View from the Prairie Box

Any discussion of Covid-19 must begin with this: in the United States over 600,000 individuals have died due to this coronavirus outbreak. By any stretch of the imagination, even with faulty numbers and misattributed deaths, the devastation of this virus is far-reaching and heart-breaking. For many people this conversation involves great loss and grief. My heart goes out to these people.

My life, while looking like a game of Fruit Basket Upset, was less touched by death than I had imagined in March 2020. I remember telling Livia that people we loved would die from this pandemic, and largely this was not accurate, thank goodness. Still, we were a hairsbreadth away from tragedies. A grandpa of our nephew succumbed to Covid, and we certainly experienced our share of heartache throughout the 15 months of pandemic distancing. We grieved the deaths of a husband and church brother, the wife of a pastor friend, a groomsman from our wedding, and most of all our cousin Paula who is vibrantly alive in our hearts still. 

How long will it take to process what happened between March 2020 and the days we declared ourselves fully vaccinated and thus emerged from our cocoon of relative safety? I don’t know. There are the pat answers we give to others we greet in the pews at church and in chatting on our front sidewalks, and then there are the deeper explorations of the heart that I fear will be lost amongst the busy-ness of life unless I record them here. This is my attempt to start working through the pandemic—the good, the bad, and the confusing of it all—and today I’ll start with The Good as I’m beginning to process it.

THE GOOD

It’s only in hindsight that I’m starting to recognize the good that came from a 15-month hiatus from life as we knew it. 

I like life. I like productivity. I like people a lot. I like to leave my house, experience things, then come back to home base. And ALL of that changed due to Covid. When I write about the Bad of it all, I’ll cover my initial shock at the loss of status quo. For now I’ll state that it was a fast and hard departure to life as I knew it and I was extremely uncomfortable at first. What does that kind of disruption do to an extrovert? Well, 15 months later I can tell you that it was a gift. And I believe it’s a once-in-a-lifetime gift. It’s certainly a gift I never would have sought or taken on my own. Seriously, 15 months at home? No traveling. No gatherings in our home. No opportunities for me to go sit in others’ living rooms. No church! Church has been the center of our weekly existences throughout our adult lives (and mine as a child) and then… nada. Nothing. No greetings in foyers and shared worship, study, meals with friends. It all came to a halt. And it was absolutely a gift in terms of the bigger picture.

The bigger picture is that Covid-19 allowed me to detach from familiarity and then sink into the four walls of our home with my man, my girl, and my dog. That was it. 

I took a year long sabbatical from my deaconess position at church.

Livia detached from Lincoln Public Schools for a year of being homeschooled by her mama.

Jeremy detached from meeting in person and conducted all group activities by Zoom. (He has long worked from home, so his Covid experience was not drastically different from normal life.)

We settled in. I settled down.

I learned to be quieter, to think my own thoughts, to read perspectives outside my usual circles, to seek counsel from previously untapped resources, and to delight in nurturing only the souls in this home. Around 4pm everyday I would have a simple decision to make: do I want to read a book or start something creative for dinner? I wasn’t entangled more than that. I lived. I slept to deal with stress and I didn’t scold myself for it. I made massive amounts of coffee and realized how superior it is to Diet Mountain Dew. I stood over the hot stovetop and stirred onions and carrots in olive oil while listening to whatever podcast sounded good in the moment. Beyond educating my kid, I had few tethers for the first time in my life. I was forced to untether.

Untethering felt terrifying at first and then it was the deep breath that I didn’t know I needed. If you were on the receiving end of more RT silence, this might explain it. Amidst the swirling news of a world gone mad—global illness, economic ruin, continued and rampant racism, political insanity, online cruelty, formally responsible people becoming conspiracy theorists—I had room to silence the voices when they got too loud, and then turn them on again when my soul could bear it once more. I found space to study the book of Luke with my 16 year old, a real rarity for any mom of a teen. Jeremy and I figured out how to still claim our evening date times where we’d get some time to watch tv and eat snacks together. We surprised ourselves that, despite being home all the time together, there was still quite a lot to talk about and even times where we’d forget to discuss something of note. We fell more deeply in love and were forced to breathe deeply and exude kindness even when the walls closed in a bit too much. 

