Cindy DeBoer

COVID-19

Same Kind of Wounds as Me

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I noticed her and those tell-tale marks on her face from far across the room. At the first break of our writer’s conference, I ran over to her, breathless with anticipation.

“Hey, I don’t mean to be weird or anything, but I notice that you have nasal cannula indentations on your cheeks, and I know that means you wear oxygen at night. I usually have those marks on my cheeks, too, but I didn’t have a portable tank to take with me, so I’m sleeping without it here at the conference.”

She didn’t even hesitate. She reached out and lovingly – knowingly – hugged me. We had an instant bond. We chatted non-stop for 20 minutes. We both have debilitating lung diseases for which there is no cure. We were both feeling a bit discouraged at this conference because it was set in the mountains at a high elevation and the campus was very hilly – two things that make people with sucky lungs cringe.

It has been a hard two years for both of us. We were both told by our physicians that COVID would not be kind to us, and we needed to avoid it if at all possible. We both felt isolated, lonely, bored, and angry after two years of this COVID nightmare. We shared sadness about strained relationships. We admitted feeling unloved, devalued, and discarded when people we loved diminished the devastation of COVID and refused to take precautions on our behalf.

The tears flowed uncontrollably and I think I made a blubbering scene for onlookers.

As two people with lung diseases amidst the worst pandemic in the modern world, we both also suffered from PTSD and I know, for me, I desperately NEEDED her. But here’s the thing: I didn’t know how much I needed her. I had open, oozing, un-attended wounds and didn’t realize  it until she walked in the room. Seeing her just made me acknowledge I am hurt. I am suffering and I need someone who gets me.

I didn’t know how deep my wounds were until we started talking and shared all kinds of bottled-up emotions.

Later that day, I mused how my view on those nasal cannula indentations had changed. I’m no longer embarrassed by them. I’m glad I have them so that others who are oxygen-dependent can recognize me as someone who shares their wounds. I also mused that it would be kind of nice if people wore baseball caps emblazoned with a logo of the wounds they carry to help us all identify one another. I’d like the people with the following wounds to wear identifying ball caps so I could find them more easily:

  • Not loved all that well by my daddy.
  • Spent our kids’ college funds and our retirement funds on living overseas because we refused to raise support just to live like Jesus, for Jesus’ sake.
  • Gains weight even if I swallow my own spit.

It is through the sharing of our pain and truly being known and understood in that pain, that we can begin to find healing.

And what about you, my friends? What wounds are you carrying that no one can see? Who is it that you need to meet just to feel that you are not so alone in your woundedness? Therefore, what kind of logos would you want to see on someone’s ball cap that would make you want to run to them, hug them, and say, “YES! Me, too! Me, too!”

Ball caps that said:

  • Abused as a child. No one knows.
  • My spouse is cheating on me.
  • I drink my troubles away. Every day.
  • We want a child, but can’t get pregnant.
  • My business partner takes advantage of my hard work ethic.
  • I don’t think I love my husband anymore.
  • I don’t have any friends.
  • I’m six months pregnant and just found out our baby has Down’s Syndrome.
  • I secretly dream about running away from it all.
  • I’m depressed and have fleeting thoughts of suicide.
  • I have a prodigal child.
  • Had an abortion in high school that no one knows about.
  • I have cancer and I don’t feel like fighting it anymore.

Finding someone with the same kind of wounds is good, life-giving, and necessary. It’s also biblical:

“Bear one another’s burdens, and thereby fulfill the law of Christ.”  Galations 6:2

“A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another: just as I have loved you, you also are to love one another.” John 13:34

“Be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love. 3 Make every effort to keep the unity of the Spirit through the bond of peace.” Ephesians 4: 2,3

“Do not withhold good from those to whom it is due, when it is in your power to act.” Proverbs 3:27

So here’s the deal, fellow sufferers – unless we get real with one another and share our woundedness, NO ONE WILL EVER KNOW and the healing that is available to us, through Christ and his people, won’t be known in its fullest form.

Unless we have nasal cannula marks on our faces or choose to wear a baseball cap with a bold logo, NO ONE KNOWS OUR WOUNDS.

So, may you, by the grace of God, find the strength to share your wounds with a few trusted souls. May you find that the sharing of your wounds exposes those hurts and pains to the light where the light can chase away the darkness. May you find some inner peace as you let out that which has always been bottled in. May you know that the God of all creation created other individuals WITH YOUR SAME WOUNDS to be there for you when you are feeling alone – you need only to reach out to them.

Don’t be ashamed of your nasal cannula indentations. They may be the very thing somebody needs to see today to bring about their healing.

Thanksgiving Eve Sucks

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Sometimes holidays conjure up more pain and despair than joy and celebration. That’s true for me, anyway, on the day before Thanksgiving. It was 2013 and with the table set, the turkey stuffed, and pies complete, my husband and I spent the day before Thanksgiving driving to Ann Arbor to meet with a pulmonology specialist. She confirmed what we had already feared: I have Lymphangioleiomyomatosis (LAM) – a very rare, progressive, degenerative, and debilitating lung disease.

I despise the day before Thanksgiving.

