Day 7, Saturday, April 18, 2020

It’s early in the Easter season, in the Easter story. Just a week since the Resurrection. Just a week since Mary and the other Mary were at the garden tomb. Just a week since Peter and John raced to the tomb. Just a week since two disciples were walking to Emmaus discussing all the sad events of the previous days in Jerusalem.

But just a week since Jesus appeared to Mary, saying her name so that she recognized him. Just a week since Jesus walked along with those disciples on the road and went in to eat with them, blessing the food and becoming known to them. Just a week since Jesus had appeared in the locked room where the disciples were hiding and said words that would calm their fears: “Peace be with you.”

What a difference a week can make. The disciples believed that Jesus was indeed risen. They told Thomas who had been absent that they had seen the Lord. Mary, the Emmaus disciples, the disciples in the locked room—they all believed that Jesus was the risen Lord.

But not Thomas. He had not been there in the locked room. He had not seen the Lord. He did not believe. He was, indeed, the doubting Thomas. He had to have the facts. He had to have scientific evidence. He had to have the gory details.

Where was his faith? Had he not had faith during the three years that he had followed Jesus as he moved throughout Galilee and Judea, doing miracles, teaching through mysterious parables, raising the dead? Had he not had faith when he was sent out by Jesus to do the same kind of work on the Lord’s behalf?

But Jesus knew the disciples’ lack of faith. He knew their lack of understanding of his mission here on earth. He knew that there would be betrayals, denials, abandonment by all of the disciples. Where had Thomas gone after the Last Supper and the prayer time in the garden? Had he followed from afar to see what would happen to Jesus. Did he witness the crucifixion? Where was he when the other disciples were in that locked room that first resurrection Sunday?

Obviously, Thomas was available, close at hand, because the other disciples told him about Jesus’ visit to them. Did he stay close by, then, to see if Jesus would come again? Is that why he was there the second Sunday? Whatever the reason, Thomas was in the locked room that second week when Jesus once again appeared to them and said the blessed words “Peace be with you.”

And then comes the acceptance of Thomas with all his doubts. Jesus doesn’t chide Thomas; instead he invites Thomas to touch the holes in his hands and to thrust his hand into Jesus’ side where the spear had pierced him. He allows him to have the facts, the scientific evidence, the gory details, only telling Thomas to stop doubting and believe.

I’m so glad Thomas is in the second week of the Easter story. It gives me hope for people who don’t immediately show up to believe—that would be all of us, wouldn’t it? It gives me hope for people who live in a time that is so rational that we really want facts, evidence, details—that would be almost all of us, right?

Does this story of the second Sunday of Easter have anything to say to our human situation right now? I imagine our faith might be a little thin. We are weary of all of the physical distancing, of all the sanitary necessities, of all the uncertainty. We may be at the point of being defiant—we don’t want to stay at home anymore. We don’t want to be careful anymore. We just want our old lives back. But we also want to hope for a future that is virus free, a future that allows us to be with people, a future that gives us our freedom back

And that attitude sounds very much like Thomas, doesn’t it? Wasn’t he hoping against hope that Jesus would appear to him and reassure him that peace would, indeed, be with him?

We can bring our doubts, our fears to this Jesus and hear those same words. “Stop doubting and believe.” And in doing so, peace will be with us.

Note: This is a guest contribution from Marsha Smith, an IT specialist at Olivet Nazarene University. Marsha is a member of my memoir writing class who chose to write about our present crisis this week. I asked permission to share this timely essay with you.

We find ourselves in the midst of a global pandemic.  I use the word “midst” instead of “middle” on purpose because “middle” seems to imply that we know something about where we are in relationship to the end and I’m not sure we do yet.  As part of my job, I have been in meetings in the past to discuss disaster recovery plans.  I’m pretty sure “global pandemic” was not on any list of things we ever prepared for.  This is new territory for us.

We have all gotten familiar with some new vocabulary.  “Social distancing” and “flattening the curve” are phrases we all know now.  Early on we heard “out of an overabundance of caution” used a lot.  But no one is using that one anymore.  I’m being reminded of math terms like exponential and arithmetic to describe the curves we are all watching.  And I’m sympathetic with those trying to plot the course ahead in any way because I remember from college statistics how a very small change in assumption numbers can cause widely varied projections.