One of the biggest gifts of the past 15 months was the opportunity to embrace who God made me. And the trickle-down effect was that I began to embrace my daughter as well. Being *specific* humans has always been a little hard for me. I can admit that I would like to be everything to everyone. As an enneagram 2 and ESFJ (I promise I won’t dive too deeply into these descriptions!), I really like people. Along with all that liking comes a desire to try to make “them” like me back, and after 43 years it was incredibly healthy to silence “them” for awhile. I’ve written and spoken quite a bit about identity. I’ve studied it and wrestled with it, and right now I’m thanking God for the insights he’s granted me over the past year—and even in the past week. He delights in me. The God of the universe, who created rainbows and the Grand Canyon and the craziest little insects that thrive in the Amazon rainforest delights in me, too. And Jeremy. And Livia. And I’m learning to delight in us as well. I was made with limited abilities. Limited superpowers and limited sins, too, and I’m beginning to embrace that! Even better, I’m beginning to embrace who God has made my daughter to be. Our story is big and winding—much like everyone else’s I imagine. But at the end of the day, we are each one person with one person’s gifting and limitations—and that’s a beautiful thing. We are creatures, created by a really creative Father God. And if I miss that reality then I will always be longing to be someone else. Our Covid break has given me room to value myself and my daughter, with all the beauty God purposefully placed inside us.

Just as there was good in taking a huge breather from life as we knew it, there is also good in re-joining community on this side of [beautiful, life-giving, life-altering] vaccinations. (THANK YOU, SCIENTISTS. I can’t say that thank-you enough.) Our church takes communion each week and we were not involved in that AT ALL during our time at home. It was really hard to not have that physical reminder of the body and blood of Christ each week. I could write at length about the ways I’ve experienced communion, but now is not the time. Suffice to say we felt very cut-off even though we worshipped weekly from our basement couches. The past two weeks that we’ve worshipped in community again have been fascinating. It’s been entirely overwhelming, but there’s one piece that consistently has been the best kind of overwhelming and it is hearing voices sing behind me in congregational worship. There’s nothing like it. Absolutely nothing like it. I let the voices wash over me and it reminds me that when we sing praise, laments, songs of worship, we join with an eternal throng of worshippers. The angels in heaven, the saints of the past and the church of the future, all join in this worship of God. Our little congregation at 9th & Charleston is a small bit of the glory we’ll experience in heaven one day and I. have. missed. it. I don’t want to ever miss it again. I hope to soak it up every Sunday that I am able to!

The good of re-entry also comes in the form of food and drink in restaurants. A margarita and a plate of tacos has never tasted so good. A few weeks ago I had the chance to escape to Nebraska City for the weekend and I ordered room service by myself, an extravagance for sure. And you know what wasn’t special? Eating the amazing food on my hotel room bed while watching a (not very good) HGTV program. It was all the proof I needed that magic lives in dining areas that are perfectly lit, with sangria poured into a glass by a waiter’s hand, with food piping hot from the chef’s kitchen, with the murmur of other happy patrons around you. That’s extravagance. I’ve eaten all the take-out I wanted to during Covid. Now is the time for dining with friends again. Again, thank you, scientists, for this vaccine! Now let’s eat. 

In high school I helped a classmate perform a monologue about a mother grieving her infant at the child’s gravesite. I can’t remember whether I was a teacher’s assistant for this class or if I was taking it for credit myself, but what I do recall is that instinctively I knew what that mother would feel like. I confidently coached my friend in ways she could improve her monologue because I *felt* the mother’s pain. Was I was a mother who had lost her baby? No! Far from it. But there’s always been this nugget inside me that intuits what others are feelings and feels deeply with them.

I’m going to blame this level of empathy on why I dislike visiting the the ObGyn’s office. 

