COVID Transitions

On a warm June evening in 2012, Larry and I were treated to a fun-filled evening to celebrate our retirement. Children (and a few children at heart) splashed in RJ’s Spraypark, while the music of the Kroc Center Big Band serenaded those in attendance. While not quite the traditional Salvation Army send-off, it was perfect for us, as we greeted people from all walks of life, symbolic of our many years in ministry. 

 

In the last year, we’ve experienced countless losses due to the COVID-19 pandemic. We’ve lost cherished people to the ravages of the virus, and to other causes as well. Some of us have lost our professions or had work hours curtailed, while others struggle to keep small businesses and homes. The losses are cumulative, and it’s difficult not to be overwhelmed by their presence in our lives.

 

Among these losses are the rituals that mark the passages of family, career, and time. How often do we read an obituary that either speaks of a private family service or a memorial service to be held in the future, when it can be done safely? Wedding planners wrestle with how to crunch a planned celebration for two hundred into a ten person limited gathering. We’re heading towards a graduation season when it still may not be safe to toss a thousand caps into the air together. Our rituals, as we’ve known them, have been stripped away.

 

There’s been the same loss of ritual as people of a certain age face the prospect of retirement. For some retirees, life changes dramatically, moving to warmer climates, greener pastures, or more expansive golf courses. Others rev up the motorhome and hit the road, ready to see the Grand Canyon in person before they’re too old to make the trip. Many other retirees settle close to children, or simply stay where they’ve lived for the last forty years, with plans to relax, complete the honey-do list for the week, and join up with the ROMEO’s – Retired Old Men Eating Out. 

 

But the retirement recognition, the open house, or the gold watch presentation doesn’t happen like it used to. Our co-workers are here one day and gone the next, heading to Florida or Arizona without a proper farewell, or simply remaining home on Monday morning while co-workers head to the factory floor or the hardware store or stumble into their makeshift home office. There’s an empty chair at the lunchroom table or a vacant spot on the Hollywood Squares meet-up – oops, I mean the Zoom call. 

 

As I read the January newsletter from the Mental Health and Recovery Board of Ashland County, I realized that one of Ashland’s long-time public servants has retired. I knew Steve Stone was finishing up his time of leadership; by now, he’s been living a life of leisure for a month. I may be “a day late and a dollar short,” as my dad used to say, but it’s never too late to extend thanks for the influence Steve has had upon the community. He’s been quite the encourager to so many people in Ashland County and throughout the state of Ohio – including me. His work on suicide awareness and prevention and a trauma-informed approach to mental health services has literally saved lives, and enriched the lives of many more. Thank you, Steve.

 

Transitions of any kind in the middle of a pandemic bring both challenges and opportunities, as we must let go of rituals we hold dear and discover new ways to mark the passages of life. For me, that often comes through words. So today, especially for Steve Stone but also for so many others experiencing the transition of retirement, know that your work and your presence has been received with much appreciation. These words of blessing from John O’Donohue, an Irish writer and mystic, are extended to you from a gracious community: “Have the courage for a new approach to time; Allow it to slow until you find freedom to draw alongside the mystery you hold and befriend your own beauty of soul . . . to awaken the depths beyond your work . . .” Grace and peace be yours in abundance.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Made for You and Me

January 20, 2021. Inauguration Day in Washington, D.C., with the backdrop of the Capitol, ravaged only two weeks earlier. The day’s plans were made under strict COVID-19 protocols and expanded security concerns, exchanging the crowds of people who flock to the District for a sea of flags on the mall. It’s traditionally a day of pomp and ceremony, signifying to the world that the United States is able to fulfill its commitment to a post-election peaceful transfer of power. 

 

For the people-watchers among us, the glittering black-tie balls offer a glimpse of glamour as we wait to see what the first lady will wear to the biggest dance of her life. Edith Wilson wore black velvet, with an eight-foot sequined train. Mamie Eisenhower danced in pink, with two thousand sparkling rhinestones. Rosalynn Carter wore chiffon, and caught some flack because she wore the same gown for her husband’s gubernatorial inauguration six years earlier. Nancy Reagan and Michelle Obama went with one-shoulder dresses for their first inaugural balls, while Melania Trump chose an off-the-shoulder ensemble for the 2017 ball. 

