Pandemic Parables: Moving

Pandemic Parables: Moving

We are indeed on the move at the hospital in Frederick, Maryland where I’m working as a Resident Chaplain until the end of August. In the middle of a pandemic a large building project is taking place in the area where the chaplains' offices are situated. 

Were situated. 

With only hours of notice our office had to be vacated. We needed to move into a temporary space, effectively a corridor surrounded by tall - but not nearly ceiling high - office dividers. 

There were ever-changing messages about this transition; what would come with us; what would be put in storage; where was our final destination; and when that would be. Many things are still uncertain. At least they are to me and my fellow chaplains. 

This past week has felt as though we are in a carnival sideshow precariously shuffling across a series of interlocking circles that are constantly shifting. All the while we are holding high trays piled with serious chaplaincy and visitation duties, like stoic religious waiters. 

Needless to say we have been doing a lot of extra praying for peace, grace, and the ability to hold it all together with equanimity. 

The other day, needing to shed stress, I couldn’t wait for my lunchtime walk around the beautiful, eerily empty grounds of Hood College, which is right behind the hospital. It was seventy five degrees, one of our first warm days. There was a tornado advisory - but that wasn’t due to start for over an hour. 

I headed out the door. 

The sky began to darken. I walked faster. The clouds became ominous. I increased my pace and my prayers. Fifteen minutes into a thirty minute walk the heavens opened and let loose a deluge that was biblical in intensity. I arrived back at the hospital front entrance dripping like a just bathed labradoodle, much to the hilarity of the security officers. 

I squished through the hallways towards our new office space to get my car keys, leaving a slug-like shiny wet trail behind me, all the while apologizing profusely to every cleaner I passed. 

I live close to the hospital. Every article I wore was soaked. There was no alternative but to change. As I drove home the skies cleared. The sun came out. Had there really been been a tremendous downpour minutes before?

There was a parcel outside my door. I buy many of my clothes second hand on eBay. A new to me maxi skirt had arrived that matched the jewelry I was already wearing. Here was my sartorial solution!  Within minutes I was dressed in fresh clothes from the skin up, had dried my hair, and was on my way back to work, hardly over my allotted lunch time. The sun was still shining and did so for the rest of the day. 

And I got several compliments on my new skirt. 

The whole incident had me thinking ahead to when the intensity of the pandemic has passed. Even beyond then, when this unsettling season has slipped into distant memory. 

Will it seem like a dream? 

As though it never really happened? 

But like me, glancing down at my new skirt and being reminded of the downpour, we will have changed. 

No one will come through this mass trauma the same. 

But I am believing that, like the parcel waiting for me outside the door containing exactly what I needed, that the Almighty will continue to provide and protect.

And because of that, although the future will look different, it will be good. 

Pandemic Parables: Gifts

Pandemic Parables: Gifts

This has been a week of gifts small and large in the Frederick, Maryland hospital where I am a Resident Chaplain until the end of August. One of those gifts is that the number of virus patients in the hospital has risen gently, not in a tidal wave.
Yet.  

Based on national models, the hospital CEO is projecting that the surge will peak at the end of May. It is a wonderful hospital and the leadership has made a myriad changes to the overall running of the place so that they are as prepared as they can be when the flow of virus patients increases. Sections of the hospital, including what was the business center across the street, and a large prefab building given by the State and quickly erected in the parking lot, await a flood of patients that we continue to pray never arrive. 

So far, by Thursday evening, seven Covid-19 patients had died at the hospital since the pandemic began, (and we grieve every one of them). There were eighteen confirmed cases and twenty in isolation awaiting results. But - wonderful news - twenty three patients have recovered- mainly due to the tireless dedication of the nurses who look after them with such love, skill, and grace. 

Another gift is the changing of the visitation policy. It used to be that a virus patient could have no visitors. Now if a  patient is actively dying two visitors over the age of eighteen are allowed to be with them. They are given gowns, gloves, masks - the same protective equipment as the nurses. It must be the same two visitors and they have to agree to isolate themselves for fourteen days after leaving the hospital following the death. 

This is a wonderful relief for many relatives, and for the nurses who truly care for their patients. However not everyone can take advantage of the new visitation opportunity. One family had just had a baby and didn’t want to risk coming in to the hospital, another patient’s husband was too frail, another already had a compromised immune system. All good reasons to stay away. 

There is a small dedicated team of Hospice nurses who work solely with the dying and their families. These women have become my friends. They are among the loveliest, most compassionate people I have ever met, with the most vibrant senses of humor. 

