How Will We Emerge? My Turn

How will we emerge? That’s the question I’m asking myself and others in this “unprecedented” year. That’s the question I challenge you to ask yourself. There are lots of presumptions in this question:

• An acknowledgement that we’re in epic times that’s going to change our world and us.

• An optimism that there will be a “coming out on the other side” of all these global health, social justice, and political pandemics. An optimism that it will be in 2021.

• The hope that “we” will come out. Not just “me” against “you.”

• The reality that in the midst of what we have no control of, there are a few things we can control. What are the small (or big) ways you personally want to come out of this? What are you learning? What good or hard things have surfaced? How do you want your life / faith / heart / work / relationships to be different? 

If I tune into the daily news or read the statistics, that question ripples through me with uncertainty and fear. If I lay the uncontrollable “we” down, and focus on me, I can answer. I want to emerge with some “more” in a year filled with “less.”

More kind

I entered this quarantine with the mantra “Be kind to yourself.” I’ve needed to hear that on repeat. During these 10 months, I’ve lost the ability to juggle more than a few things a week. And I don’t need my inner critic berating me for that.

These months exposed that I live in a system which benefits me at the expense of others. It’s revealed that I’m all for you doing well as long as it doesn’t affect my bank account or my children’s future.  I pray I emerge more generous and willing to welcome others to share in my privilege.

As conflicts and divisions increased this year, especially in the church and among family and friends, my mantra shortened to “Be kind.” I want to emerge, by the grace of God, without breaking relationships or avoiding people who believe differently than I do. In a world where so many are loudly “right,” how can I quietly love?

More resilient

My physical and mental fall-apart accelerated in lockdown. I damaged my knee, fractured my tooth, had a scary reaction to wasp stings, gained some of the infamous pandemic pounds, and slid into the gray jello of depression. Courage is choosing to keep coming back even if I’m three steps further behind each time, (hobbling, swollen, with a snaggle-tooth smile). This pandemic has made me accept the fact I’m not going to win any races, but I want to keep stumbling forward, even if I could be hired as an extra in a zombie movie.

More grateful

The small-big things this year fill me with thankful wonder: That in this quarantine our kids are neither toddlers nor teens. (My prayers for all the parents and teachers in the thick of it.) That our son spent time with us as he worked remotely. That my 88-year-old mom has been safe. For a camera and how it slows me down to see the beauty around me. For walks with my husband and our dog, both who still like me after lockdown. For a safe neighborhood to walk in and a home to return to—a home with electricity, air conditioning, indoor plumbing, and two-ply toilet paper. For fresh food in the stores and too many good books to read and listen to. For a future with in-person concerts, spontaneous unmasked get-togethers, and worship services where we can sit side by side and “sing loudly (and in my case, poorly) for all to hear” without fear of spreading disease.

Thank you, Jesus, that nothing this year surprises you and good will come from what you’re doing inside of me—inside of all of us—this unprecedented season. More than anything, I want to emerge more deeply in love with you, Jesus. And to relish the reality that you love me right where I am (even if it’s huddled up with Netflix and my stash of dark chocolate peanut butter cups) in these hard and holy moments.

How Will We Emerge? Guest Contributors Pat and Tammy McLeod

Bill and I count Tammy and Pat McLeod some of our closest friends. Chaplains at Harvard and working with Cru for more than 35 years, they wrote Hit Hard: One Family’s Journey of Letting Go of What Was—and Learning to Live Well With What Is as they dealt with their 16-year-old son Zach’s traumatic brain injury. Little did they know that the whole world would experience ambiguous loss in this year of pandemic. Since then they’ve hosted Covid-19 Conversations to help people name and process the types of losses they’re experiencing. One of the most powerful aspects of their book is the honest and very different way they dealt with grief as a couple. In this year of loss and loneliness, fear and fighting, divisions and denials, it comforts me to read the ways they’ve struggled and their faith and marriage survived.

Below Tammy shares about what she’s lost and found during this year, and what she hopes will continue. Pat shares about the loss of “home” in a quarantine.  