 

This year, the balls were cancelled, and the closest we came to eveningwear was the glorious red skirt with the accompanying dove of peace, worn by Lady Gaga as she sang The Star Spangled Banner. Otherwise, we had to be content with smiling at Senator Sander’s mittens, or comparing the dresses of the first lady, Dr. Jill Biden, former first ladies Hillary Clinton, Laura Bush and Michelle Obama, who won style points with her gold belt, and Vice President Kamala Harris, stunning in purple. 

 

Twitter was awash with comments as to why the new Veep chose purple. It’s a favorite color of mine, but I doubt she thought of Jenny Joseph’s poem, “Warning,” that begins with this classic line: “When I am an old woman I shall wear purple, with a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me . . . and learn to spit!” 

 

Some thought it was because purple historically spoke of royalty, or to honor Shirley Chisholm. Perhaps it was a nod to the suffragettes, generally known to wear white, but also known as the “color of loyalty, constancy to purpose, unswerving steadfastness to a cause,” as the National Woman’s Party of the U.S. wrote in 1913. Or, as former Secretary of State Clinton noted, she saw the purple of her own pant suit as a combination of red and blue, a symbol of unity, the theme of President Biden’s inaugural remarks. 

 

What a quintet of women, each with her own giftedness that far overshadows the color of her inauguration ensemble. Yet it was America’s Youth Poet Laureate, Amanda Gorman, clothed in brilliant yellow. who captured the attention of a nation this week. Not because of her yellow coat or red hat, but because of the words the twenty-two year old spoke so prophetically to her country. Phrases from “The Hill We Climb” are springing up as internet memes, powerful in their sound-bite nature, but it’s so worth watching her performance in its entirety, available at your favorite on-line site. 

 

She began, “When day comes we ask ourselves, where can we find light in this never-ending shade? The loss we carry, a sea we must wade.” Her final words answer her opening question: “We will rebuild, reconcile, and recover in every known nook of our nation in every corner called our country our people diverse and beautiful will emerge battered and beautiful, when the day comes we step out of the shade aflame and unafraid, the new dawn blooms as we free it, for there is always light if only we’re brave enough to see it, if only we’re brave enough to be it.” 

 

Her grandmother Vill Harmon said, “Such a proud day. Our family – from slavery to the podium of a Presidential Inauguration,” one of many profound takeaways from Inauguration Day 2021. Say it loud. We still live in a land of possibility. A boy with a stutter from Scranton, PA. A girl with brown skin, Indian and Jamaican blood. A skinny black girl, descended from slaves. Indeed, this land was made for you and me.

Tracing the Scar

As I packed away the Christmas decorations for another year, I reached for the beautiful Spode platter, a gift from our realtor when we moved into our new home three years ago. It hadn’t left its box this year, as there was no open house, no holiday brunch, no raucous party to celebrate in this subdued COVID-Christmas season. But there it was, a reminder of Mary, the woman who helped Greg and Lauren and Dan and Becky fall in love with their new homes, and then guided us to our Northridge Street home as well. What precious memories. On Christmas Eve, COVID-19 robbed Mary of breath and life. 

 

Three days later, another friend suffered a similar loss to the same demon, as her father died from COVID-19 complications. On that same day, the death of another Facebook friend. Same thief of life.

 

In the first week of January, death came again. Same M.O., as COVID-19 denied another of breath and life. A sorrowful young friend attempted to find the right words, expressing the loss felt by the Ashland community. “My heart is heavy for you, Ed. This seems unreal . . . I am so blessed to have known you and had your immense amount of support . . . I’ll forever be grateful . . .” 

 

This past week, we reached the benchmark of 4000 virus-related deaths in one day in our country. Again and again, the question pops up on Facebook: do you know anyone who has died from COVID-19? And the answers pour out: “Yes. Yes. Too many. Lord have mercy.” 

 

Most have died alone, their bodies buried with only a handful of people keeping vigil. Families grieve alone, as many of the traditional ways of mourning the death of those we love, respect and miss terribly have been off-limits or limited, masked and distanced. The stories of Mary’s modeling career or Ed’s support to AHS athletes have been banished to social media, with no post-funeral luncheons where we literally laugh and cry in the same breath.

