Pandemic Parables: Reminders

Parable: Reminders

Thursday May 21st 2020

On Monday, in the hospital, where I am working as a Resident Chaplain until the end of August, I was flagging at the thought of another week of Pandemic restraints. Thankfully over the last few days I was given several much needed reminders that we will get through the season. 

Truly we will. 

The first one stopped me in my tracks. Literally. 

I was coming back from praying at the end of the Emergency Room morning huddle when I saw a new poster covering the whole of the Respiratory Workroom door. This is a department that has been deeply impacted by Covid-19 as breathing can be seriously affected by the virus. 

Replacing the previous Dr Seus illustration was a beautifully drawn home made sign that said: 

“At the end of the day all you need is hope and strength. Hope that it will get better and strength to hold on until it does.”

“That’s what I should have prayed over the ED team.” I thought. 

“That’s what we all need right now.”

For it is not just me that is flagging. There seems to be a general exhaustion. A longing for this strange, unreal time to be over. 

I greeted one of the charge nurses who I hadn’t seen for a while. She said wistfully, 

“I’ve been off for a few days. I didn’t realize how much pressure I’ve been under until I had time to decompress. I stayed inside so I didn’t have to wear a mask. It is difficult wearing one all day, exhausting. I had three whole days without one. It was hard to come back...”

Later another said nurse said: “At first there were so many changes. So much to take on board. So much to adjust to. It was frightening yes, but exciting also. That stage is gone. This stage is about trudging forward. Just keep on going while longing for the whole thing to be over...”

Even the large cuddly bunny in the barely-lit gift shop window seems to be slumped a little further over every time I go past. 

His tall, basket-carrying, fluffy-tailed, foil wrapped chocolate companions, however, are still perkily resolute. Probably relieved that they haven’t been eaten. 

The shop closed a couple of weeks before Easter and now that season is frozen, never ending in its windows. A constant reminder that once upon a time, glorious church services, new dresses, bonnets, egg rolls and family dinners were part of the celebration of the Resurrection. 

In the flesh. 

Not on Zoom. 

But those joys seems to be an eon ago. 

In a parallel existence. 

The construction around the chaplain’s office also seems to be interminable. Somehow the pandemic and the sound of loud electric drills have become intertwined in my psyche. 

In our psyches. 

However the chaplains have found a wonderful way to get rid of the pressure when it starts to feel overwhelming. 

We stomp. 

Let me explain. 

The Zen Den, the tranquil spot on the third floor designed to ease the stress away from exhausted hospital workers, had a basket of massage balls. The kind that you squeeze in your hand to release tension. They are in the shape of workman’s hard hat. 

Naturally I commandeered one. It now plays an important roll in our office. 

The Pastoral Care team is an international group. Of the ones who are together in the same space daily, three are from Africa and only one of us is American born.  

Somehow I persuaded the other chaplains to stomp repeatedly on this hard hat. Releasing frustrations at both the construction and the virus with grunts and growls. 

We all take a turn. 

It is hilarious!

You have to understand that the other chaplains are distinguished, godly folk, who are remarkably forebearing of this feral Storyteller. This kindness is another proof that showing restraint and good judgment are part of their way of life. 

You wouldn’t think so, however, when that hard hat hits the floor. 

“Take that” cries one, pounding the hat with their beautifully polished shoe, “and that, and that, and that!”

You are under my feet” cries another. “Yes you are! Yes! Yes!”

“Stomp! Stomp! Stomp!” shouts a third. 

And then we giggle and chortle like third graders in recess. 

It helps enormously! 

A few moments of ridiculousness and we are ready to go back onto the floors and minister to the sick and the dying. 

The other morning after one such session,  I was double masked and on my way to the isolation wing when a door flew open. It was in the wall of the all encompassing protective box that seals off the the construction site from the rest of the hospital. Inside I glimpsed stained glass in a door. I leaned in a bit further and before the box door closed I saw walls with that same beautiful decoration. 

It was the chapel!

The beginning of the virus coincided with the start of the construction. Our chapel was sealed off behind the builder’s pre fab walls and we were told it would eventually be in a different place. We didn’t know where. We presumed that the stained glass would stay as part of the pediatric emergency room that is being created daily behind the big white boxes. 

In the meantime we have had a temporary chapel in a sealed off part of the corridor near our office. 

It is not my favorite space. 

It is open at the ceiling, anodyne, uninteresting. I sulk when I see it. 

And then the door swung open briefly and I saw where the new chapel would be. And that it would be beautiful, and familiar, a place of quiet refuge.  It was a glimpse of what was to come. When the door closed, the weary present sparkled with glimmers of hope.

A friend who is a marathon runner likened this season to one of his races. He explained that we sprinted at first, then established a steady rhythm, and now we have hit the wall.  The invisible crushing barrier that needs to be pushed through before long distance runners can continue on and finish the race. 

That picture was reiterated by a Jewish friend, a religious scholar. To my surprise he sent me a New Testament Scripture. It was Galatians 6:9. 

“And let us not grow weary of well doing, for in due season we will reap if we do not give up.”

I started to laugh when I read it because it was so spot on. So absolutely perfect. 

So was the poster on the Respiratory  Therapist’s wall. 

So was the glimpse of what the finished chapel will look like. 

They were all reminders that this season will not endure for ever. The future won’t be in the same shape as the past, it’s true. 

But it will be good. 

Shot through with love, and hope, and grace. 

So to all my fellow weary sojourners. 

Push through! 

We will get through this pandemic marathon’s wall. 

May we all have renewed hope in our core, and the strength to hold on. Knowing in ever deepening ways that the God who has made a way for us in our past is already in our future. 

And that means that everything will be alright. 

More than alright. 

It will be good. 

Amen.