Lost and Found in the Pandemic and Hopes for the Future

Tammy McLeod

In a recent large group Zoom meeting with Harvard students, I asked them to find two empty containers, labeling one Lost and the other Found. In small groups, we took five minutes silently to write our losses on slips of paper and place them in our Lost jar. We did the same with our Found jar, and then we shared with each other what we wrote—ambiguous loss made tangible.  

I was introduced to the term ambiguous loss—having and not having—after my sixteen-year-old son suffered a brain injury playing football and became severely disabled for life.

One exercise that helped me during those early days of my son’s injury was to write out what I lost and what I still had. Reflecting on this question during the pandemic helped me once again. I started by listing my losses.

What I lost: giving scheduled talks, traveling to see adult children, attending conferences where I would see colleagues and friends, serving in a South African township, extending hospitality to college students and friends, ministering to students in person, worshipping in person, rowing, lifting at my gym, and attending social events with friends.

My losses weren’t as severe as others who lost loved ones, jobs, financial stability, and more through the pandemic. For these people I mourn and pray. Nevertheless, I learned through the loss of my son that comparing losses doesn’t help but grieving losses does. I listed and grieved my losses, and then I reflected on what I still have during the pandemic.

What I still have: meeting with God daily, speaking about ambiguous loss, talking with family members, ministering to students, worshipping, and attending conferences online, meeting people and exercising outdoors.

In addition, I listed new things I had found.

What I found: fewer events and less driving has been a blessing, more time to care for myself in a pandemic has been life-giving, people all over the world can volunteer to lead student ministry since everything is online.

In addition to reflecting on questions above, I enjoyed thinking about what I hope to see when the pandemic is over.

What I Hope: that I am a more compassionate person having learned how to listen as people grieve their losses, that I have found ways to serve in the city to help make sure those with fewer resources receive care, that I remember joy is not based on circumstances, what I possess, or what I have the freedom to do, that I will continue to be in nature every day since God’s beauty strengthens me, that my daily prayer walks with my husband continue, that I still linger at the dinner table instead of jumping up to clean the dishes, that I remember how important family relationships are to me.

What I Hope Communally: that we as a country are more attentive—that we see what is happening and act on what we see, that the peaceful protests of this year lead to change; that we confess sin—our own and those of our nation—including systemic racism, that we will make reparations where needed, that we will share power, and that the divisions in our country will be healed.

The Ambiguous Loss of “Home”

Pat McLeod

I thought I knew a lot about ambiguous loss. My wife and I co-authored a book about it—about our own experience of both “having” and “not having” our son, Zach, after he was traumatically brain injured playing football. We have lived with, experienced, studied and even taught about ambiguous loss.

But when the pandemic hit and ambiguous loss became ubiquitous, I felt my own understanding of ambiguous loss grow in new dimensions of life. Perhaps the most unexpected (albeit mundane) dimension of ambiguous loss that I have experience and that will likely stay with me when the pandemic passes is the ambiguous loss of home.

Our home is still here, but it is not here the way it once was. Prior to the pandemic, home was a haven, a resting place from work. It was a shelter where I could relax, connect, and converse with the people I love most over a warm, home-cooked meal.

When COVID hit, our homes became our office, classroom, church, conference room, gymnasium, counselor’s chair, and zoom background.

Prior to the pandemic, I rarely worked from home. Even when I had to spend the majority of my day on my computer, I was too distracted at home to get much done. I was too attracted to the many indulgence I could enjoy, play with, or eat, the many beds on which I could nap, the many spaces I could organize, clean up, or fix.

But now that my home has become my office, I no longer have “home” the way I once had it—the haven, the refuge, the place to unwind. The dilemma has reversed itself. Before I couldn’t work at home, now I can’t rest there.

I anticipate that as we emerge from this pandemic, more and more of the way we work will happen from home in front of screens on our computers and smart phones. It will require intentional and creative energy to preserve a home space (temporally and physically) for rest, where we can cease striving, be quiet, be still, turn off our screen, tune out the noise of the world and attend to the quiet speaking voice of God, as well as the concerns and issues on the mind of my wife and kids.