I am now a grown up with health insurance, a mortgage, a favorite Valvoline, and a much better understanding of what it feels like to lose a little one. And at this point of my life I am well aware of this empathetic soul that I lug around that sometimes makes being around people in pain almost excruciating. I have a hard time turning it off. Empathy is a gift that I cannot wait to hand back to the Lord someday in glory, saying, “Thank you. I’m done with this. It was the weightiest of gifts.”

Walking in the door of the ObGyn’s office is never a simple task for someone who has dealt with infertility and miscarriage. Nope, a thousand different memories flood my senses when I enter the doors and wait for the receptionist to ask for my insurance card. My practitioner has switched offices—and while I’m thankful to never be trapped in that 1970’s era waiting room without windows again, the muscle memory is enough to overwhelm me. I remember every ultrasound, every blood draw, every visit filled with hope, fear, grief, and even mundane moments. It’s all there, but not only is it a space for my memories, it’s a space where other women are walking through their own tales. And I find that mix of stories both compelling and challenging.

I wish there were separate buildings for pregnant and non-pregnant women. Separate waiting rooms perhaps. But I know that wouldn’t solve the problem because some women are pregnant happily while plenty of others are not. There’s the gal who just received a trisomy 13 diagnosis and she looks around marveling that anyone else could be joyfully pregnant right now. There’s the other woman who has no idea how she is going to pay for diapers for this latest “blessing.” There’s the client lying that she has insurance but just forgot the card, who is desperately trying to figure out how she will make ends meet next month, but that’s next month’s problem. And surely there are a thousand different women between utterly joyful and in the worst of spots, many of whom are just running in for a quick checkup on their baby—which truly never is quick—before carrying out other tasks in their days. 

Aside from the obviously pregnant women, the waiting room is filled with everyone else, from 16 year olds who are dealing with pain to octogenarians who are paying someone to check out parts they not only cannot see but also cannot diagnose as healthy or unhealthy. Women. We come in all stripes and all colors and while getting a gynecological exam is the farthest thing from “fun” it is quite necessary to stay well. Mingled in with the baby bumps are women experiencing hot flashes (note: they’re probably carrying their coats), women who’ve found a lump, women who feel 100% fine but aren’t, and women who feel 100% sure they’re not fine but they actually are. 

All stories are found in this cold sterile space.

The nervous laughter while getting a blood draw meets up with stony silence in the hallway where another walks in nervously for a breast exam.

The mother relieved to see her little one via ultrasound lays on the table where another mother was just informed that no heartbeat can be found.

Within these walls there is death and there is life, and there is every shade of existence in between. 

A run into the ObGyn’s office is never ever a clearcut thing for someone like me, someone with the heavy gift of empathy.

This morning I was thinking about mercy meals. For those of you unfamiliar with that terminology, it just means meals provided by someone else while you’re mourning or ill or recovering from having a baby. It’s merciful to give them and a mercy to receive them when you’ve got a lot going on—and our church tradition is pretty consistently wonderful at caring for one another with mercy meals.

After life changed some eleven months ago due to Covid 19 showing up in the United States, I couldn’t see how mercy meals would continue. And that was hard as we had loved ones in our church body welcoming new babies, mourning deaths, and dealing with cancer. They needed to be fed, but we were in a position of not knowing how this coronavirus was being transmitted. I think about the several emails I shot off to a doctor friend (and fellow church member) in order to establish good mercy ministry policies in this new era. 

It wasn’t just the church struggling to figure things out. Schools closed completely. Our public library shut their doors and allowed patrons to hang onto their checked out books for months. Videos came out about how to wipe down your groceries. We were leaving packages untouched for three days to let the viral load lessen in case it was on the cardboard boxes. I wasn’t comfortable with dropping off a mercy meal with a side of coronavirus. I remember asking for church members to donate money for a grocery gift card thereby skipping the exchange of viruses along with lasagnas and burritos. But even then it was a poor substitute for showing up at a church member’s door and handing over a 9×13 pan that spoke of love and concern, that spoke of mercy.

