrating for a planner like me. (I can’t bring myself to think about Easter yet.) But it’s helping me to change metaphors for coping with this time. It’s not so much about enduring the slog up the mountain but receiving the changing waves as they come to us, pulling back when it’s prudent to do so, and building sandcastles when it’s safe to do so. Of course, I know that sandcastles don’t last, but that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy them in the moment. 

I don’t want to waste any more of my precious time waiting for life on the other side of the mountain. Instead, I plan to savor any moments I have to play for a bit on the beach.