Two practical steps that have helped me grow my resilience to the ambiguous loss of home through COVID-19 that I plan to continue as we emerge from the pandemic include:

1)    Initiate regular conversations with my wife Tammy (and our kids) about our rhythm of lives: How are we going to observe Sabbath rest each week? When are we shutting down each day? How will we shut down? How can we protect rest in each other’s schedules?

2)    How can we structure our home living spaces so that they can be more conducive to meeting with God, communing with loved ones and resting? How can we do this and still create a productive workspace in our home?

Pat and Tammy are available for speaking (by zoom and hopefully in person later this year) and in your own journey with ambiguous loss. You can contact them through their website, Facebook, and Instagram. You can order Hit Hard in print or audiobook.

How Will We Emerge? Guest Contributor Andi Ashworth

In this pandemic, we’re social distancing for our safety. But for our mental and spiritual health, perhaps we should also consider “information distancing.” Hear these reflections from Andi Ashworth:

I’ve been thinking a lot about habits and how my daily rhythms steer the direction of my heart. This is true all the time, but there are particular things I’m aware of right now. The use of my smartphone is one of them.

I’m working to break the habit of checking social media and news off and on all day. I have a genuine need to know the latest developments, as well as stay connected with people during various stages of quarantine. In Nashville we are in a modified version of phase 2. But there is a direct correlation between my scrolling habits and whether I have any peace, hope, or generosity of spirit. On the days I pick up my phone first thing in the morning and go immediately to email, Facebook, Instagram, or a news article, I’m in trouble. Hope is already gone before I even I hit the coffee pot. I start the day depressed and overwhelmed by the news headlines, or boiling with anger at a mean-spirited post on Facebook that speaks of people’s suffering as “fake news.” I’m completely bewildered by the twisting of reality. But social media commentary and wider news stories are not something to take on straight out of bed.

I’m 64 years old and still figuring this out! I tell myself, “Leave the phone alone, Andi. Make the coffee, go to your chair, read the scriptures and pray. And then receive the day as God’s gift.” It’s the right order of things.

I believe in the wisdom of reading the news with one hand and the Bible with the other. “Devote yourselves to prayer, being watchful and thankful,” requires attentiveness. But there’s a difference between my mindless scrolling habits and paying careful attention. So I’m working to create some boundaries, to figure out the best times in each day to read thoughtful, in-depth news articles, listen to NPR, or watch trusted news sources on television. I’m reorienting myself to check social media once a day or give it a break completely. It helps to rein it all in.

I don’t want to be angry and anxious all the time. I don’t want to lash out online or in person. I want my conversation to be full of grace, but it’s so often not. There’s a right and righteous anger that leads me to God and good action, and there’s a ranting kind of anger that recycles over and over with nowhere to land.

As I read the Old and New Testaments my soul is filled with truth, perspective, and words to pray. “The LORD is a refuge for the oppressed, a stronghold in times of trouble…he does not ignore the cries of the afflicted…Arise LORD! Lift up your hand, O God…Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.” As things feel like they’re spinning out of control, I can remember where to put my trust, I can cry out to God about the suffering of the world. I can be still and know that he is God. And I can be thankful.

Gratitude is medicinal.

As quarantine continues, what I’m missing most is the up-close experience of family—hugging and kissing my kids and grandkids, sharing meals around a common table. The ache grows more intense each week. But rather than focusing too much on what is absent, I’m trying to remember what’s been provided: the sweet companionship of my husband, a blooming garden, the blessing of long Zoom conversations with my oldest friends, and the fact that we can see our family outdoors.

If I start on a trail of thanksgiving I can go for miles.

Andi Ashworth is cofounder of ArtHouse America and author of Real Love for Real Life: The Art and Work of Caring and shares a blog The Writer & The Husband with her husband, Charlie Peacock, Grammy-award winning musician and producer.