I’ve been thinking about my maternal grandparents who are long since gone.  They were married in 1917, and had two babies during the 1918-1920 flu pandemic.  It was world-wide also and the casualty estimates I read are staggering.  Since they lived in rural Texas, with limited media, I wondered what they knew about the pandemic and whether it affected their lives in any way like this one is affecting us.  I checked with my cousin and he said the community graveyard is full of 1918 burials.  None of them share our name but that pandemic obviously made it to their small community.

I doubt if our three-year-old grandson will remember much about this.  In fact, his life is pretty sweet right now.  After all, he is getting to stay at home with both mommy and daddy these days.  He is not aware of the strain they are under trying to both work an 8-hour day while still caring for him.  I know he misses us but with technology we have been able to read books together and hear him sing “Amazing Grace” one night while he was getting ready for bed.  He does miss church.  You may not know this, but Pastor Mark gives out suckers after the Sunday morning service to young children.  After church shut down, Bennett put on a Sunday shirt one morning and told his mother he wanted to go to church.  He was most unhappy being told it wasn’t possible.  Pastor Mark heard about it and he and Debi dropped off a bag of suckers so Bennett can at least have one after our virtual services.  What Bennett remembers about all this will probably depend on what is written in history books about it.  And I think it’s still to be determined how big that story will be.

I am good at counting my blessings and I am comforted by the number of personal ones I can come up with during this time.  But then I’m reminded of others who, through no fault of their own, can’t claim those same blessings and I mourn for them.

I will close with my own paraphrase of what Martin Luther said when a plague was sweeping through Europe during his lifetime.

I will ask God to mercifully protect us.  Then I will wash my hands regularly, wear my mask in public, stay at home and away from others as much as possible lest I help spread the virus.  If God takes me or someone else, it will not be because I didn’t do what he expected of me or because of my negligence.  I pray that God will give me courage to act should my help be needed by my neighbor.  My faith leads me to trust in God but to also use the gifts and knowledge he has given me.

May God be with us.

Note: The following is a sample essay that I have written for a prompt that I have given to my memoir writing class. This time they were to write on a work of art and what it means to them.

As I walked into the numbered gallery, my eyes were drawn straight to an almost blindingly bright gold painting. And then my feet were drawn, just as my eyes had been. What was this gorgeous painting that called me to draw near? It was so beautiful, so mesmerizing, that tears welled up, spilled out, and trickled down my cheeks. I didn’t really care if anyone noticed. It was the most exhilarating piece of art that I had ever encountered. How anyone could make that much color come to life on a canvas was a mystery to me. I walked right up to the barrier rope, close enough to see where the artist had slathered on the paint in huge swaths.

The painting:  Sunflowers # 4. The artist; Vincent Van Gogh. The gallery: The National Gallery in London.

My visit was the first to the National Gallery and the first time I had seen the yellow sunflower painting, although I had seen copies of it. In fact, I had a little 8 x 10 print that I had displayed in my first apartment in Dayton, Ohio. And I had seen other Van Gogh paintings. When I was in Washington DC in 1988 on a “Wally World of Flight” tour with other teachers who had taken Wally’s aerospace workshop at Middle Tennessee State University, we had gone to the National Gallery. Fortuitously, a great exhibit of Van Gogh’s and Gauguin’s paintings were being displayed together. I have never forgotten that I thought Gauguin was such a stingy painter in comparison to Van Gogh. Gauguin’s paint was so scant that you could see the canvas warp and woof through the brush strokes. But Van Gogh’s works were thick with paint. I’ve always wished I could just rub my finger through one of those strokes, just to feel the bumpiness of the groove.

But I had not seen THIS painting. It’s yellow color is so bright that you can imagine that Van Gogh mixed gold dust into the paint. Later, when I began to teach literary theory, I would encounter Walter Benjamin’s essay “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction.” Although Benjamin makes the point that mass reproduction of art through photography or printing allows for more people to enjoy the work, he does say that the aura of the original can never be reproduced. The aura is attached in time and place to the physical location of the work of art when a person encounters it. And, later, when I read Benjamin’s essay, I understood exactly what he meant. The aura of Sunflowers # 4 engulfed me in that little gallery room in London.

