Pandemic
Yesterday
I stood on the deck
and as I looked out
an oak branch
suddenly
crashed to the ground.
My view did not change
much with the dropping
of that one old branch.
But to the bird
whose nest it held
it was
everything.
I wrote this poem last March and shared it with Eden Spiritual Care in April 2020. It’s been a year since the first COVID stay-at-home orders came out. We did not know then what we know now: that more than 530,000 people in the United States would leave us due to the disease, 2.8M souls worldwide no longer on this earth. Political divisions aside, this is a terrible loss—an “ambiguous loss” for some of us—an almost unimaginable loss for those whose lives were immediately impacted. I read somewhere that each of those individuals lost represent on average nine more who grieve deeply for that loved one. Some families lost more than one—more than one parent, child, uncle, grandparent. The grief compounds exponentially.
Jesus calls to us and shares the grief. “Come to me,” he says. “All of you bent beneath the heavy weight of trying to carry so much. Come to me, and you will find rest for your souls” (Matthew 11:28-29, my paraphrase).
I don’t know what this rest might be for you. A hike in the woods? A moment to watch the sunset? A deep breath on a morning walk? The companionship of a loyal pet? For me, today, it means walking the dog, rounding a corner, and encountering the wafting fragrance of daphne—a sure marker of spring. It means pulling a patio chair from its storage space and placing it in the warmth of the spring sun. I sit for a few minutes and watch slow-moving clouds in a blue sky, listen to neighborhood sounds, and feel grateful for the sunshine soaking into my skin. The daffodil bulbs I planted last fall in the landscape of our new backyard have sprouted and grown and bloomed in happy yellow hues. Leaf buds open on the hydrangea, the dogwood, the roses. Beside these ordinary spring miracles there’s nothing particularly profound taking place in this moment. But the very gentle breeze reminds me that the Spirit is always moving, always at work. And that’s enough for today to give me rest—and hope.
Yesterday
I stood on the deck
and as I looked out
an oak branch
suddenly
crashed to the ground.
My view did not change
much with the dropping
of that one old branch.
But to the bird
whose nest it held
it was
everything.
I wrote this poem last March and shared it with Eden Spiritual Care in April 2020. It’s been a year since the first COVID stay-at-home orders came out. We did not know then what we know now: that more than 530,000 people in the United States would leave us due to the disease, 2.8M souls worldwide no longer on this earth. Political divisions aside, this is a terrible loss—an “ambiguous loss” for some of us—an almost unimaginable loss for those whose lives were immediately impacted. I read somewhere that each of those individuals lost represent on average nine more who grieve deeply for that loved one. Some families lost more than one—more than one parent, child, uncle, grandparent. The grief compounds exponentially.
Jesus calls to us and shares the grief. “Come to me,” he says. “All of you bent beneath the heavy weight of trying to carry so much. Come to me, and you will find rest for your souls” (Matthew 11:28-29, my paraphrase).
I don’t know what this rest might be for you. A hike in the woods? A moment to watch the sunset? A deep breath on a morning walk? The companionship of a loyal pet? For me, today, it means walking the dog, rounding a corner, and encountering the wafting fragrance of daphne—a sure marker of spring. It means pulling a patio chair from its storage space and placing it in the warmth of the spring sun. I sit for a few minutes and watch slow-moving clouds in a blue sky, listen to neighborhood sounds, and feel grateful for the sunshine soaking into my skin. The daffodil bulbs I planted last fall in the landscape of our new backyard have sprouted and grown and bloomed in happy yellow hues. Leaf buds open on the hydrangea, the dogwood, the roses. Beside these ordinary spring miracles there’s nothing particularly profound taking place in this moment. But the very gentle breeze reminds me that the Spirit is always moving, always at work. And that’s enough for today to give me rest—and hope.
Paula J. HamptonPaula J. Hampton has devoted many years to supporting Christian education as an editor of books, Bible studies, and devotionals for Barclay Press. She practices self-care through quilting, reading, and baking. Paula serves on the board of Eden Spiritual Care. |  |
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