It hurts these hospice nurses’ hearts to see a patient die alone. So they are organizing for a dedicated iPad, for their use only so it will always be available, to connect the patient with their family via technology through their last hours of life. 

Although I am not allowed to go into virus patient’s rooms I consider it a gift that I am now able to enter the isolation wing on the third floor, one of my assigned areas. Before I had to hand the prayed-over pumpkin bread, that I am making weekly for staff that I could no longer see, to the unit secretary. She would emerge from the inner sanctum looking tense and strained. “It’s hard to be in there some days.” She’d say. “It is difficult to be cut off from everyone. And there is always a fear that you might carry something back home with you. Some of the younger nurses feel it particularly. They have small children.”

So I was really pleased that this week I could carry the pumpkin bread in myself. 

There have been several deaths on this wing, far more than they usually have. The Nurse Manager, who has goodness, grace, and compassion coming from her pores, was concerned about the effect that multiple deaths were having on her staff, already tense from working in a virus hot spot. So finally I was allowed in. 

The Nurse Manager led me through the door with its “Do not Enter! Isolation!” sign, to a second barrier. Stretched across the hallway floor to ceiling was a thick transparent sheet that was embedded with two long zips. Opening one,she let me through and quickly fastened it behind us. 

Beyond that plastic wall is a different world. The strain and tension in the air was palpable. I could see  it in the faces and the body language of the staff. Almost before I’d managed to hand over that much appreciated sweet treat the most incredible thing happened. Nurses, and assistants, got up from their stations, formed an oddly shaped circle saying to their co-workers “The chaplain’s here. We are going to pray. Do you want to join us?”

And we did! That prayer was one of the most heartfelt I have ever uttered. And I believe the Almighty will indeed pour His love, grace, and strength into and through these incredible carers, and protect them and those they love. 

The next day when I returned to the unit I discovered what the second zip in the plastic barrier was for. It created a larger portal. Another patient had died not long before and I entered at the same time as a porter pushing a gurney covered by a sheet - transportation for the morgue. 

“The nurses aren’t used to so many deaths on the unit.” Said the secretary, reiterating the Nurse Manager’s concerns. “None of us are. They are all doing so well at the moment. They are holding their emotions inside them and doing their jobs beautifully. But the strain will come out afterwards. That’s when they’ll need help. When we’ll all need help.” I nodded in agreement. And then we gathered, a smaller group this time, and once again, we prayed. 

There have been other gifts. One of the hospice nurses, whom I adore, gave me a colorful hair band with two large, bright buttons sewn on each side so that face masks could attach and save your ears from strain. She had an abundant handful she’d commissioned a friend to make so that she could gift them to her fellow workers. My ears and my heart are grateful. 

One gift was unexpected and touched me deeply. A cleaner on the non-isolation part of my floor, a kind and caring woman, has an angel ministry. She prays and asks the Lord which patients would be blessed by a small angel statue. 

I went into one patient’s room, before this pandemic. He was overjoyed, his face beaming. “I’d been praying and asking for the Lord to show me that he loved me” he said. “I wanted a touch from an angel. And then a cleaner I’d never seen before came into the room and gave me this.“ 

With tears in his eyes he pointed to a small plastic angel. “Now I know God truly loves me!”  

I moved aside all my preexisting theology about angels and knew with certainty that the Almighty was walking these corridors and using an abundance of ways and willing hearts to touch His people. 

The other day I was a recipient of this Angel ministry. “Here” said the cleaner. “This is for you.”  And she handed me a small white porcelain angel holding a full-flowering rose. 

I was deeply moved. 

Years ago, with the help of many volunteers,  I launched a theatre in the church in England where I worked. It was called “The Rose” - short for Rose of Sharon - one of the names of Jesus. 

Later, in America, I had  a ministry also called “The Rose,” which nurtured and grew prophetic creativity. Creativity that speaks to the heart. 

If I could have hugged that wonderful cleaner I would have - tightly. It was only social distancing that kept me apart. 

That angel is now on my desk. Every time I see it I feel the Lord saying” Hopes and dreams I’ve given you will be fulfilled. In my way. In my time. Hang on in there darling!”

There were a couple of other unexpected gifts this week. The first was a silent belly laugh. 

As part of my Chaplain Residency program I meet for two hours a week Tuesday through Thursday with my supervisor and five fellow male chaplains. For the last few weeks it has been via the internet. 

