Alone

So many ideas I once thought obvious, I once held as indisputable, have begun to make no sense to me. For decades, I listened and believed, listened and believed, thought and believed. And now I don't even know what I believe. The dots used to all connect but now they're scrambled, and I'm trying to see if I can untangle the lines.

I'm going it alone.

My questions are so fundamental, my struggles so deep, my foundation so cracking, that I can turn to no one. I would be seen as an aberration to anyone who's known me, if they heard my heart cries. I don't know how this will turn out. I don't know if I'll find the answers I need. I don't know what I will believe, or if anyone will love me no matter what.

It's a scary place to be. 

Nothing

Death and darkness
   overwhelm me
Pressed down
   pushed
      suffocated
I sink
   into
      the abyss

Twenty years
   of nothing
Twenty years
   of waste
Everything I held dear
   every goal I had
      every dream
Smashed in pieces

I am nothing --
   No, worse than nothing --
For I have taken the beautiful
    and sullied them
       destroyed them
Everything I have touched
   has failed

The abyss
   suffocates
      pushes
         pressing down
I am overwhelmed
    by death and darkness

Pandemic Ponderings: Less of Me

I've heard quite a few people talking about the positive side effects of the coronavirus lockdown. Some are grateful for a bit of rest, some are finding renewed creativity, some are seeing their kids blossom with less adult micromanagement, and many are grateful for time with family, especially to do activities they haven't done together for a while. Then there are, of course, the much-deserved praises and words of thanks being given to health workers and essential service providers. I frequently hear the rally cry to band together as humanity and work together for good. I hear the reassurance that this will not last forever and we will "win this fight."

That's all great.

But it's a very privileged view.

The facts that I still have money in the bank, food in my kitchen, gas in my car, and water and soap to wash hands show that I am part of a privileged group. But I would like to be done viewing this crisis through that lens. In fact, I've just "snoozed" a bunch of facebook groups that continuously post ideas of what to do during isolation for I realized that these just make me focus more on ME and US -- and I'm tired of it. 

I know people -- dear people -- in places like Jordan, Nigeria, and Palestine; places like my home city of Jos where the "big" hospital only has six ventilators; places like the Gaza Strip where people were already treated like prisoners with inadequate healthcare even before the spread of SARS-CoV-2 and subsequent isolation measures; places like Bethlehem that are low-income but completely dependent on tourism -- which isn't happening now or any time in the near future. When I hear that the situation in Bethlehem is dire and that Nigerian patients will just be left to die because there won't be enough ventilators, it hits me like a ton of bricks: I need to stop thinking of ME and start caring more about the "least of these." True, hardship is in some ways relative. And I do think that it's healthy for each one of us to name the ways we're under stress these days and see how we can find peace even in the lamenting. But it's also true that some hardships are just much harder than others. 

The problem with such a disaster as this, especially with it affecting the entire world pretty much at the same time, is that the tendency (and in some ways, the necessity) is to hunker down and care for our own. I ask, "Does my family have enough masks? Are we washing our hands enough? Do we have enough food?" Even, I hate to mention it, "What extra treats can I have on hand for us when we're missing family and friends?" I look at my country's statistics -- and my state's and my county's. And I would guess many do similarly. It's probably, in some ways, a survival technique. "I'm threatened so what do I need to do to make it? How do I protect my family?"

But in other ways, I'd venture to call it self-absorption and that's what I personally want to be done with. Yes, we're all suffering at the same time. Yes, our hospitals are also short on ventilators. Yes, we have the sick and dying here in America. But the danger is graver in these other places. The hospitals have much fewer resources, the people have less capital, the spaces are more crowded. I want my heart to be filled with love and concern for the least of these. I want my mind to be thinking of how to help or at least caring enough to listen. Less of me. Less of us.

Pandemic Ponderings: Surreal

From the news, the world seems to be falling apart around us. Millions of Americans have become unemployed, tens of thousands (or is it hundreds of thousands now?) have died from Covid-19, even more are at risk. Strange though it seems, it all feels surreal to my family right now. It's as if we're in a safe bubble -- at least momentarily. 

This pandemic gets compared to a war, but there are no fighter planes overhead, no bombs being dropped, no sound of gunfire. At the moment we don't know anyone ill and none of our loved ones have died. We're not in an epicenter and we have what we need. I'm not so naive to believe we'll be untouched by either disease or economic depression. It just hasn't happened yet. 

So for now, we try to get outside every decent day, often enjoying gorgeous spring blossoms and lovely birdsong. We carry on with our normal homeschool, and Steve keeps plugging away at his dissertation. We shoot baskets and play with playdough. We read aloud and play board games. We watch movies and cook dinners, just as always. For three weeks I've exercised daily by jogging in place while watching a Netflix series my sister recommended. 

Our only significant changes are worshipping at home on Sunday mornings and not being able to have friends or family round for meals and games. Steve can't escape our home chaos by studying at IKEA anymore, and I can't escape for a rare evening to a mom's night out. I shop less and think harder before I do. The girls can't play on playgrounds. But these are minor and life carries on.

I try to be grateful and peaceful, holding these gifts in open hands. I know that at any moment it could all be torn away.

Pandemic Ponderings - Personal Loss

So many people are suffering hugely because of this virus. Tens of thousands have lost loved ones. Doctors and nurses are working like mad and are under great stress. Some folks are stuck in foreign countries, other folks are "stuck" in nursing homes and unable to receive visitors. Many are at risk of losing their small businesses, and even more have been laid off or are otherwise struggling financially.

