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 . . .