It was a really weird, harrowing, uncertain time. 

We all adjusted when we learned that we could exchange items without great fear of virus transfer.

We quit wiping down groceries (thank goodness because that was an extensive process). The library opened up—though they still quarantine books for three days—and yesterday I learned I could stay in the library for up to two hours. We now take our delivered boxes into the house immediately, though I am mindful to wash my hands after handling mail. And we deliver mercy meals to church members’ houses again.

The act of feeding someone is the most basic and helpful act of all, I believe, as everyone needs to eat. When we’ve been through a rough time, delegating the task of finding food to a friend or family member has kept us afloat. I’m so so glad that, in this still very strange time, we can now walk up to someone’s door and hand over a bunch of hamburgers or a rotisserie chicken to keep them going for another day. A face is a wonderful thing to see, however briefly, when you’re going through a hardship. Being loved, knowing others are willing to sustain your family, is priceless.

I’d say that Covid has robbed many of us of many things. But one thing the darkness brings with it? The contrasting gorgeousness of light. Even a teeny tiny bit of goodness shines in the darkest of days. For that I am grateful.

This morning I reached for the glass with the embossed emblem on it and smiled at its origin: Bubba Gump Shrimp Co at Universal Studios. Never has a simple glass—free with a specific meal that night—been so lovingly cared for as this one when we wrapped it in our clothes and hauled it back to Nebraska in our suitcases. It’s classier than it has any right to be, coming from this franchise of shrimp-y deliciousness. I laugh now remembering how Liv declared the restaurant’s shrimp the best in the world, this just a day or two after eating what was truly the best shrimp—fresh and incredible—off the Gulf Coast near Indian Rocks Beach. The seafood there! Oh. my. goodness. It was amazing. I can remember every meal I’ve had near the coast where I ate fresh seafood and I dream about it later (Port Townsend, Dungeness, San Francisco, Panama City Beach, St. Simon’s Island, and yes, the small towns just west of Tampa Bay). Bubba Gump Shrimp Co was—and is—a fun franchise, but it’s not the best. And that’s okay because I hold those memories of Universal Studies close to my heart.

Universal is no slacker when it comes to marketing. The very presence of their ads sent to my inbox illuminates my soul on these cloudy midwestern winter days. I click on the link and open up a page to a new hotel they’re sharing with the world. I read about the amenities and how close this place is to parks and then I flip over to Trip Adviser to see what average joes have to say about their travels. Am I going to Orlando anytime soon? Probably not. But you never know when an opportunity will arise for two 40-something best friends from Nebraska to find themselves on a magical getaway. Do we talk about a moms trip to the Magic Kingdom? About leaving our children behind and experiencing the joy of it on our own? Yes and yes. Ha! 

The trip to Florida that Jeremy, Livia, and I embarked on three years ago still sings in my heart a bit. That Florida sunshine in the middle of February. Did it know that this was the land of my birth? That somehow my soul is infused with its golden rays and the smell of the ocean and the sounds of waves crashing on the beach? Perhaps. We had days and days of new adventures together. Even our airport jaunts—catching our connecting flight to Orlando from the Phoenix airport due to a massive storm that altered our flight route a bit—even that was more fun together. We ate in airport restaurants, taking our time and enjoying the meals because, like a turtle, we had everything we needed right there in that space. No one was left behind. We rented our car in the middle of the night, found our not-so-great motel in the middle of the night, crashed on its two crappy mattresses and slept like the dead in the middle of the night. I moved into Liv’s bed at a random hour, abandoning Jeremy’s side while he tossed and turned, surprising my kid with cuddles the next morning. We stuffed ourselves with what was inexplicably an amazing breakfast at a close-by Denny’s, all of us drinking coffee and feeling the freedom of a new day.

