How are you all going out there?

For me it has been and continues to be an incredibly difficult and lonely time, as it would be for many others who are far worse off than I.  For those who have lost their jobs, find it difficult to put food on the table, have lost a loved one to this terrible virus, have lost a loved one due to any other cause but who cannot attend their funeral or feel doubly grieved in these stressful times, those who suffer from anxiety or depression, for all the faithful who cannot attend Mass, those who are single and isolated, the elderly, parents educating children at home, and so on – my heart goes out to you.

We keep hearing about how these are “unprecedented times” and how we must be strong and resilient. Yes, we must. But we also need a shoulder to cry on and a pillow to scream into when we feel broken.  

Being in “the lucky country” down under we have indeed been one of the most fortunate in comparison to many countries overseas. Our curve has flattened and the death toll low. We are now ever so gingerly beginning to emerge from our cocoons and dipping our toes into the water of “normality” again. But how can things truly ever be normal again?

This week Mass will start again at my church, but the numbers are limited to ten worshippers, one musician, and one singer. How does one choose who stays and who goes? How can many not feel shut out? It is like inviting guests to a great feast with a King, but limited to ten guests. How distressing this feels for many who hunger for the Holy Eucharist!

Although infection numbers in this part of the world are thankfully very low, the fear of getting the virus and passing it onto my elderly relatives with whom I share the air is very real. Can I take that risk? Should I take that risk although I am much younger and healthier? The rules are still in place – if it is not essential to leave your home, then don’t.  But Mass has always been an essential part of my life. Singing, like breathing, is central to my existence. I cannot do without either, and yet, I have to make a choice – go or wait a little longer.

Some churches have decided to remain closed until stage two of the eased restrictions are implemented, and more people can attend Mass. It will only be three more weeks until we hopefully move to stage two, so I believe this is a wise move. Now feels a little too soon to gather, and yet, my heart yearns to run to the doors of the church, fling them open and never leave again. The tension is in deciding when to emerge, as clusters of infections linger. This is real risk management, but on a spiritual and deeply emotional level. It is often what we cannot see that is the most challenging to face.

The curve we now need to flatten is the one of anxieties embedded in souls, hearts racing, and fears escalating. Even when we reach that magical “other side” of this pandemic, we know that most of us will be thinking: what if?  What if I bounce back to what I used to do and be, but the dreaded “second wave” happens?  We only need look to other countries that have braved freedom, and are now having to restrict once more.  We have not got this virus licked just yet.

Like a wobbling baby taking its first steps, we are afraid that we will fall, get sick, and end up worse than we were before. Yet I want to sing God’s Word to others out in the world again. I want my voice to be one of hope for them and for myself – to set free from the confines of my practice room the important messages a singing voice can give. I want to hear the sounds of the pipe organ, see the bottom half of my friends again (from the chest down – not in any adulterated way, but to see real flesh and blood standing before me rather than on a two-dimensional screen).  I want to get out of this wretched room and go for a long meandering walk without fear of catching anything (we are allowed to go out for exercise, but I am being extra cautious due to aforementioned elderly relatives).

It is only a matter of weeks now perhaps – three or four – and then I will dip that toe in the water.  It will be about the psychological battle within, like any war.  Until then, I continue to muse inside and turn my gaze within. It has been incredibly uncomfortable to look at my spirit, and realise the intensity of the anger and melancholy that lives there. It has been harrowing to pray and only hear the silence of God. The faith journey is not easy and requires persistence. (One thing that has helped me immensely is watching “The Chosen” – a crowdfunded mini-series about Jesus – I strongly encourage you to watch it).

Our returning will be harder than our leaving because of the life we used to have. We will all know inside that where we were before – in my case, standing beside an organ with expectations for a better 2020 ahead – the world was once a vastly different place. Everything was different. We were not yet scarred by this beast called Covid-19. We were chuckling at toilet paper frenzies and stockpiling, only to disappear into our homes a few weeks later.

Back then, over three hundred thousand people were alive, just like us. They had entered 2020 with hopes and dreams too, and now a few short months later they have sadly passed away.  Life. We are not in control of it and never were.

What difference will those of us who have been left on earth make? What will you and I do and who can we be? 

We look forward to our reunion with the freedoms of life in the real world, but what will that “real world” consist of?  What will we do with those freedoms? Let us never, ever take these for granted again.

Image Credit: pixabay.com