I Hate Sundays (& other pandemic normalities)

[Our son unknowingly created a piece that precisely
depicts the way that I feel in the midst of my own 

grief while still feeling assured that God is with us.
I refer to it often, and took my motherly liberty
of naming it for him: Pandemic Resurrection.]

----------------

Sundays stick to my insides like freshly laid tar. They cling to my muscles and my brain waves. They draw my ribs and lungs much too close together.

I try to worship, but it is usually in vain.

I am thankful that God meets me anyway.

I rage vacuumed today.

That’s right. Rage. Vacuumed.

We had just finished watching a beautifully done worship service by friends in Michigan (Thanks Revs. Elise and Ryan Edwardson!) like we have done every other Sunday of this relentless season of life.

That’s when I felt it.

Bubbling up like an unfortunate inferno with which I am all too familiar.

The anger.
resentment.
stagnancy.
loneliness.
misplaced-ness.
not-enough-ness.

Rather than self-destruct as I have been known to do when similar near-explosions have loomed just beneath the surface of my being, I decided to channel that energy into relieving the living room floor of the past month’s fuzz, dust bunnies, and other miscellaneous particles.

I hated every bit of it.
Slinging toys left and right, away from the wrathful path of the vacuum while my husband and son played at a safe distance on the couch.

Now that I’ve had an hour or so to sit in the aftermath of the rage cleaning, I feel a little lighter. A little less tar-ry.

I’m still feeling degrees of the previously mentioned emotions. Their weight, however, is not as immobilizing, not nearly the degree of nearly-erupting-inferno that they were prior.

Why?

Because, after the rage vacuuming, I stepped away.

Stepped. Away.

From the room
From my son
From my husband

Just for the briefest of moments. And you know what I did?

I changed my clothes (rage vacuuming leads to rage sweating), I turned on some piano music (thanks Erika Scissom!), and I washed my face.

How profound. To feel swallowed up by enormous feelings and just...step away to tend to them.

Now, my heart is back where it belongs:

missing our family
missing our friends
missing our church families
praying for people working in the COVID-19 line of fire
praying for people who aren’t given a choice about going to work
praying for people who are overworked
praying for people who are struggling to pay the bills and put food on the table or both
praying for people who are especially lonely and hurting and hopeless-feeling
desiring a reality where resurrection is a gift felt deep in the bones of all who are weary and desperately in need of new life, abundant

It’s okay to hate some days.
It’s alright to rage clean if that’s what gets you recentered.
It’s necessary to tend to our own heaviness...with the prayerful hope that in so doing we may rise to the exact purpose for which wewere created: tend to the heaviness of others—with nothing short of the compassion, mercy, grace, and love of Christ.

This journey is not linear, folks.
It is winding, twining, warped.

And even so, God is with us.

Be patient with yourselves.
Be gentle with yourselves.
All so that you might be those things and more for those in your midst who are suffering; all so that others may come to know the persistent and prevailing love of God.


That’s the take-away for me today. Maybe it is for you, too.


Deep peace, dear ones.

Pastor Mary Kate

Crying into My Coffee (& other pandemic normalities)

For a few years now (I think it started in seminary), I’ve felt as though drinking coffee from a mug is a sacred act—especially as my morning routine continues to evolve, adding more tasks and responsibilities as time goes by.

In other words, there is something about cradling the warm cup in my hands and being still that ushers me into a holy place.

I’ll be the first to admit, however, that I do not generally care for being still. In the stillness, I feel entirely too seen and known—whether by others, God, or myself. And, for as long as I can remember, being seen and known in such a way is unsettling for me.

For our family, self-quarantine was initially chaotic as Bo and I scrambled to find our footing as pastors of three churches collectively—making sure we stay connected with them in various, old and new and sometimes even innovative ways. That on top of trying to keep an energetic and fairly intelligent toddler engaged and challenged proved to be just that—a challenge.

But now that we’re in a rhythm (day 28, roughly), chaos is slowly settling into calmness, semi-clarity, and—unfortunately for me—stillness. 

I just do not do well with it.

I like to stay moving, on the go, busy—you know, as many of us do.

And so, ironically, in this new stillness of our mornings coupled with the warm coffee mug cupped in my hands, what I’ve found myself praying almost as fervently as I’ve prayed for God to heal and restore all things unto Godself is that God would forgive me and deliver me from worshiping the idol of busyness.

Because I do. Not just in these days where I’d much prefer to set a limb ablaze as process the emotional weight of the global health crisis through which we are all literally just trying to survive one day at a time. But also in the everydayness of what we once called normal.

We’re not going back there, you know...the what-was-normal is no more. A new normal will be the future outcome of our present reality. And that’s really hard for me to grapple with a lot of the time. Maybe it is for you, too.

It is why I have—unintentionally—begun what I suppose you might call the (albeit strange) spiritual practice of crying into my coffee. 

Two nights ago, I got the phone call I’d been holding my breath waiting for, dreading: one of my beloved parishioners passed away. Not of the virus-that-shall-not-be-named but of a surprisingly aggressive form of cancer. I couldn’t visit him before he died. I can’t go hug his wife and cry with her. I do not yet know what it will look like to grieve his death and celebrate his life with his family and our community. I can’t comfort my parishioners in person as I would normally have the privilege and honor of doing.

So, this morning—perhaps with more freeness than usual...not by choice but by heartbreak—I cried into my coffee. 

Big. 

Silent.

Hot. 

Ugly. 

Tears.

Plopped down onto my shoulders one after the other, after having traveled the outline that separates my cheeks from my mouth as I sipped my coffee, completely surrendered to the weight of my grief.

As I mentioned earlier, we’re not going back to what “was” before what we now know as COVID-19. But perhaps, that’s not all bad. Transformation is occurring—often for the better. We’re appreciating each other and our families and our friends and our communities and strangers and people we’ll never meet more than we did before this started. We’re putting in the time to stay connected with those we love. We’re finding out about ourselves—our capability for creativity and/or our need for rest. We’re learning (or at least I am) that no amount of worshiping the idol of “busyness” will protect us from what threatens to break our hearts and crush our spirits. We’re learning—for better or for worse—that fully experiencing and feeling our emotions is necessary and that they’ll eventually catch up with us anyway if we don’t.

I guess, all of this to say...don’t try to hide from the heaviness of what’s going on around us and within us. Don’t try to cover up grief—yours or that of the world at large. Things look different than they did a month ago, so allow yourself flexibility where you are able. Receive whatever it is God might be teaching you or reminding you in this season. Embrace the new and at times perhaps strange spiritual practices that allow you to reconnect with yourself and with God within you.

Take heart, dear ones. 

This is not forever.

God holds us close in these times where we cannot hold one another like we long to do.

God has us.

We have each other.

And while these truths do not altogether “fix” the suffering and the anguish and the fear and the loss, they certainly make for a much more hopeful outlook than if they did not exist.

Know that you’ve got what you need to carry on—even if it’s just a breath at a time; know that you are fiercely & deeply loved—with every breath you breathe. May these assurances sustain us in the days ahead.

Deep peace,

Pastor Mary Kate