I think of our drive across Florida, at the marvel that anyone could find themselves living in a state so narrow that one could easily enjoy TWO oceans in one day. Who lives like this? Are they aware of the luxury of the sea at their disposal? Jeremy, in the driver’s seat, me with a plugged-in iPhone navigating, and Liv in the back munching on whatever gas station treats we picked up as soon our Denny’s-stuffed tummies allowed. And then the Gulf of Mexico as it appeared in front of us, the splendor of it that brought tears to my eyes. Liv was the first on the beach, and she, the granddaughter of Claudia the Island Girl, took to it as though she was born and raised in such a space. Her eyes never stopped scanning the sand, her hands never quit picking up shells and seaweed, her smile and greetings never failing to engage the older women on their beach walks as they meandered past her. Liv was in her element. 

So many moments of this trip still continue to bring me joy. From the leis in our Orlando hotel as we entered its doors to the water taxi that took us to the amusement park. From the first sighting of Hogwarts (aaaa!) to the flights on broomsticks and motorcycles. From the doors of the Hello Kitty store to the sweet French bakery with the chocolate croissants. From the air-conditioned Tonight Show waiting area (“ew, PUPPIES”) to the odd-yet-entertaining Shrek experience. From the fast passes that allowed us to take the short lines to the service that delivered our souvenirs straight back to our hotel room on property  which felt ridiculously bougie—and I had no problem at all being bougie for two seconds—to meeting King Kong and Spiderman in some wild rides. We had a blast. Our times of fun were not without trouble and discomfort. Our feet ached. That one lunch was nasty. We were pulled aside too many times and there’s that yet-unwritten complaint about how they handle people with disabilities (oh dear goodness was that surprising and exasperating). We learned our kid, so adventurous years before at Disneyland, really doesn’t like rides and we had to work through that. We figured out how to still enjoy rides solo. That early early early morning Uber drive to the airport with the guy and his really interesting music choices—he hadn’t been to bed yet and we were just starting our day, meeting in the middle. That overeager TSA agent who barked at my husband rudely and pissed me off. All that was part of the trip, too. And all of that became memories that our little family could tell, stories that we will re-tell with laughter in coming years. 

We are not a frequently-vacationing family. Two-thirds of us are happily, delightfully, contentedly hobbits and prefer to stay at home. They ENJOY home. I fancy myself a worldly adventurer and yet I, too, when flying away from my comfortable bed and full pantry wonder why I would ever leave. But these times where we’ve gotten away and enjoyed the travels together? They are priceless. And they are enough to still fill my spirit years later on a cloud-laden day in January in quiet Lincoln, Nebraska. 

Merry Christmas, friends!

It’s time to rest. The gifts were all wrapped and then opened. The food was made and then eaten. The stockings were hung and then stuffed and then dumped. And after that, the matching dog pjs were tried on. They fit. Shiloh and I laughed a lot (or at least, I laughed a lot), a picture was snapped—my first DPP of the month with my iPhone—and then… rest.

In the midst of a dark year, God’s light shines even brighter to us. The good and sweet and celebratory things are even better than they used to be. We’re finding comfort in simpler joys, I think, but the eternal comfort of God’s goodness in giving us Jesus is the real gift. It’s freely given, embraced at a deep soul level every single day. Emmanuel, God with us, amen.

After brunch on Christmas Eve.

The best recent addition to Christmas traditions in our home is, hands-down, the girlfriend stocking.

Maralee and I have been exchanging stockings for a few years. We picked up these bright and playful pink stockings from Target one year and decided to fill it up for each other. It’s always fun and special to see what we’ve picked out for one another.

This year my stocking is, apparently, overflowing and I’m having a hard time waiting until Christmas morning!

(Sidenote: I also bought some chocolate items to throw in my own stocking and guess what? Those treats didn’t survive 24 hours in my possession. I busted into them almost immediately. Good thing I’ve got a this pink stocking waiting for me.)

Goodnight, cupboards.
And goodnight, lights.
Goodnight, compost bin.
And goodnight, dishes bright.
Goodnight, orchids.
And goodnight sink.
Tomorrow is a new day,
When my dishwasher arrives at last.
Sweet dreams, kitchen.