I would see many prints of Sunflowers # 4 and others of the sunflower series, but I would never experience the aura from one of those prints. I would only remember the stunning moment when I encountered the “real thing” as Henry James would say. Of course, in James’ view the real thing doesn’t successfully work as art; the artificial becomes the “real” when it takes on the airs, the manners, the look of the real. James and Van Gogh would have understood each other. Van Gogh’s sunflowers represent the real flowers that he saw out in the fields in southern France. And I love to see real sunflowers that turn their heads to face the sunshine so bravely. But I love even more the magnificence with which Van Gogh endowed his painted sunflowers. He surely knew they were part of God’s glory.

Day 3: Wednesday, April 15, 2020

I’m sad again today. I wonder how many others around me are sad. My sadness is just a rather general malaise. Nothing specific has happened, nothing more than any other day’s specifics of how many cases of COVID-19 have been reported. Perhaps it was hearing that this day was the deadliest so far in the US with over 2000 “new” deaths today. Perhaps it is seeing all the TV reporters looking very world-weary, tired, tense, and discouraged. Perhaps it is hearing the talking-head experts who worry that two or three waves of the virus will occur before we find a vaccine or reach “herd immunity.”

I’m sad because I sat in two different zoom meetings today. In the first I heard a pastor who is almost beside herself with her need to be in (physical) touch with her parishioners. She reminded us that Jesus, just like all of us other human beings, had a body; he interacted with people through his physical presence. As relational creatures, we need to see, feel, be around other bodies. In the second meeting, my church’s board meeting, our pastor told us of the generosity of some of our members who are already offering their stimulus checks to the church to use for benevolent purposes, especially to help our members who have lost their jobs or have other hardships brought on by the necessary, but harsh, stay-at-home orders.

I’m sad because the university where I taught until last May is struggling through this crisis—I’ve heard more than one faculty or staff member say that things will not be the same when/if it reopens in the fall. And what is true for it is true for many other colleges and universities around the country. Especially our residential universities have already been hit hard by competition from the many online programs that seem to promise everything to the prospective student—lower costs, more programs, flexible scheduling. Of course, many of us in academia would say that negative aspects abound, too. Just as my friend the pastor knows how important human interaction with her parishioners is, so, too, professors know how much that human interaction adds to the educational process. Education is so much more than a list of facts or a compendium of knowledge in a discipline. So much happens in the interactions in a classroom—between professor and students and between students. I’m sad when I think that interaction might be lost for future students

I’m sad because as the missions council president at our church I had to report to the board that three mission trips have been cancelled for this summer. It’s sad that our church members who would have gone to work in other parts of the world will not get to do so. They won’t get the opportunity to build relationships with people from other cultures. It’s sad, too, that the churches and organizations that would have benefited from the projects that would have been funded—and finished—by our teams will not receive that help—not this year.

I’m sad because I have friends who have lost loved ones in this time of social distancing. They have not had the little bit of comfort that a wake or a viewing or a funeral would provide. Their friends cannot be in their physical presence. Often I have said, when speaking with a grieving friend, that I do not have words to express my sympathy. But I have known that just “being there” is important to that person. Now, that is impossible.

I’m sad because I have family members and friends who are facing the fight of their lives against cancer and other dangerous conditions. I can’t hug them; I can’t be with them when they are in the hospital; I can’t visit them.  I can’t be in their presence.

Yes, I’m sad today. I realized that as I chronicled my sadness, the common factor in almost all of my points is physical presence.  Long ago, a plain-spoken minister in the Church of the Nazarene wrote a little book with the title We Really Do Need Each Other. The times and circumstances have changed, but the truth of the title has not: We really do need each other.

Note: I’m taking a break from writing this evening and, instead, sharing another writing that came from the very first prompt I gave to my memoir writing class. I hope you enjoy my reminiscence.

I parked the car, hopped over the sewage ditch, threaded my way through the poles holding up the barbed wire fence, crossed the quad, and headed toward the farthest lecture hall. 9:00 in the morning, my first class in Survey of American Literature at the University of Ouagadougou in Burkina Faso.

