Month: June 2020

When Hope Is Gone

On By SimonneBradenLeave a comment

Back at the precipice of the pandemic, I was listening to a traditional conservative (re: not Trumpist) podcast that was talking about predictions for the future with COVID. “It’s going to get bad,” the guest said. “When this is all said and done, you will know someone who died from this or know someone who lost a loved one to it.” That stopped me in my tracks. What a bold statement to say out loud. Was this fear mongering? Or was this a dire warning?

Those words have been rolling around in my head for the past few months. My husband keeps saying things that sound absurd, but then they happen a few weeks later. “This winter is going to be a difficult one and the time to prepare is now,” he says every time the pandemic comes up in conversation. I’ll spare you the details of his predictions. I hope he’s wrong and it is nothing but the post-apocalyptic fiction he reads seeping into his stream of consciousness. But at the rate of infection, I don’t know.

I have zero faith about all of this. I’m so jealous of my loved ones who do.

If I could redo college, I would be an English major and never set foot in the medical field. Why? Because medical training takes away all your hope.

All of it.

Ignorance is bliss.

And I wish I had it.

If I didn’t know the theory behind my infertility, I’d have so much faith in God, so much hope. But because I know how they came to the conclusion, all hope was lost in a pathology report. I knew how the deck was stacked.

I’m envious of patients who believed they could cure cancer with herbal tea. I’m not God, I’m just the faceless entity compiling reports on the cellular level. The sad truth is lemon balm won’t fix it. I can’t share in their hope – but I certainly would if I wasn’t medically trained.

Miracles are not a default setting.

I’ve found the same to be true with COVID.

This virus doesn’t care about your personal convictions. Epidemiology doesn’t change because you’re bored with protocols. That is why it keeps spreading.

I wish I had the faith of my father – a retired engineer and pro-life Catholic – who’s currently on a 1200 mile bicycle ride, staying in a new town every night for a few weeks. He took a mask with him. He’s not worried. I expressed my concern and he turned off his hearing aids.

If only I had the intestinal fortitude of friends who don’t think twice about hanging out with other friends. It’s not that bad, they tell me. I’m making a mountain out of a molehill. They’re taking “precautions,” but none of those precautions include social distancing or masks. Meanwhile, I’m a broach away from becoming that cat lady.

I would love to have the carefree life of church folk here: pictures of my pastor hanging out with other clergy without social distancing or masks. Friends who would gather to worship in South Carolina when churches were “closed” here. Many friends still attend church events. My heart aches.

I’m jealous my Chicagoian sister goes out to brunch with her friends. Never mind she is a medical provider with known COVID patients. I know better than to call her out. She should know better.

I’m envious of a friend’s mom on social media, who believes COVID is nothing but a democratic tool (she has websites and proof, y’all) and that Mr. Trump’s God-breathed leadership has basically defeated it. She doesn’t need a mask, she is a free American Christian. I admire her dedication. I admire her faith in a man who spent his life buying and selling skyscrapers who clearly has way more knowledge about the subject than any virologist with doctorate degree.

Again, my medical background becomes a weight, like an anchor, that I drag around with me. It slows me down and becomes cumbersome. My last tattoo was an anchor. I didn’t expect it to become to this symbolic, but here I am.

My husband said this and I took it to heart:

“I can’t change anyone’s actions, I can only control me. And so I say nothing. If I am asked, I will give an honest opinion, but they never ask. They will live their life as they see fit and I can’t do anything about it.”

And so I continue what I’ve always done when someone’s faith or lifestyle contradicts the medical facts: I nod. I smile. I keep my mouth shut.

God, after all, has the final word. I’ll let Him do the talking.

Thoughts From a North Carolina Recluse

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If this pandemic has taught me anything, it’s that I am not an introvert.

I am a recluse.

I haven’t seen anyone outside of my husband and co-workers since February. Last week a friend – who is pregnant, moving out of state, and turning 40 – and I briefly met up. I was masked, maintained my distance, washed my hands like the germaphobe that I am, and thought it is all too soon. I freaked out about her high risk of high risk status, and she waved it off. “Where I work, no one is masked or socially distanced. They don’t care. I do what I can.” She’s comes from a culture that isn’t as uptight as my German lineage. I was uneasy about it. She needs help staging her house to sell, which I am an expert at, and of course offered to help. I’ve decided she is the only person I’m willing to go into another house for at this time, mostly to help her move. And to keep both of us safe, I’m willing to stop it there.