Last week I realized, yet again, that despite having worked in the hospital since last May this Storyteller is still incredibly unmedical. My supervisor was talking about a heroine. For the longest time I thought she was referring to Rapunzel when in reality she was talking about the drug... 

I guffawed internally long and loud at my idiocy all the while keeping a straight face for the camera. 

The levity was needed. It was a deep serious session. One chaplain’s home town is Albany, Georgia. At the beginning of Covid-19, on the cusp of social distancing, when understanding was scant, two churches got together for a funeral for a beloved elder. They deliberately hugged and embraced to show that they were not afraid of the virus. 

Albany, Georgia is now a main center of the pandemic in the South. 

My fellow chaplain told me that every day he hears of friends and family dying. 

In addition another chaplain in our group had recently lost his mother. 

In the ten minute break in the middle of the web session I badly needed to stretch my legs. I walked down the long corridors passed the gift shop, closed for the duration, with its forlorn stuffed bunnies drooping under the sorrow of not being adopted. I continued on to the main hospital foyer grateful for the exercise. 

I heard music. 

It was coming from the almost always silent grand piano that graces that main entrance. There was a man in sweats and a golf shirt playing beautifully and with enthusiasm. It was one of the doctors freshly changed from his scrubs tinkling those ivories with abandon, playing for sheer joy as well as for the handful of people who were listening with surprise and gratitude. 

I sat down eight feet from him and, through my mask, cheered him on. He played Elton John’s “Your Song” with its opening line “It's a little bit funny this feeling inside...” He ad libbed as he went along with the words  “I’d build a big house where Covid could not live”. And ended with a flourish on “How  Wonderful Life is When You’re In the World” before wiping down the keys, giving us all an air hug, and leaving. 

I raced back to my web meeting thinking about all the people who work in this hospital and how, for this season, this Storyteller unlikely or not - is so grateful to be in their dedicated midst. 

I also thought that in this time of darkness the glimmers of goodness, the unexpected kindnesses, the bubbling laughter are indeed a great divine gift. They show that He who has His eye upon the sparrow cares deeply and is watching over us all with great love and compassion. 

I am writing this post on Easter Saturday. That divine pause between Good Friday’s sorrow, and Easter Sunday’s joy. Like us with the fear and uncertainty of the Coronavirus, on that long ago Saturday the apostles were hiding away in terror of the Roman wrath that lurked outside their door. 

And then the Resurrection happened and everything changed. 

In this season of miracles may Resurrection light and life flood all of our lives bringing deep inner peace and the certain knowledge that we are loved. Deeply loved. Loved beyond our understanding or comprehension. 

And may we also know with unwavering conviction that somehow, some way, in God’s perfect time, everything is going to be all right. 

Amen.

Pandemic Parables: Changes

Pandemic Parables: Changes

The changes happening at the hospital over the last few days have been constant and confusing as the senior leadership battle to keep ahead of the overwhelming surge we all fear is coming. 

The very visible change is that from now on all staff all have to wear cloth face masks from the time we leave our cars until we return. “I feel like a bandit” said one male nursing assistant. I nodded in agreement. And it is surprisingly odd not to be able to see if people are smiling. I suspect we will all end up with very expressive eyes. 

 

There are so many other changes happening in what feels like quick fire succession. Including an increase of Coronavirus patients and an expansion of areas in which to care for them. 

As of Friday we had 41 Covid-19 patients in the hospital, nine confirmed to have the virus. The others have the symptoms, are awaiting tests, and of course have to be isolated and treated as though

they are positive. 

The ICU unit now has only Covid-19 patients. I walked through there on Friday. (The area’s regularly assigned chaplain was away.) Faces were tense, conversations terse, and a large sign said “Are you wearing enough PPE?” (Personal protective equipment.) 

Later I met a high level nurse assigned to the ICU from a different specialized area. It was at the end of twelve hour shift. This strong, intelligent woman was close to tears from exhaustion and suppressed fear. It was an honor to pray for her as she stood in line to get coffee. How I wish I could have hugged her - an impossibility from six feet apart. 

Other sections of the hospital have been turned into overflow ICU units. On Wednesday one of those units was in my part of the hospital. (I am assigned to the Emergency Department, Same Day Surgery, and the Third Floor.) The PAC-U  is the recovery area for same day surgery. It has been eerily quiet since elective surgeries were put on hold. On Friday, to my surprise, it was suddenly filled  with non virus patients who normally would have been upstairs in the ICU.  These were seriously ill people. The space was tight and divided by curtains as patients are usually transient. I anointed one patient with oil and prayed for him and his already grieving spouse, knowing he had little time to live. At the same time someone was sweeping the floor feet from his bed. That would not usually ever happen. But then this area is not usually an ICU and everyone is learning to adjust. 

