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. 

Like many of you, I wish I was physically distancing on one of my favorite beaches on this Monday morning.  My usual walk includes grabbing a washed up piece of driftwood to carve in the sand.  
Each year, I begin with a beach retreat; I memorialize the new year with a guiding word, etched in the sand and my heart. This year in particular, I’ve added an extra word for this season: spur. 
I love that word, especially in the verb form; to urge, to encourage, to dig in your spur. 
Now, I’m no horsewoman, but I think gentle spurs are best used to reinforce cues for your horse to move forward.
So on this new week of pandemic loneliness, fear, uncertainty, I choose to spur...to dig in and gently encourage. My list of recipients grows; how about yours?

And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds. Hebrews 10:24

Tonight, I was bumped and oh boy, did I spill. What I normally would have received as an unfortunate glitch, I, instead, became unglued. Tears spilled everywhere and I just wanted to bury my head in my husband’s chest. A lot like 9/11 when Rob was stuck in the air, he’s not here to make all this better.
Social media, heck, media of any kind, has crippled me today.  What I thought would be helpful, because I’m a fact person, is just too suffocating. I’m weary of the “first worldness” and weak attempts to cover up and assert control over our fear.  I’ve lost my grace tonight and I dearly want to regain it. It’s time to unplug and run into the Father’s arms. I desperately need Him; I just wish I could literally feel Him. 

Who doesn’t love Vincent van Gogh’s paintings? I think everyone recognizes 

“The Starry Night” with it’s broad strokes. 

I bet you’ve never seen his work named Italian Woman. I love all the short strokes in her quilt and the painting’s border. 

Maybe you would like to pick up your colorful markers or crayons and make your own masterpiece. You could use short, thick strokes to make something completely different. 

Then, have Mom or Dad take a picture to send me. 

Hugs!  Everyone is an artist. 🎨

We are all in a waiting room

COVID-19...pandemic...social distancing...words
that were new to many of us just a few weeks ago. 
Some of us have found ourselves physically alone and a lot of parents are probably wishing they could trade places for even a few minutes. 
My head hurts with information overload; my body already aches for human touch and honestly, from underlying stress. 
We are in a waiting room, all of us! 
I’ve been here three other times in the past six years and I’m still standing. Actually, I’ve grown a little taller and a lot stronger. 
Yesterday, I allowed myself one day of paralysis. (Well, except for performing some surgery on my refrigerator.)
Today, Operation Waiting Room is in full motion. 

Breathe-inhale hope, exhale “what if.”
Pray-at all times, including when I wash my hands. I have posted lists above each faucet. 
Move-short breaks to walk, bike and dance off stress and anxiety.  
Music-something new, something old; turn up the volume, lower it to a whisper.  
Read-escape with a good book, sink my soul into the Word. 
Serve-erase the temptation to make this about me.  
Scratch-in the dark. Finding something meaningful in which I can pour my uneasy self.  I write when I cannot process uncertainty; my friend gardens. 

You will have your own arsenal, but have one!  
I want to write more about my list in separate posts, but I want to close with two thoughts. 
First, I sense a time of revival. People are talking with God more often, people are searching, Easter people are stepping up to this crisis. If we quiet our souls and listen, we’ll hear from Him. What a Lenten period. 
Secondly, I will allow only a few minutes a day for sulking. No more! When Rob and I received the fatal news of pancreatic cancer we allowed ourselves only one pity party a day. We realized we were given the gift of precious time; we used it to speak love and encouragement into one another. Best advice ever given us!