My husband, who has at least 12 pack years from smoking, asthma, and high blood pressure, is a regular among the ER staff. I hate how this point in time has caused my anxiety to spike over the simplest interactions, but I need to keep him safe too.

Caseloads are skyrocketing here in North Carolina.

I’m so far out of the loop I’m not even sure if our church is still meeting. I have no plans to return to corporate worship anytime soon.

The ladies at work go to South Carolina to get their nails done, as our southern neighbor is much more lax. I’ve spoken to several friends who have regular playdates for their kids as the moms chat, a lot of them are hosting dinner parties, and showing up at church unmasked. The general consensus is we need to get used to this virus, live alongside it. Many – and rightfully so – are sick of the social distancing, not going to church, not worshiping corporately, and not seeing friends. And I totally get that, as Christians we are especially called to be in community

And yet, here I am.

But that’s the sticking point – everything is opening, but nothing in terms of epidemiology has changed. Only our patience tolerance has changed. And a scientist, that’s a terrible reason to ignore the precautions.

We are going to do this pandemic the old fashioned way: let it burn itself out.

I found myself on my enclosed porch pondering all this: it could be this time next year by the time I see friends on a “normal” basis. One of the coffee shops here has my all-time favorite and rare coffee drink – an affogato – and I don’t know when I’ll get one. It could be next summer when I meet up with someone for drinks and dinner downtown. The Europe trip I had planned might be next year or the year after that – I might not leave New Hanover County for an entire year. It’s mind blowing for someone like me who goes off adventuring at the drop of a hat. I haven’t quite come to terms with that yet.

As a recluse, I am 100% okay with that if it means it keeps people – my friends and my community – safe.

The weirdest part of all of this is I don’t miss any of it. Sure, there are a handful of friends I’d love to spent time with vis-a-vis, but not going to restaurants, events, church; I’m surprised at how much I don’t miss any of it. I’m happy being alone.

And it scares me a little about what that says about me.

But I am, after all, a recluse.

Praying

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After I left the Catholic faith at 16, I left it all, as I fully embraced the Southern Baptist way of life. I was completely blown away by how much I didn’t know about the Bible, how my life spent in church yielded nothing of substance – let alone relationship – and now that I had found Jesus, the Catholics seemed completely misinformed on nearly every level and there was nothing there for me in my walk with God.

Fast forward a few decades.

I slowly backed away from the SBC in recent years for a myriad of reasons: not having their worldview of a young earth meant I wasn’t welcome there (actual line in a sermon), I had trouble faking the smile of everything was fine, and bypassing my pain with “Jesus is good.” Everyone I encountered was happy, healthy, and lead perfect lives – or so that’s what they displayed at church. I wanted something real. I wanted a church that room for doubts, pain, and the understanding that sometimes life just isn’t fair and no amount of prayer is going to change God’s will. I was also completely disturbed by their blind embrace of partisan politics. But I digress.

I hit a low point a few years ago, where my anxiety was off the charts and my home life was in shambles. Even when I held out my hand to Jesus, I could feel His grip slipping. And that’s right about the time I embraced contemplative prayer. It’s usually what most associate with monks: praying with silence before God. It emphasized quiet medication on scripture combined with accessing emotions – something I’m terrible at. Instead of reading the bible in large passages, as I was taught, as if I were sitting down to a meal, what if I read the Bible like sipping high quality vodka? Small sips over a long period of time, carefully taking in every nuance of flavor rolling off my tongue.

The counselor I was seeing had credentials in the medical world, but was also a Christian. She encouraged me, when anxiety was spiraling, to have a rescue verse or memorize a passage of scripture in order to ground myself. I could never be an actor because I’m terrible at rote memorization (I can’t order through a drive thru without stage fright) but decided to take her up on that. I needed something short and to the point. I settled on the perfect passage for someone with Generalized Anxiety Disorder: Psalm 130.

Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord!
O Lord, hear my voice!
Let your ears be attentive to the voice of my pleas for mercy!
If you, O Lord, should mark iniquities, O Lord, who could stand?
But with you there is forgiveness, that you may be feared.

I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, and in his word I hope;
my soul waits for the Lord more than watchmen for the morning,
more than watchmen for the morning.

O Israel, hope in the Lord! For with the Lord there is steadfast love, and with him is plentiful redemption.
And he will redeem Israel from all his iniquities.

Psalm 130, ESV

Without pressuring myself, I memorized the first line. I wrote it down and said it to myself throughout the day. I switched it up by memorizing it German instead of English. I slowly added a verse. I would repeat what I memorized in those nights when I couldn’t sleep; I would say those precious words when everything was falling apart. Psalm 130 was the only thing holding me together some days.