 I was the teacher, but had no idea what to expect. Before I could reach the door, four young men were dogging my steps, begging to help me with my book bag. I handed it over, rather fearfully, thinking I might not see it again because the crowd was growing large and, to my inexperienced eyes, rather unruly. But the young man who had won the right to carry the bag, stuck right by my side and guided me to the platform. Behind me was a ceiling-high two-tiered chalkboard that another young man was washing with a huge yellow sponge, soaked with water in an old plastic bucket. In front of me the tiered rows of desks, with squeaky wooden seats, were quickly filling with my students.

I had no roll to call the names, but, really, calling the roll would have been impossible in the chaotic atmosphere. How to begin? Shouting to get the students’ attention, I strode to the board, writing my name and the course name. My first class as a Fulbright scholar had begun.

What a lot I had to learn. For one thing, the students hushed immediately—it wasn’t their noise that made me shout—it was the terrible acoustics in a room that would seat about 300. Also, the ceiling fans whirled in lazy circles, creating noise but not cooling the air. Even the florescent lights hummed a background song that had to be overcome.

Two hours later, clothes and hair plastered to my sweaty body, I finished my first lecture. On what, I could not tell you, but I do know I was “hooked” on the idea of teaching these wonderful students who were so attentive, who asked all kinds of questions, who constantly asked me to slow the speed of my speech so that they could understand my American English accent. These wonderful students who had never gotten to read literature from a book—who only understood a literature course to mean that the professor summarized the great literature before interpreting it for them—these were my students!

I would give them what they had never had before, I thought, plotting ways to spread the 25 anthologies throughout the class that started with 125 enrollees, but grew to 450 before the semester ended. I created groups with captains, each captain having one anthology. As people joined the class, they also enrolled in a captain’s group so that they could pass that one precious book around, reading the material ahead of time, as any student would know to do in the States. In the States, too many students wait till the last minute, possibly only skimming the material; in Burkina, all of the students wanted to read everything that was in the book, greedy for the real words of the authors they had only heard about.

That first class on that first day was the beginning of a wonderful adventure. More challenging than any other teaching I have ever done, it was also more rewarding than anything I had ever done before. I was positioned to prepare a new generation of Burkinabes to serve their country well through education. Many of them would find themselves in classrooms, teaching English to students without books, some, perhaps, without desks, none with air conditioning, and many without electricity. Nevertheless, my goal was that their first classes would be better because of my first class.

Easter Season 2020

Day 2: Monday, April 13, 2020

As I raced down the crowded aisle, I saw a couple who seemed to be racing towards the same gate as I, and behind me I heard at least one other set of pounding feet. Yes, all of us were late, held up at the luggage counter, but the plane wasn’t to leave for another 15 minutes, so we really shouldn’t have to race as we were. As the four of us skidded to a stop at the counter, not only could we see the announcement on the board “Gate Closed” but we could also hear four other erstwhile passengers in front of us arguing with the airline personnel. “Sorry,” we heard, “but it’s a new policy put into place since the terrorist attacks. Gates have to be closed 15 minutes before departure.”

Just a month after the 9/11 attacks on the World Trade Center Towers and the Pentagon and the failed attack that ended in Pennsylvania, I was at Chicago Midway Airport to fly to Pittsburgh to see my nephew and his family for my extended fall break. No one had warned us travelers that the rules had changed, so, there we were, eight passengers who were stranded at the airport with nowhere to go. Fortunately, the airlines took care of us, giving us food vouchers and hotel rooms for the night and promising us tickets on the first flight out the following morning—as long as we arrived in plenty of time to navigate crowds at luggage counter and gates.

I had purchased a non-transferable, non-refundable ticket; I had either to use the ticket or to lose the money. Although uneasy about getting on a plane, I decided to risk it. The attacks were so recent that no one was sure whether any plane travel was safe. Many people showed their fears by looking askance at anyone who appeared to have Arabic blood, let alone anyone who wore a turban or a head covering. Brown-skinned people were given wide berth; no one wanted to sit next to anyone who didn’t look exactly like themselves. In other words, fears were rampant and irrational.

