I found myself here at the cemetery, my first out-of-the-car field trip since the mandate to stay at home. 

I figured I couldn’t expose or be exposed here of all places. To my surprise, our section was overly populated with a sweet family clad in matching orange t-shirts, celebrating what would have been their child’s fourth birthday on this Saturday before Easter. Another life cut incredibly short. 

As the last car drove off, I left my own to go about my task of spring cleaning Rob’s grave. I usually reserve this for this quiet Saturday. It reminds me of the helpers, the women, anxiously waiting to tend to their final preparation of their Master’s body. 

Our cemetery is a beautiful place to rest and wait.  Wait for the grief to soften, wait for the glimmer of hope to return.

The whole world awaits hope this year. With bated breath, we watch for the death count to retreat, for a glimpse of normalcy. We remain in our homes, our waiting places. 

How long, Lord? How long shall we wait?

 I wonder what the women asked on that still Saturday? Did any of them hold out for hope? Did they even remember the things Jesus had told them?

Saturday hope is a lot harder than Sunday Hope. 

There’s no doubt found at this resting place, not on December 4th, today, or in the hard weeks to come. This is a temporary place to remember and honor a beautiful life, but make no mistake, Sunday Hope is written all over this grave. 

Bones may rest, but this man knew where his hope was found...and so does his woman. 

Rob’s name may be etched here, but his heart will not be found in any grave because of Sunday Resurrection Hope. 

Almost a month into this physical distancing and I crave a hug. Not virtual, not paper, but a real live physical human hug! Being the realist that I am, I suspect I will remain hugless for some time. 

Touch starvation is a real menace, producing anxiety and depression, lowering immune systems, potentially stunting bonding and development in small babies. Just ask any NICU or geriatric nurse. 

When I first entered nursing, I worked the night shift. Often, when a patient struggled with sleep, I offered a back or foot rub. Best medicine ever.

 During post Harvey, hugs were plentiful and life giving. I remember Jerry and William’s the most; they shouted, “It’s going to be alright.” We know that’s simply impossible with this virus, but I think for many of us, that is the missing link.

Recently, I ordered badly needed shower gel online and I discovered I could still request  a retired fragrance I used on my hospice clients. I would carry  individual samples and after seeing how most patients responded to its homey fragrance,  families were delighted to run out to purchase it for their loved ones. I spent hours gently massaging edematous feet and would witness a peace wash over my patients. Many would offer deep conversation, others would weep and the most sick would breathe a little easier.  

My bottles arrived today on my worst day so far. A friend had just shared a beautiful worship song so this touch starved captive of her own home, plopped down on the floor, poured out way too much creamy brown sugar and fig, and massaged her own neglected feet as she listened to a beautiful reminder of a good God. A big ol’ wonderful foot and soul hug.  No, not a 20 second hug like one of my friends always gives me, but a self hug, the best I can do right now. 

I’ve neglected self care; I’m not very good at it. 
(Probably the nurse in me.). But I am realizing how much we all need to carve out some time for “me care” during this upheaval.

The washing of feet is not lost on me today:  Mary pouring out her costly perfume on her Master, Jesus humbly washing his disciples’ weathered feet, His charge to love and serve one another.  One day we’ll open our homes again and do a lot of hugging, I hope. For now, our ways to care for ourselves and each other are a bit subdued, somewhat unorthodox, but that’s okay too.