The Air We Breathe

I’m sitting in the passenger seat of my car in the parking lot of our neighborhood pool. I’ve never written from this spot before, but I’m not sure where else to go that is safe, quiet, and socially distant enough from my {loud} family. A dad and his two young children recently parked close by but have already packed up to go back home after the son had an epic meltdown, throwing his tiny balance bike on the sidewalk and yelling that he doesn’t feel good. I don’t know these people, but my heart aches for the dad, the boy, and his sister in a peculiar way today. These are strange and stressful times we’re living in right now, even for the littlest of people.

If you had told me three months ago that we would experience a life-altering global pandemic in 2020, I would have dismissed both you and that notion as apocalyptic and absurd. Sure, I saw the stories about what was happening in Wuhan, but their tales of lockdown and a rapid spread felt distant and impossibly unlikely to happen in our “safe and secure” society. Yet here we are a few short weeks into a crisis that has hit home, living an ever-evolving new normal that keeps us glued to the news and six feet apart from our friends and neighbors. I barely know what day it is.

I realize I’m experiencing this pandemic from a place of privilege. While it feels heavy and hard for everyone, it is not lost on me that shutdowns and lockdowns are proving disastrous and deadly for some. But what is true for all of us is this: as relational human beings made in the image of a relational God, we weren’t designed to wear masks and gloves and keep a social distance from everyone we encounter. We all have to process this new reality, and I’m learning a pandemic can do strange things to our bodies, minds, and spirits.

For the first time in our lives, we are worried about the air we breathe.

I’ve been having nightmares lately. My husband, who is working far more hours than usual at his pharmacy, is having them, too. Not long after he dozed off one night last week he sat up and asked in a tense tone, “Where are the syringes??” A bit alarmed, I blurted back, “What syringes??,” before I realized he was talking in his sleep and we were having a senseless conversation. We take turns waking up at 3, 4, or 5 and turning to the glow of our phone for news or mindless entertainment until our eyes are heavy enough to close them again.

Our kids aren’t sleeping well either. Our oldest is having trouble falling asleep, and our youngest is struggling to stay asleep. Our bodies know we need rest, but our brains are working overtime trying to process all that is happening in our world.

Fatigue… this is the air we breathe.

Surprisingly our middle child, the one who is typically most sensitive, is sleeping fine. But her anxiety manifests in the form of constant questions, most of which I can’t answer with any confidence.

“How many new Coronavirus cases are there in Tennessee today?”
“Why don’t kids get it as bad?”
“Do you know anyone who has it yet?”
“When are we going back to school?”
“What time is Daddy coming home?”

Fear… this is the air we breathe.

Emotions in a household with three daughters run high most all the time, but even more so at such a time as this. Under normal circumstances and on my best days I might be able to referee, guide, and/or parent the girls with some semblance of maturity. But I’m finding that I have fewer skills and less patience or wisdom than I’ve ever had before. I wake up frustrated, I anger instantly, I yell frequently, and I correct constantly. And I cannot, for the love of all that is good and holy, reign in my temper.

One morning this past week after an intense conversation with my most challenging “student,” I got so mad that I slammed a shampoo bottle onto our bathroom counter with such force that the lid flew off and shampoo went flying absolutely all over my bathroom. And I performed this whole show while my 8-year-old watched on with wide-eyed wonder.

During another one of our homeschool meltdowns this past week my youngest said angrily through big tears, “I don’t like all this change!!”

All I could whisper back was, “Me either, child. Me either.”

Frustration… this is the air we breathe.

I haven’t been able to write any words for the past two weeks. I knew I didn’t have anything positive or helpful to offer. And perhaps I still don’t. But something occurred to me when I was walking our dog today and thinking about how angsty and immature and altogether unholy I feel lately.

I’ve always heard that joy and grief can mingle. I know this to be true because when my dad died several years ago we experienced deep heartache and the joy and comfort of community all at the same time. It’s a mysterious combination of seemingly opposite emotions. And I’m hopeful that in this season it might prove true that some other opposing realities can mingle, too:

Guilt and grace.
Anger and assurance.
Sadness and service.
Fear and faith.
Helplessness and hope.

I believe, even when I don’t feel like believing it, that we will be better on the other side of this pandemic. More humble, more compassionate, more appreciative of every handshake, haircut!, and hug. More grateful for get-togethers and graduations, restaurants and reunions. More aware of our utter dependence on God for our every breath and our every good gift.

I believe, in fresh ways, that we have a God who loves us when we lose it, who hears our prayers when we are breathless, and who draws close—maybe even closer—when we are keeping “social distance.”

I don’t know how to homeschool my children, control my temper, or how to answer my daughter’s questions about this virus or its timeline. But I do know this one thing:

“The unfailing love of the Lord never ends! By his mercies we have been kept from complete destruction, Great is his faithfulness; his mercies begin afresh each day.” Lamentations 3:23

Faith… This, too, can be the air we breathe.

And, thanks be to God. This is the hope we have.