To staff this new ICU area, nurses had been brought from other places in the hospital and quickly retrained, but the systems were different from what they were used to. Great difficultly and stress ensued. Recognizing the problem, Management stepped in and changed gears rapidly. (They have been admirable in their handling  of this unprecedented crisis.) The next day the whole overflow area had been moved to the second floor of the hospital closer to the original ICU. 

I only discovered this the day after praying for the dying patient when I walked through the once again deserted space. It was as though the whole unit had been vaporized. The beds, the curtains, the patients were gone. Remaining were just a few stunned looking nurses who told me what had happened. “It feels like a morgue in here” I said before stopping myself in horror. Then we all burst out laughing to break the tension. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that” said one of the nurses as we looked at each other knowingly, trying to suppress images of the overflowing body count in New York.

I saw one truly marvelous nurse, a good friend, that I hadn’t seen for several days. That’s because instead of being in colorful clothes she was in scrubs wearing a surgical mask. She is a hospice nurse who has been commandeered for the ICU. She doesn’t mind. “I am a nurse” she said. “I am trained to go where I’m needed, to the hurting, the dying. All of my team is like that. We are called. We go.”

Where my friend is most needed at the moment with the Covid-19 patients. This woman has the most enormous heart. She, and her fellow nurses and medical staff, care enormously. She had recently been at the bedside of a dying Virus patient holding their hand through her surgical glove to ensure the patient didn’t die alone. If I, or my fellow chaplains had been allowed into the room we would have done the same. But the declining supplies of  PPE have to be kept for the medical staff.  So in some areas the nurses are doing the work of the chaplains. And the chaplains job, now more than ever, is to care for the nurses and the rest of the staff. 

I was told of a chaplain intern who walked into the Emergency Department (when we were still allowed to go in freely) and was moved to see a nurse holding the hand of a patient and praying with them. I went to the bedside of a non-virus patient a couple of days ago. The patient’s daughter had promised him he wouldn’t die alone and had set up vigil by his bedside. I came in to pray, comfort, and, at the daughter’s request, to anoint her father with oil. Afterwards the daughter told me, with tears in her eyes, that a nurse had come in at the end of her overnight shift and offered to pray before she drove home. An offer that was gratefully accepted.

All this to say that we have the most incredibly loving, caring staff. The chaplains fervently pray that Covid-19 patients, who are forbidden visitors, are surrounded by divine love, compassion, and heaven-sent angels - both spiritual and human. And we trust and believe that those prayers are being answered. 

Of course the hospital has patients that are not virus patients, although at less than half the capacity of before. Some areas are very quiet and their regular nursing staff have been reassigned to other sections of the hospital where there is a greater need. The nurses are willing, but still it is discombobulating for them to have so many changes. 

I walked through one of my areas on Friday, which was April 3rd. It was even quieter than it has been recently. “Where are the patients?” I asked one nurse. “We had ten patients leave yesterday” she said. “They were here drying out. It is the beginning of the month. I suspect the Coronavirus tension was too much for them and they’ve gone to the liquor store.”

We are all learning to cope with the stress of the ever-present virus in different ways. 

Tension is indeed everywhere. It is there in abundance in the hospital, in the grocery stores, in the streets. I crawled home on Friday night, exhausted and feeling like a wound up spring. That tension turned me into a klutz. On Saturday morning I was making breakfast. My arm swept across the counter causing a carton containing six eggs to hurtle skywards and land smashed and seeping across the floor. I could have wept at the waste. My store is usually out of eggs these days so I couldn’t just put on hazmat gear, pop down there and restock.  

But when I stared again at the mess I realized that two of the eggs were only cracked. I put them on to fry while cleaning up the sticky debris. 

They were delicious. 

In a way I think those eggs are a picture of what is happening in our lives. Everything we hold precious is up in the air. Some of it will never be restored back to the way it was. Even what is left might seem a loss at first. A heartbreak. But somehow, with God’s great grace, when we get through this season. And we shall get through it. That which is left behind will sustain us.
More than that, it will be good.

Pandemic Parables: And So It Starts

Pandemic Parables:  And So It Starts

And so it starts...  Last week we had no Covid-19 patients in the hospital where I work as a Resident Chaplain. Yesterday we had 22 with many more isolated awaiting test results. Today the number has increased, we are expecting many more, and we have had our first virus deaths. 