And then, as if things couldn’t get worse, we decided to buy a house before selling our old one. With nearly unbearable anxiety over our finances, a friend online had mentioned praying The Offices, just like monks. Morning. Noon. Afternoon. Evening. Night. Monks would stop at certain times for prayers. They made room in their day for nothing but devotion to prayer. I decided to do the same. While I wasn’t about to get up at 0200, I cut the clock into four quarters, and if I was awake, I would make sure I stopped and prayed at some point in those three hour windows.

It made all the difference in the world. It didn’t change the situation, but it refocused my energy on Him.

My prayer life is still far from perfect. I stumble with simple words when praying over meals, while others seem to have such eloquent phrases. I use a contemplative app, Pray As You Go, fresh out of the Jesuit Society in the UK, a Catholic organization. I love how the meditation gives space for thoughts, a scripture passage, and then makes you reflect on the scripture in different ways. My favorite is when they ask you to be among the crowd as Jesus is speaking, observing the looks on peoples’ faces at His words. They read the scripture again, so you have another sip at it.

Even though my faith has mutated throughout the years, allegiance to His word is the foundation of my faith.

Sunday Walks

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The cool crisp air of Sunday morning transported me back in time.

I had driven to the beach and then proceeded to walk ten minutes away from the crowds. It’s not just because of COVID, I’ve been doing this for years. I thrive in solitude and coming to the beach for a peaceful retreat only to be surrounded by loud people, cigarette smoke, screaming children, and country music blaring from a radio is, in a word, awful. I love having my own private beach away from the noise and tourists.

And I don’t mind the walk.

This morning’s walk, alone, barefoot in the sand, clad in a bikini, a haute couture beach tunic, and my trusty beach bag, brought back memories of my church walk in the early 2000’s.

Usually clad in khakis, a nice plain t-shirt, and fake leather shoes, carrying my Bible, I used to walk the mile and a half from my off-campus college apartment to church. The mid-spring weather of Normal, Illinois felt exactly like this morning at Fort Fisher, North Carolina. Back then, I walked the main drag until I cut through a middle class neighborhood with award winning lawns and fulfilled American dreams. This took me to the other main drag and my church was a hop, skip, and a jump from the intersection.

Walking and being alone with my thoughts has had a restorative effect on my life and I am thankful I have had this practice since my youth.

“Do you need a ride home?” a church goer would ask, shocked that I would choose to walk all the way back towards campus. Never mind I had a car, I took the extra twenty minutes to mull over the sermon and try to get myself in a cool frame of mind for the upcoming week. It was also a perfect way to enjoy the weather.

I admit it feels weird, walking along side the Atlantic when I would normally be at church. Even though my church isn’t traditional in the sense of dress codes or even a building, it still feels odd. I haven’t been to church since late February. Or maybe it was early March….? I can’t even remember the last time I had communion. Our Bible Study attempted to meet despite the social distancing orders. I abstained. I have a husband who works in the medical field and has all the risk factors for being hooked up to a ventilator. Did one of my patients have it and give it to me, a possible asymptomatic carrier? My own immune system is set on destroying my own tissues, let alone defeating something new and deadly. Too many variables, too many loved ones.

This morning I found myself plopping down on a beach towel half naked instead of conservative clothing in a chair at a semi-outdoor service a bit of a drive from my house. I was so far away from the wooden pews and order of my college church, it didn’t even register. Instead of reading the God-breathed text of the Bible and standing quietly as the hymns are sung (I have amusia), I opened my Kindle to “The Cloud of Unknowing,” a book written by at 14th century monk in England – the whole book written in old English was a bear to read – about contemplative prayer – praying in silence before God. It predates the Reformation – yet the ocean waves lapping at the shore reminded me that God’s word doesn’t kotow to our human constructs of doctrine or time.

I missed my church in Normal. Last I saw, they are thriving. I hope to visit them again when I find myself in Normal on a Sunday. I miss my church here in Wilmington. If I wasn’t working, I’d be out there, offering hope and meals to the unsheltered members of our congregation. I can’t risk their health right now.

My time in Normal was, as I counted, three lifetimes ago. My life is not what it was back then. I’m afraid this virus will usher in a new lifetime – I don’t know what the future holds or when I’ll be back worshiping with my church family. I can tell you that now is too soon for my kind.

Despite all the changes in scenery and norms, the ocean reminds me that He rules over it all. He set the tides. He brings the hurricanes. He calms the waters.

And He alone will lead us all in our walk: on foot, through neighborhoods, beaches, or cities.