Enemy of our soul, you don’t have the last voice. 

Day 76 of solitary lockdown...
The country’s gone mad. Briefly overshadowing the pandemic, injustice lays wide open, pain spills from protesters, and anarchists try to silence necessary voices with wanton violence. 
Oh, and a space rocket successfully launches from U.S. soil, a historic event that momentarily unites us. 
Maybe I don’t really want to re-emerge. 
Meanwhile, I’ve made peace with leaving my career and have officially resigned from a ministry limping on life support, not exactly a giant leap for mankind, but pretty big and courageous steps for me. 
So in the lonely hours, I finish a couple of courses to keep my license for volunteer work. (I suppose I’m not so brave; I’ve yet to entirely let go.)  I’m whittling down my tower of meant to read books and revisiting some old vinyls, the best friends I have in my present confinement. I miss glancing up from my page to share an interesting quote or sharing a memory evoked by the music, and mostly, debating the hard stuff of humanity.  If I could just remember there’s no one on the receiving end. 
I keep asking, Lord, how long?
I, too, may go mad. 

Week 10

I’m emerging from my loneliest week of this global lockdown...dark, empty days which almost strangled my soul. Truth be told, last week was not much different than most of the last seven years of singular living, but the inability to anesthetize this loneliness with external activity sheds an imposing spotlight on it. 
Anesthetic. Is that what I want when my world reopens? I don’t have a plan, but the present lack of a meaningful social structure is not an option going forward. This is not an indictment on current friendships; it’s a need to address my lack of social interaction: weekend dinners, church connections, travel mates. (Yes, travel will return.)
I know there are others in the same lane; I’ve heard the conversation. This serves as a launchpad for discussion of another pandemic. 

I needed human interaction on this pandemic Mother’s Day, not just a drive-by wave as in weeks past, but time to watch my grands run around the yard without fear of abusing the 6 feet rule. 
It took a lot of preparation and creativity, but we managed a fun outing. I convinced the littles that we were playing dress up with masks, homemade face shields and my nursing PPE. Peekaboo with my headgear made Chloe laugh and feel comfortable with this new version of her Gigi. But it was surreal.

This morning,  I’m staring down my last necessary continuing education courses to renew my professional license. Why follow through?  Is this another dead end, another loss? Will I ever be able to practice again or volunteer with a medical ministry? I want so much to head for the front line, yet, I’m stuck in the reality of vulnerability. I no longer don my armor to heal; my equipment now monitors my own malady, not the vitals of my patients.

Am I permanently sidelined?

 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