And now I am living in a time where fears are rampant again. Whether they are irrational, I do not know. With such disparate reports coming from many different news agencies and public officials, the public cannot ascertain the truth about COVID-19: how contagious is it? How many people have had and are immune? When did it really reach the US and how? Are the healthcare providers out of PPE? Are the staying-at-home orders working? Do they need to continue? Do the experts think that the economy can re-open May 1? All these unknowns are very fearful for all of us.

For myself, I am much more fearful now than I was after 9/11. Of course, I am almost 20 years older than I was then. Being older could make me either more or less risk-averse. I’m not sure my age has anything to do with my fear. I fear more because the virus, as far as we know, is ubiquitous. We cannot escape it if we begin to interact with other people. It was horrible that people allowed their prejudices to stoke their fears of certain kinds of people in the aftermath of  the terrorist attacks. It is more horrible that we may have to fear everyone that we have contact with—anyone could be the culprit of passing the virus on to another human being. I could be the one passing on the virus to someone else, totally unaware that I am carrying it with me.

Following 2001, our country and others began to make changes to our security, not just in airports, but in many public venues. We have acclimated to security lines, bag checks, electronic scans. We may complain, but we take for granted that we have to remove shoes, jackets, belts, and personal electronic devices to go through those security lines. The complaints let us feel better about the fact that we know we had to lose some freedom to feel safe.

This time, our fears may not be so easy to assuage. How close will be able to stand or sit next to someone else? Will we always have to take our personal wipes with us to wipe every hard surface that we might touch? Will masks and gloves become as ubiquitous as the virus? Will we ever feel safe to hug our family members and friends? Will the almost universal greeting of the handshake become unknown to future generations?

In the short story “The Minister’s Black Veil,” Nathaniel Hawthorne tells the story of a minister who chooses to wear a black veil to cover his face. He never explains to anyone why he has chosen this habit, but it negatively affects all of his relationships. Wherever he goes, the mood becomes somber. If he walks into a wedding celebration, it immediately resembles a funeral. Through the years, the minister never removes the veil. It proves to separate him from his fellowmen; even his own wife and children fear his presence.

Obviously, if any of us wear a “veil” (i.e., a mask or gloves), we are doing it to keep others and ourselves healthy. Still, the distancing that we are experiencing will take its toll on our mental health. Humans are relational beings; we crave contact with others. Sooner or later, our virtual lives will not be enough. We will have to have personal connections once again.

Let’s pray that we can trust our leaders, experts, and officials to make good decisions about re-opening our country to normal everyday life. Let’s pray for a swift answer to the need for a vaccine and therapeutic meds. Most of all, let us pray for God’s mercy on all of us—wherever we happen to be on this planet.

Note: On this celebratory day of Easter, when the long period of Lent has ended in triumph, I am sharing a short essay I wrote in response to a prompt that I gave to my memoir writing class this past week.

A blast of warm, fragrant air hit us as we opened the door to the stairway that would lead to the long meeting hall. My friend Sandra and I had raced from the church to the store, atop which was the hall. It was Easter Sunday morning and our church had gathered for a breakfast.

The day had started in the dark cold of my bedroom. Usually Mother had difficulty getting me out of bed, but not on this special Sunday. I hurriedly dressed in my old clothes—Mother didn’t approve of wearing new Easter clothes to the sunrise service—and was waiting by the door as everyone else was donning coats. We opened the door to find a light coating of snow on everything, even the purple and gold pansies that Mother had planted just the week before.

Dad used the headlights because dawn was still a half-hour away as we drove up to the church and quietly entered the building. We could not share the joy of Easter’s resurrection until we had gone through the darkness of coming to the tomb to see where our Lord lay. Each year, the congregation began with singing the words, “Low in the grave He lay, Jesus, my Savior; waiting the coming day, Jesus, my Lord.” And so we were waiting with Him until we reached the triumphant chorus, “Up from the grave He arose, with a mighty triumph o’er His foes.”

The tone of the whole service shifted from somber to joyous, even as the outside world cooperated with our joy by allowing the sun to rise in the east and melt away the wintry snow. Then it was time for the gigantic celebration that Sandra and I were racing towards.