In the grand scheme of things, we're doing just fine -- for now.

Since our family homeschools and since Steve was already working from home as he's in the last stage of writing his dissertation, we've hardly had to change our normal rhythm at all. I'm used to the kids being around all day (not that I find it easy!), used to feeding 7 of us three times a day. The kids are used to reading, playing musical instruments, drawing, playing our many board games. Steve is used to writing and translating with the background noise of giggling or crying children.

Still, this is hard. We feel the pain of a few losses right now, and know that others are still to come. I'm glad we don't know the future. At the moment, we're hurting from:

• Not seeing family. My sister and her kids moved from CA to VA last summer to be near us and we've tried to get together every week or two. We can still chat by phone, but it's not the same. My kids aren't phone people -- they like to be with those they love. The boys play board games and tag and shoot baskets and play on playgrounds. The girls dance and chase and snuggle. Being apart is hard. Also Steve's parents live 3 hours from us and we were enjoying seeing them every month or two. I don't know when we'll get to visit again. 
• Not meeting with church. We just began going to Pathway Vineyard Church in September and were grateful each Sunday morning we got to worship there. It's a small church with incredibly friendly people. We miss worshiping with others. We miss the hugs. We miss seeing people who ask how we're doing and offer to pray for us. And we'd just begun hosting game nights at our house for church folks and friends. Now that's all on hold.
• Not seeing the few friends we have. For many, this is a blip in time. The need to socially distance won't last forever. But our time here is short. Our lease is up in July and we're not staying. Steve's program will be done and he'll no longer receive a student stipend. So the thought of not getting to see our dear friends during our very last few months here is quite heartbreaking. 

And in the coming months there will be more:

• Naomi not getting to have a high school graduation ceremony or party. 
• Naomi not getting to perform in the play "Matchmaker" that she has been practicing with Metropolitan School of the Arts.
• Steve's job possibilities drying up because universities are delaying their hiring.
• Steve not getting to have a graduation celebration.
• Steve's job interviews and teaching demonstrations being done remotely instead of on campus.
• Moving away from DC without getting to cram in a few months of last-minute visits to historical sites and museums. And we never did get to greet Nancy Pelosi or Adam Schiff in person and ask for their autographs as we intended.

Most of the time, I feel lucky and know I don't deserve the ease with which we're facing such a pandemic. Most of the time, I'm grateful. But our losses are real, however small they are compared to the world's, and I hope I can help my family grieve them.

Pandemic Ponderings - Gaza

This was day 10 of our family's self-isolation and day 1 of hearing the virus is in Gaza. My heart and mind are so full and churning that I've decided to try to write as often as I can. Not to be read, but just to process, and to provide a record I may someday find valuable.

Gaza is one of the most densely populated spots on earth, and one of the poorest with the least access to healthcare. They're also cut off from the world and the rest of their country by the Israeli government, so I'd hoped beyond hope that perhaps the novel coronavirus wouldn't reach there. My heart broke today to learn it has.

It's hard to explain how horrible a situation Gazans are already in. They effectively live in an open-air prison. Their water supply is unclean. Their people are bombed and shot at, and if they don't immediately die, they lose limbs or die later because of a lack of care for these wounds. Their medical system is already overwhelmed.

And now this.

The Israeli government is a cruel one. When children with cancer or other severe health issues need specialized medical care and are "granted permission" to leave Gaza for a city in their own country with better hospitals, often their parents aren't allowed to accompany them. This has sometimes meant a child dying without mom or dad at their side, or an infant being taken for care by a grandma since the breastfeeding mother isn't permitted to go.

I would like to hope that Israel will ease restrictions in order to let Gazans in respiratory distress from COVID-19 get the help they can. But I don't think it's likely. I feel like the Gaza Strip has just been given a death sentence. I see you, Gaza. I'm sorry.

Struggling with Prayer

Prayer and faith are tricky issues for me these days. Admittedly prayer has been tricky for a very long time, maybe even since my dad got cancer when I was 17. But it's proving especially troublesome these days.

The people I'm around at church and in extended family pray so assuredly, so confidently, that many would say they're showing great faith. But how do they know the mind of God? And what happens when things don't turn out the way they've prayed? Even Jesus prayed, "Remove this cup from me if it's possible, but your will be done." And as we all know, the cup of suffering -- at least in terms of physical pain and death -- was not removed from him. He still was crucified.

So how come more of our prayers aren't worded likewise? Why don't folks admit that what they're asking for is what they want, and add that in their finite understanding, they think it's what God might want too but His will be done. And for that matter, I feel like Ike what I (and many others) should be praying perhaps more than anything is for grace to accept whatever God answers and discernment to know the difference between a roadblock and a "no."

The prayers of my church are so forceful as they pray especially for physical healing, and sometimes I can hardly stand to listen. It's not that I disbelieve in miraculous or medicinal healing. But what of all the ailments that remain? What of the deaths due to cancer?

Additionally the prayers of family are often just as forceful but regarding things like direction and next steps. Again, what of the "closed doors"? Or even the open doors that end up causing so much pain and dysfunction? Must we step through a door simply because it's open and we prayed that it be so?

When I see someone crying out, weeping real tears, because things didn't go the way they trusted they would, prayed in great confidence they would, I have to question how we're going about this business of prayer. And in the meantime, I admit it: it's hard for me to pray with others.