We Can't Do This Alone

Don’t fear sudden terror
    or the ruin that comes to the wicked.
The Lord will be your confidence;
    he will guard your feet from being snared.
Don’t withhold good from someone who deserves it,
    when it is in your power to do so.
Don’t say to your neighbor, “Go and come back;
    I’ll give it to you tomorrow,” when you have it. (Proverbs 3:25-28, CEB translation)

“I think Proverbs 3:25 might speak to health care workers as well as many others.  The health care world is really struggling right now.  Could you please share some wisdom and strength for them to keep going?’

It was my first ever request for a blog.  And I will admit it came a couple months ago, and I have struggled to respond.  First, I was surprised by that verse being the request from this nurse I love and appreciate.  So I asked for more details – why this verse specifically?

She shared that it reminds us that even in the midst of disaster, we don’t have to fear.  The Lord is there.

Ah yes, true. True. 

But I wasn’t feeling it.  And that’s why it has taken me so long to write this blog. 

It’s not that I don’t believe God is there.  Of course I do. And it wasn’t even that I felt like God wasn’t there for those healthcare workers, and for the patients they were desperately trying to keep alive. Of course I feel God is there.  It’s that I wasn’t there.

Her message came in at a time when I had parishioners, like I have this whole pandemic off and on, who were in those hospitals being treated by those healthcare workers, and I could not be there.  Just like I have not been there for 2 years.

And maybe it was worse that there was about a 2 month period in the middle where I could be there.  And then I remembered what it was like to sit at someone’s bedside.  To visit with them.  To hear the anxieties of their families. And to pray for them.  And to pray for their families.

And to pray for the doctors and nurses who were coming and going all around that scene.

When that request came in, I felt the pain on both sides. I felt the exhaustion of the medical care workers who this round had to see young people gasp for their last breath, for a reason that was completely preventable. But I also felt the pain on this side. I felt the restriction of call.  I was supposed to be there with them. I was supposed to do some of the heavy lifting of that burden.  I was supposed to walk in and say, “Yes, this all looks and feels hopeless. But God’s resurrection is at work in this too.  For them. For you. For me.”

I started sitting with the verses that followed the one requested. “Don’t withhold good from someone who deserves it.” Who deserves it? In any given moment, maybe none of us. Maybe all of us.  But in this moment, definitely those healthcare workers who have had to be nurse and priest because the priests have been barred at the door.

And sitting at the door, I both felt that someone was saying to me AND I was saying to someone, “Go and come back.  I will give it to you tomorrow.” When I was STANDING RIGHT THERE at the door, and had the capacity to bring in God’s peace.

And then the irony of all of this is that someone requested that I share such wisdom with them, and I sat on it. For months. In part because I was pouting. But in part because my heart is broken. I understand why we took these precautions. I understand these were ways to stop the spread of this virus. But then so many other things were happening that were, in fact, spreading the virus. And there we stood, those of us trying to honor these barriers for the good of public health. But we all suffered in our spiritual health because of it.  Some of us had to carry far too heavy a burden. And some of us, with shoulders meant to carry that burden, stood outside the door and wished, more than anything, we could come in and do some weightlifting.

Tomorrow (11/10/21) I am going to preach a service of Mourning and Hope at my church, and I am going to preach on the raising of Lazarus.  Once, in the course of an Ignatian Imagination reading of that passage, I saw myself as both in the tomb of Lazarus but alive, and outside the tomb of Lazarus mourning his death. At the same time, on opposite sides of the stone covering the tomb, I was beating my hands against the rock so hard they were bleeding.  That is what this moment has felt like: some of us trapped alive in the tomb, some on the outside, both of us trying to get to each other. Because we are not meant to mourn alone. We are not meant to die alone. And we are definitely not meant to live alone. We need each other.

Thankfully, Christ continues to show up, and instruct people to roll away the rocks that separate us. But when that happens, let’s not forget how that separation felt.  And then let’s all do everything we can to keep that separation from happening again. For the yoke is only easy and the burden is only light when we carry them together.

To join us for the Service of Mourning and Hope on 11/10/21 at 6:30 p.m. CST where we will make space to grieve all that we have lost in the past two years but also find hope within it, come to FUMC Downtown Bentonville at 201 N. Second St, Bentonville AR 72712, or find us that evening (or later) on Facebook @FirstUnitedMethodistChurchBentonville

Image by Luis Melendez on Unsplash.