 

These are tumultuous days. I write with a Thursday morning deadline, and recognize much can change between now and next Tuesday, when a national lighting ceremony is planned at the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool to honor those killed by the coronavirus. It’s part of the scheduled events surrounding the inauguration of Joseph R. Biden, Jr., a man well-acquainted with grief, having lost his wife and little girl to a tragic accident many years ago, and a beloved son to a fierce battle with cancer in 2015. 

 

The biblical concept for a response to deep grief is lament. Ann Voskamp describes the depth of feeling: “It’s okay to let the tears come, to weep over all this pain, all this love, all this beauty, all this brokenness and the hard roads that we somehow find ourselves walking, forcing one step in front of the other. It’s okay to let someone trace the scar down the middle of you and to touch your holy brave and bear witness that your fight is hard and sacred.”  

 

As a country, we’ve “traced the scar” before. We trace the scar as we walk the silent battlegrounds of Gettysburg, visit Pearl Harbor, cross a bridge on a civil rights pilgrimage, or touch the names on the Vietnam memorial. Now, this national lighting ceremony welcomes us to trace the scars beginning to form from this insidious virus, inviting communities around the nation to illuminate buildings and ring church bells at 5:30 p.m. on the 19^th. I’ll place luminaries along our driveway, as I sit within the glow of a flickering candle, grieving the losses of this time. 

 

Anne Lamott offers another image. Those we’ve lost “live forever in your broken heart that doesn’t seal back up. And you come through. It’s like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly – that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with a limp.” Our bones of loss and grief still await their imperfect healing, but in the waiting, might we seek light, share stories, and listen for the music that will call us to dance once again. Blessed are they that mourn . . .

Better Off?

In response to a social media post that spoke to the struggles of 2020, one comment read something like this: “The stock market is doing great, and because of the stimulus checks, we have an additional $1200 in our savings account this week. Life seems pretty good to me.”

 

As I read those words, I thought, he does have a point. In addition, the Ohio State Buckeyes are playing for a national championship. Both the Buffalo Bills and the Cleveland Browns are in the NFL playoffs for the first time in forever. We’ve had a mild winter so far, and were treated to a white Christmas. Writing in the soft light of the Christmas tree on the first Tuesday morning in January, I’m breathing in the goodness of life. So, beyond the Brown’s coaches being out with COVID and a mob scene at the U.S. capitol, why my unease?

 

When considering the effectiveness of political leadership and the ensuing economic conditions, often the measuring stick used by individuals, even if unspoken, is this: Am I better off than I was a year ago? According to Carmen Ang in the Visual Capitalist, between the stock market’s bottom in March and December 2020, a group of U.S. billionaires can answer yes to that question, growing their wealth by 57% on average – 57% 0f a billion dollars is . . . Since Larry and I saved money on eating out, going to the movies, and vacationing this past year, we could say we’re a bit ‘better off’ than we were a year ago too – that is, if we define ‘better off’ simply in terms of our personal financial stability. 

 

Yet as I reflect on my personal values, I realize that “am I better off?’ is not the question I want to measure my life by. Instead, I must ask, are the most vulnerable among us ‘better off’? 

 

Consider the life of Abdo Sayid, the four-year-old boy Nicholas Kristof wrote about this past week. When brought to the hospital in Aden, Yemen, Abdo weighed fourteen pounds. He wasn’t crying. “That’s because children who are starving don’t cry or even frown. Instead, they are eerily calm; they appear apathetic, often expressionless. A body that is starving doesn’t waste energy on tears.” Within days, the emaciated boy died of starvation. Famine, nearly eradicated within the last few years, has returned.

 

In years past, such a painful image has led to a worldwide humanitarian response. But in today’s COVID-infected world, an overwhelming sense of compassion fatigue has set upon us, and I see that descending into my own life. For almost a year, we’ve been urged to limit our interactions with other people, and we’ve (mostly) been compliant with that counsel. But what this has done for me is to draw my circle into a tight knot, and if something doesn’t impact “me and mine,” the twinge of compassion I still feel may no longer lead to action on my part. 