The hospital is electric with tension. Every space that can be used to house patients has been converted. I’m the Resident Chaplain for the Emergency Room, Same Day Surgery and the Third floor (one wing which is now a sealed off isolation area.) There are no elective same day surgeries until the virus has run its course. Walking through that area yesterday was ominous. There were no patients in a space that is normally bustling. And yet lined up outside the cubicles and along the corridors were fully made-up beds, awaiting a deluge of occupants. A myriad of beds. 

I rounded a corner and found a group of nurses quietly sitting and talking about the virus wave that was about to break on them. “I’m scared” said one. Others nodded. “Please tell people to stay home” said another. “For our sakes. Because, if I could, I would swap with them any day.”

They wanted me to pray and I was delighted to do so. And then my pen stuck to the front of my jacket at breast height and wobbled there. And we all giggled like teenagers - grateful that something inane had broken the tension. 

All over the building the medical personnel are on edge. A wonderful nurse practitioner, who has become a good friend, normally wears her beautiful, thick, dark hair flowing or in a loose chignon.  Now it is up in a tight bun. “I’m ex-military,” she said. “I’m wearing it army style because it comforts me and makes me feel secure As though once again I’m being protected by the structure of the military. 

This nurse practitioner and her team work in an area of the hospital where they are free to wear their own stylish clothes. They always looked colorful, elegant, and professional. Now they are in scrubs. “It’s in case I pick up anything” said my friend. I don’t want to take it home on my clothes.”

My friend told me she expects to get the virus at some point and live through it. “How could I not?” She said. “With such close contact that I have with patients.“ 

She told me that an alarm tone had rung loudly on everyone’s personal phones and she jumped startled, staring. Then she realized with a deep relieved sigh that the alert was State-wise and not within the hospital. 

Medical staff are coiled, tense ready to spring into action in this last slow-paced lull before the inevitable storm. 

Nurses must now wear short sleeves and the Nurse Practitioners and managers can no longer wear their white coats. That is so that nothing blocks hands being washed frequently, right up to the elbow. 

It is funny to see these senior nurse that I respect so much without those coats. They look more vulnerable, like wise turtles who have shed their shells. It brought home to me in a new way that these incredible women (and a few men) who deeply care for their staff, and have such big caring, wise hearts, have their own cares and concerns. Sick husbands, children missing graduations, elderly parents living with them. And yet they are called, and are dedicated, and so they adapt. And give. And adapt. And then adapt some more. 

Many other changes were put in place today. New protocols for chaplains visiting the Emergency Department in response to Codes. Basically we can’t until it is established that the patient and anyone with them doesn’t have the virus. 

Then, it seemed within minutes, tall plexiglass shields were erected in the main lobby protecting security officers, and registration personnel. 

One change I found sad and odd. Taking advantage of so many people working from home, major building work is going on near the Chaplains’ office. I went into the tiny chapel today where I love to spend time, and it was stripped bare. All the pews and trappings had been shifted to other areas. The only thing that remained was the beautiful wall wood carving of one elderly hand being compassionately held by another. 

But maybe that is the lesson for the moment. When everything in our lives has been stripped down to its essentials, God will still be there to comfort, nurture and sustain us. As with Elijah hiding in the cave after fleeing Jezebel in terror of retribution, so with us. With me. 

Elijah didn’t hear the voice of God in the earthquake, wind or fire. No no. Elijah heard God in the still small voice. 

 

Now that much of the noise in the world has been turned down, I’m eagerly listening. 

Answers are everywhere. Yesterday I was walking along a deserted corridor near my office. I passed a small round piece of dirt, I looked at it and walked on by. On my return it was still there. So I thought, come on Geraldine, you know what to do! So I bent down and picked it up to throw it away. To my surprise it was an extremely dirty cent coin - a penny. I grinned widely because I have a thing about finding cents on the ground. They often magically appear when I’m needing comfort, encouragement, or answers. When I discover one and read its inscription: “In God We Trust” I feel as though it is a message from the Almighty saying “Don’t worry kid, I’ve got your back.”

I took it to the Chaplain’s Office office and started to scrub it with an antiseptic wipe. It began to shine. It was as though the Lord was using it to say, although everything seems dark and hopeless trust that underneath I am still the same. I will never leave you or forsake you. 

Later, buoyed and comforted by that message, I went for a walk on the nature trail behind my house. I needed to shake the hospital from me with all its tenseness, expectation and fear. I heard the birds, saw the blossoms, and I knew  once again that God is in charge This storm will run its course. And at the end of the movie that we are living in, everything will work out exactly as it should.