The smell of crisp fried bacon and percolated coffee filled the whole hall. All the women had donned their aprons and were either setting the long tables made with sawhorses or manning one of the many griddles and hot plates for the red-eye gravy to top homemade biscuits, the fried potatoes, or the bacon. Men were filling their cups with coffee and standing around waiting for the “all call” to come to the tables to eat.

This was one time that we children were allowed to sit with each other, instead of with our families. To fill our own glasses with orange juice, to select our own food, to choose our own places at our special table where the moms could still keep an eye on us made us feel quite adult.

Many of my friends wore their Easter finery to the breakfast, instead of wearing everyday clothes like our family. I’m not quite sure who made decisions about that. Everyone went home after the breakfast before returning for Sunday School, so all of us could change clothes, if we wished.  For my mother, the simple dress of the morning symbolized the not yet risen Christ. We were solemn and plain, befitting the mood of the sunrise service.

When we returned for Sunday School and church in our new Easter clothes, we were dressed for our own resurrections. We reflected the time of celebration, of absolute joyous glee, with our new dresses, shoes, hats, and gloves. I had chosen my turquoise and white iridescent nylon dress, my black patent shoes, my white hat and gloves with care. I had been saving my allowance money for months so that I could wear a new outfit that shouted to everyone that spring had come, that Christ had risen, and that I lived in a resurrection world.

Day 40: Saturday, April 11, 2020

Holy Saturday, the day between Good Friday and Easter, has always seemed to me to be Silent Saturday, a time of waiting between the worst day in the world and the best day in the world. We don’t get to skip the day; we have to wait through the 24 hours with nothing to observe, nothing to know, nothing to do but wait.

We are also living in a time of waiting today. We are waiting for everyone in the world to get better, for people to stop dying, for everything to get back to normal. But just as we can’t skip this “silent” Saturday in Holy Week, we can’t skip this in-between time, this time between before coronavirus and after coronavirus. We have to go through it.

And how do we go about this task of “going through it”?

When I asked myself this question, all kinds of answers, in no particular order of importance came to my mind:

Pray

Take care of ourselves

Take care of each other

Pay attention—to everything—the news, fake and not fake; experts; neighbors; friends; church leaders

Stay distant from one another; be friendly from afar

Go to a virtual church service

Use technology to keep involved in groups to which you belong (I’m loving my book discussion group, my memoir writing class, my church board, and my family chat that are possible because of zoom and other platforms)

Get in touch with people that you have not contacted for a long time

Sleep

Read books

Write something about your own life

Write your reflections about this in-between time

Write notes or postcards or letters—and send them through snail mail

Clean out closets, desks, bookshelves, pantries

Take walks

Make something—bake a dessert or bread, paint a picture, sew a mask

Find out who in your community needs help and find a way to help those people

Practice your faith through meditation, prayer, acts of kindness

Plan for the future (I’m going to have to plan a great trip, even if it’s two years away)

Think positive thoughts

Hope

So, it’s been quite a different Lenten season than I have ever experienced before. I’m sure you can say the same thing. I am glad that the time of Lent intersected with this pandemic’s fiercest weeks so far. I’ve been held steady in my times of fear and doubt, recognizing that just as the Lenten season leads to the Easter season, this season of fear and doubt will lead to relief and normalcy—we just have to wait.

Day 39: Friday, April 10, 2020

The sun glinted off the aquamarine blue water of the Sea of Galilee. I was standing on a grassy hill just down a flower-lined trail from the Church of the Beatitudes. Looking over the beautiful scene, I could think of nothing more than why would Jesus ever have wanted to leave this place. Why would he turn his face toward Jerusalem? Oh, I know I voiced the question rather facetiously, because not only was Jerusalem the center of the Jewish faith, but also Jesus knew that his mission in the world was to be fulfilled at the center of that faith, not in the rolling hills up from the lovely lake.

Even as Jesus turned his face towards Jerusalem, so did our tour group turn ours towards the city that held the temple, the place where all the religious leaders of Jesus’ day were headquartered. As I walked through the old city, my feet touched the ancient Roman stones that Jesus’ feet would have touched as well. The city definitely was not beautiful like the Sea of Galilee and its surroundings were. It was, instead, impressive. Massive white stones tumbled all over the site of Herod’s temple. All of the modern structures, too, were made of the white, heavy stone. It had gravity. Somehow, it exuded authority.