 

That’s when I most need the reminder of community, the component of life that COVID has stripped from us. This week, I needed to hear the witness of Cori Bush, Missouri’s newest congressional representative. “I’m a nurse, pastor, single mom, and Ferguson-made activist . . . I’ve survived sexual assault, police abuse, domestic violence, and being unhoused and uninsured. That’s not a unique pain I carry. It’s one that many of us live with each day. Today I take my seat in Congress to fight for a world where nobody has to endure that pain.”

 

Writing in the Washington Post, Monica Hesse expresses it well: “Empathy is a muscle. It would do all of us good to strengthen it . . .  and that means not just reflecting on our experiences but exercising  our imaginations . . . The goal is not to walk a mile in someone else’s shoes; the goal is to recognize that someone else’s shoes may never fit you and yet they still deserve to be warm and dry.” Even in our pandemic-induced disconnection from each other, let’s not let the pull toward self-preservation, as human as that is, overpower our compassion toward each other, near or far. 

It's (finally) 2021

As a young girl, I was a voracious newspaper reader, and my interest in Ann Landers’ columns became a topic of discussion between my mom and my second grade teacher at parent/teacher conference. I’ve often wondered what I was telling my classmates. 

 

I especially enjoyed the end of year summaries featured between Christmas and New Year’s Day, counting down the top ten stories of the year. The local list in the Tonawanda News generally included a murder, a fire, a change at a large employer in our community, and the success (or lack thereof) of the Buffalo Bills. These local stories were balanced by a top ten collection of racial struggles, political change, disaster, war, crime, and death from around the world. Shuffle the stories around, change the details, and it was often difficult to tell which year was being reported on.  

 

Not so in 2020. Hindsight may be 2020, as we’ve been reminded in these last few weeks, but the top news items of this epochal, or should I say epic year, have overflowed any ‘normal’ container that provided parameters in the past. As a first example, racial tensions have been present in the U.S. for decades, and my third grade scrapbook still reminds me of the unrest of the civil rights movement of the 60s. Over the past decade we’ve been shaken by what’s happened to Tamir Rice as he played with a toy gun in a Cleveland park, Michael Brown as he walked with a friend in Ferguson, Missouri, and Botham Jean, eating ice cream on the couch in his apartment, but a knee to the neck of George Floyd became a clarion call to action in 2020 that has rocked our country in a new way.

 

We’ve also experienced political change as a result of close and/or contentious elections in the past. Both JFK in 1960 and Nixon in 1968 won by less than 1% of the popular vote. George W. Bush took the presidency in 2000 even though he lost the popular vote by half a million ballots, while Hillary Clinton exceeded her opponent’s tally of the popular vote by 2,868,286 ballots but still lost the electoral college tabulation in 2016. But in modern history, we’ve never come to January 1 without a concession by the loser of the presidential election, not when the margin was a slim thread or in excess of seven million votes. 

 

Racial unrest. Check. Political change. Check. Natural disasters, war, crime – we’ve had that too, in bits and pieces around the world. But in my lifetime, I cannot remember a year when death has been so present in our communities, our social circles, our news sources and our world. Yes, body bags were returned from the rice paddies of Viet Nam (58,320 Americans over twenty years), the Legionnaires’ disease of 1976 captured the country’s attention (34 dead), Ebola brought 11,325 deaths worldwide from 2013-16, and we sorrowfully bid farewell to 2,977 people after the attack of 9-11. Now, as I write in the fading hours of 2020, 1,810,610 people have died from COVID-19 across the world, with 8855 deaths here in Ohio.  

 

The wise writer of Ecclesiastes (1:9) tells us, “What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun.” While I recognize the writer’s intent, the year 2020 has given this wisdom a true testing. What’s next – murder hornets?

 

I’ve never looked forward to a new year as much as I have in these last few weeks of 2020. The date of January 1 holds no magical power, but the symbolism of a new year is bringing a collective sigh of relief to a weary world. We’re not done with racial or political challenges, and that nasty corona virus isn’t done with us either. Yet Nick Frederickson gives us a framework: “I close my eyes to old ends. And open my heart to new beginnings.” It’s (finally) 2021. I’m closing my eyes to the despair of helplessness, taking deep breaths through my mask, and opening my heart to the rhythm of reconciliation. What will you close – and open?