Pandemic Parables: Discoveries

Pandemic Parables: Discoveries

This weekend has been a time of discoveries, reminiscing, and mini miracles. 

Yesterday a school friend of my brother's contacted me. I think I was about fourteen the last time I saw this chap who was year or two older than me. He came to stay with us in our home in Spain for a few weeks one Easter.  It was not far from his native Portugal, where he still lives with his wife and family. 

All three of us were on holiday from the boarding schools we attended in England. My brother, Damian, and Antonio went to a monastery, I went to a convent. 

The Easter Antonio stayed we struck up a sweet friendship. I haven’t heard from him since, until yesterday when he Facebook friended me. He’d been doing FaceTime with Damian, asked about me, and Damian gave him my details. 

 

This virus is giving many of us an excess of time to reminisce and check into things we’d never have the time or inclination to do otherwise. 

 

We chatted and exchanged news. It took me back to far off innocent days, in a house on a hill overlooking the Mediterranean. My morning alarm was the bells around the goats’ necks that followed their shepherd on a daily trek to high pasture. It was an formative time, and it was good to put myself back into that young self, remember my dreams and ambitions, and measure my life now through that filter. 

I believe this virus time will be a reset time for many of us. We are learning to do without much that we thought was essential. As one wit said - “I never expected to give up so much for Lent!” 

I’m seeing pictures of friends who are cleaning out closets and cupboards. I think we are doing that emotionally as well as  physically.  We might never again want to pick up some of that old baggage and the new normal will be lighter and freer. Many of us are learning new skills. I am being forced to embrace a level of technology way beyond my comfort zone. And I’m glad to be pushed past my fears. 

Then today I discovered, rediscovered, that being  artistically untidy can be a good thing. Years ago, when I lived in a ground floor flat in London, I left a window open and burglars grasped the opportunity and ransacked the place. However I worked for a church and didn’t have much to take. Except I had a lot of beautiful jewelry that had been my mothers and grandmother’s. I kept it right at the back of my underwear drawer. The burglars, that I suspect were kids, opened all the drawers and pulled out some of the contents. However they never found my gold and gem stash. Why not?  Because the drawer was in such disarray to begin with they never spotted them.

Good things came from that invasion. The insurance money supplemented my tiny salary and enabled me to continue working at the church for another year. And I have refused to be ashamed of my creatively messy bent ever since. 

All that to say that my car has not been thoroughly cleaned since my last long storytelling road trip. I keep all sorts of stuff in there as you never know what you will need as you pass through different terrains and stay with a variety of people along the way. Well guess what I found when digging for something else under the back seat? Let me give you a clue. Right now it can seem more precious than gold or gems. 

It was the impossible to find, completely sold out in my local store, extra large container of antiseptic wipes. Glory!  

I needed the wipes badly. They were nowhere to be found. And they were supplied just when I needed them. Thank you Lord!

To me this pandemic feels like we are close to Biblical times. I’m reminded of Elisha and the widow. She, hesitantly, used the last of her oil to cook him bread and in return received an abundance of oil. The oil in the temple burned for eight days keeping the light going, when it should only have lasted a fraction of that time - the miracle celebrated every Hannukah. The child’s five fish and two loaves were multiplied and fed a huge crowd.  (I’ve always wondered if they were sardines unless that kid had a huge appetite.) All that to say that I’m believing our needs will be met one way or the other during this store-stripped time. 

During this dark season relationships are being restored. People are helping every way they can. Young people are shopping for the old and infirm. Quilting groups are making face masks. Communities are coming together while keeping a safe distance. We are in a time of sorrow in which, I believe we will see miracles both domestic and dramatic. 

In the meantime I’ve heard that a nearby nursing home has 66 residents who have all been found to have the virus. Eleven have been hospitalized. Some of those have come to us. So the hospital I’m working at as a Resident Chaplain now has virus patients on its isolation wings. I’ll find out more in the morning when I return to work. 

So once again the house smells of cinnamon. Two loaves of pumpkin bread are cooling in the kitchen. If the only thing I can do is bake a sweet treat and pray over it, I’ll do it gladly. And I’ll believe that somehow God will take it and turn it, and the masks, and the everyday kindnesses, into something that will nurture, sustain, and bring peace. 

And I’m believing for all of us that great good will come out of this season of darkness. That we will remember who we were meant to be, and embrace that truth, and Truth itself, with all our weary, frightened hearts.