As I walked the streets, following the Via Dolorosa that Christ had walked so long ago, the bright sunlight and intense heat of the crowded way, dropped away from me as I imagined what those streets had been like on that first Good Friday. Of course, nothing about that day could have been called “good.” Jesus had been held in two different locations as he was being “tried” by the authorities and brought before Pontius Pilate. The second location was a dungeon, cold, damp, dark. When I was there with my church group, we had a wonderful time of singing a hymn, saying a prayer, and celebrating our faith. The night Christ spent inside those stone walls, he was alone, already beaten and exhausted from the all-night badgering he had endured.

And so as I walked the old worn stones, I could trace where Jesus had walked that day, where he had fallen, where he had encountered his mother, where Simon from Cyrene had been compelled to carry the cross that Jesus could no longer lift.

Strangely enough, the most moving image of Christ that I saw was not in the old city of Jerusalem nor on the beautiful hills of Galilee. Instead, it was I the ruins of the city of Capernaum. Close to the entrance to the national park is a park bench on which a life-size bronze statue lies. It’s quite obviously the figure of a homeless person who has nothing but a hooded cloak to wrap around his body.

But, then, just as I was about to pass the end of the bench, I saw the feet. These were not the feet of the Christ that had walked the earth; these were the feet of the Christ that had hung on that cross on the first Good Friday—there were gaping wounds on the top of each foot. The sculptor Timothy P. Schmalz perfectly captured the nature of our Savior. Not in the triumph of the resurrection, but in the utter humility and abject loneliness of the man who suffered on the cross, I saw the incredible unconditional love of God in the form of man.

Note: I want to acknowledge that I was prompted to write this essay after listening to one of my memoir writers read her essay on her visit to Jerusalem. Our content is very different, but I’m not sure I would have recollected all of this on this day without having heard her reflections.

Day 38: Thursday, April 9, 2020

My Fears:

That I touched something that was contaminated in the grocery store not quite two weeks ago and that I already have the coronavirus within me, just waiting to attack

That, when I touched the salesperson’s hand as I received a paper-wrapped teabag at the McDonald’s last week when we took Kallie home, I was receiving the coronavirus

That Geoffrey, who continues to work because he works at a restaurant doing carryout/delivery, will come home sick and, because, he has very bad lungs, he will end up in very serious condition, even though he isn’t an old person

That the government will convince people that it is okay to open the country too soon and that the virus will spread faster than it is now

That my whole retirement fund will disappear

That I will never get to see some of my grandchildren again

That I will get sick and die—and leave everything in a mess

My Losses:

Being able to say a personal good-bye to those who have died in our church family

Being able to reach across a pew to shake hands or to hug a friend

Being able to feel connected to people in the same physical space

Being able to walk through a store just to see what’s there (that’s always been therapy for me

Being able to meet with a friend to have coffee and chat about life

Being able to go to a movie

Being able to see my counselor in person (I’m thankful for video conferencing)

Being able to teach my memoir class in person and feel the energy that flows between the writers as they share their materials

Being able to invite people to my house for Easter dinner

My Hopes:

That the overall number of coronavirus cases and death will be fewer than all the hypothetical models show

That those I love will remain safe and well (but then I feel guilty for hoping that, because I know that everyone hopes that for their own families, yet people in many families are dying)

That we all end up being better people for having gone through this terrible pandemic

That we all learn how to live better lives as we have become reacquainted with our homes and families in a closer connection that many of us have had in our busy “normal” lives

That this crisis will make some reconsider the importance of a life of faith, a contemplative life, a life centered in (God’s) love so that we human beings can reach out in kindness and love to others

That I and others will hand our fears over to God who is the only one who can handle them

That I and others will be able to see our losses as small compared to what we have to gain by keeping our physical distances until this pandemic is under control

When I decided to write these lists, I worried a bit about baring my soul, but then I thought that others might have the same fears, might face the same losses, might hold the same hopes.

It’s Maundy Thursday and tomorrow is the darkest day in the Christian calendar. Here in the United States we have been facing the darkest days of this pandemic. We cannot know the future; we can face it with debilitating fear or with steadfast hope. Let us all choose hope. Sunday is, indeed, coming.