It’s taken me awhile to feel ready to write about COVID-19. I still don’t feel ready. Our society—our world, really—has come face to face with our mortality. Most of us have been thinking about the reality that no matter who is considered at risk all of us are vulnerable to this illness and could die. All of us.
You’d think that would be exciting for me, as someone who firmly believes this realization is vital to who we are as humans.
It is exciting, in some ways. I see so much potential for good conversations among families and friends, I’m hopeful and praying that we would see patterns of renewed and mended relationships, healthier patterns of rest, better relationships between parents and children, and hopefully a greater humility before God and gratefulness for the common graces he’s given us. There is so much of our humanity to be reclaimed in moments like these.
But on the other hand, this is scary! Who of us doesn’t have family or friends in the “at risk” category? Who of us doesn’t shudder as the unemployment numbers rise? Who of us doesn’t weep for the children and others trapped at home with their abusers?
These are serious matters, and I don’t feel equipped to speak into such large-scale suffering. To write as if I have answers would minimize real suffering that’s taking place. There are others, older and wiser, who can speak into this situation. All I can do is listen and weep and pray.
My words can’t possibly provide enough strength or comfort or grit to get anyone through a crisis of this scale. I am only slowly growing older and wiser, after all, and I don’t write about mortality because I’m good at grief. In fact, I write about it, I think, because I’m not good at it. I’ve tasted just enough suffering to hate it, to avoid it. Recognizing that there is something better for us than fear, though, I write to remind myself and whoever reads that this is, in fact, true. But right now, even though I know that Christ is near us in our suffering, and that we, in his sovereignty, were no safer a month ago than we are now, the weight of suffering feels heavy enough that I’m left mostly without words.
There is one word, though, that I’ve been pondering. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the term “microaggression.” Or, not about that word specifically, but about a correlated idea for which I’ve coined the term “micro-grief.” There’s surely a real word for it—I just don’t know it. So, in lieu of that real word, let me just explain that I’m “microgrieving,” and it’s not easy.
I think a lot of us are feeling this. The fear of getting sick—of this unknown thing that could kill me and anyone I love is one thing. But perhaps even more weighty than that fear are the tiny griefs along the way. Celebrating my two oldest children’s birthdays without friends or family. My daughter missing her preschool teacher and friends. My son missing the childcare workers at the community center. Not getting to introduce my newborn to friends, or have my parents get to know him in his early weeks. Lamenting missing church for the month before lockdown because of sickness and childbirth. Even the loss two-hour grocery delivery, and instead having to wait several days so that Instacart can keep up with new demands. There’s grief in the action of disinfecting groceries, the handwashing after opening Amazon packages, the calendar reminders for cancelled events. And there’s grief in the good things, too—virtual game-nights, eating donuts while watching a sermon, and extra time for reading or hobbies.
All day every day I feel the small weight of these micro-griefs. And every now and then, I realize that they have become one giant, worldwide Grief, and it floors me.
My husband and I caught up with our small group over Zoom the other night. Our time together was happy, with no imminent threats to anyone’s well-being. But after the call, Michael and I both felt exhausted. After hearing of all the little ways COVID-19 has disrupted normal patterns, those “micro-griefs” felt like a giant weight.
I don’t mind bearing the weights of our friends and family—it’s a privilege. But, as others have pointed out, we need to acknowledge that all of this is real and heavy. Even if no one I know and love gets sick or dies, even if a vaccine is miraculously found tomorrow and not one more person dies from COVID-19 (Lord, let it be so!), these last weeks of suffering will have taken a massive toll.
So, while creation groans like I’ve never heard it, I myself have no words. Although, happily, the days passing within the four walls of our home are mostly marked by joy, these little micro-griefs pile up and the weight is wearing. So I’m returning to the old and wise words of scripture to form my prayers. If you’re not turning to them already, now is the time. We’re only mortal, after all.
Matthew 11:28–30
Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.
Psalm 71:17–20
O God, from my youth you have taught me,
and I still proclaim your wondrous deeds.
So even to old age and gray hairs,
O God, do not forsake me,
until I proclaim your might to another generation,
your power to all those to come.
Your righteousness, O God,
reaches the high heavens.
You who have done great things,
O God, who is like you?
You who have made me see many troubles and calamities
will revive me again;
from the depths of the earth
you will bring me up again.
Isaiah 40:28–31
Have you not known? Have you not heard?
The LORD is the everlasting God,
the Creator of the ends of the earth. He does not faint or grow weary; his understanding is unsearchable.
He gives power to the faint,
and to him who has no might he increases strength.
Even youths shall faint and be weary,
and young men shall fall exhausted;
but they who wait for the LORD shall renew their strength;
they shall mount up with wings like eagles;
they shall run and not be weary;
they shall walk and not faint.