And, in true fashion, this year hasn’t let me down. Although our refrigerator is packed with a 16 lb. turkey, every vegetable known to man, multiple pies, and drinks of every color, I cancelled the festivities for tomorrow because I (of all people who should know better) have had a significant exposure to COVID. While for the last two years I’ve done everything in my power to stay COVID free (which my doctor warned me would “not go well” for me), that little corona boogie man found me anyway.

I want to moan, whine, and throw apples at squirrels. I’d like to take about 10 Melatonin, crawl in bed and wake up on New Year’s Day. I feel like eating all the pies and using the gravy as a chaser. I don’t feel like being thankful for anything or anyone. And I sit here quarantined for 10 days just wondering if every little sniffle is the onset of the illness that will take me out, the very LAST last thing I feel like doing is creating a “Thankful” list.

Which is exactly why I must.

Before Ann Voskamp bestowed on us the beautiful posture of thanksgiving, our very own Jesus Christ had made it quite clear this wasn’t to be an optional thing (Psalm 100: 4,5; Ephesians 5: 18-20; Colossians 2: 6,7; I Thessalonians 5: 16-18  – just to name a few). To be honest, I don’t always like to do all the things Jesus told us to do and sometimes I get grumpy about it. But in this moment, in this debacle, in this wretched season of COVID, I don’t know what else to do or where else I’d go. I will choose thankfulness simply because He told us to be thankful not FOR all things, but IN all things. I will be thankful because he is God and I am not.

I am thankful that:

  • I’m still alive. Cliché, I know. But when I was diagnosed 8 years ago today, all the literature said that women with LAM would live, on average, 10 years. Since that time, a chemo-like medication has been approved to treat LAM and while it’s not a cure, it does slow down the progression. Additionally, most recent research reveals that while some women do succumb to LAM after just a few years, others can live as many as 20 to 25 years with the disease. Still, every year, on this day, I am reminded that I am one of the fortunate ones. I am still alive.
  • Mom jeans came back in style this year. I mean, seriously, who wouldn’t prefer “A” over “B”???   
“A”

“B”
  • My grocery store is diverse. There’s a new grocery store in our neighborhood that has found the magical blend where all people from both ends of the socioeconomic spectrum feel “at home” and catered to. I often shop alongside destitute and homeless people because the store offers the cheapest bread, eggs, and staples anywhere around. The atmosphere is welcoming and quaint, not stuffy like high-end grocery stores can be. Plus, it is within walking distance from most of the poorest sections in town. But at the SAME TIME, whenever I’m there, I will also see high-ranking business folks who work just up the street. These people, who likely have 7-figure incomes, come to this store for the local flare and pricier items: the fresh homemade Italian bread, the sushi prepared on site, the signature blend coffees, and the huge selection of organic produce. I truly believe all of us feel known and accepted there. For the first time in my life, I love to get groceries. It’s a grocery-store miracle.
  • I live in a neighborhood where I encounter the homeless every day. That may seem like a weird thing to be thankful for – because DANG how I wish homelessness wasn’t even a thing!  But Jesus did say: “The poor you will always have with you.” (Matthew 26:11), and while I’d like to argue that point with him (“But WHY, Jesus??? Why can’t we fix poverty and eliminate homelessness and hunger??? Wouldn’t that be better???), what I have come to believe is that the poor are maybe in our lives because WE need THEM. I think maybe the plan behind the homeless in our face every day is so that the comfortable ones (me) get uncomfortable. And if that IS God’s plan, I think it is a good one.
  • I don’t own a gun. Several weeks back, on an extremely hot and muggy evening, I left our upstairs bedroom to go sleep on the couch on the main floor. The air-conditioning just doesn’t reach the second floor in our century old home, and no one wants to see a cranky menopausal woman after a long, sweaty night without sleep. Instead, I fell fast asleep on the couch. Somewhere around 3:00 in the morning, I awoke to the sound of someone fidgeting with our door locks. We don’t live in the best neighborhood. I’d been warned that nighttime burglars in our neighborhood often look for purses set out on kitchen tables that they can just grab and go. In a milli-second I glanced at our dining table and saw my purse sitting out in the open. The burglar would have to walk right past me to get it. In the second milli-second I scanned my reach for something to use as a weapon. My choices were a book, a remote control, and an empty Diet Coke. This was not looking good. With my third milli-second I said a prayer: “Lord, see you soon!” because I was certain I was going to die. The door burst open, my heart stopped beating even before I saw the burglar. A short black shadow entered the room and I steeled myself for the bullet. The person was so short, in fact, I thought, “My God! Is this a child about to murder me?” – but my eyes wouldn’t focus in the dark. In a very NEXT milli-second I remembered my youngest daughter was short. Very short. She had moved out several months prior, but still had a key. She had fumbled at the door because it was so dark out and she was hysterical. About a half hour earlier she had learned that a dear friend of hers had been killed in a tragic car accident only an hour after he had left her apartment. She was one of the last people to see him alive. She fell apart with the news and needed support, so she drove directly to her mom. If I had had a gun, I totally would have taken it with me to sleep on the couch – that’s logical in our neighborhood. If I had had a gun, I have no doubt in my mind I would have killed my daughter.
  • We’ve had sunny days in November!!!
  • Some friends don’t give up on the chronically ill. I’ve not been a good friend to my friends, I know that full well. I don’t have the energy to go out for coffee/lunch like I once did, or hang out at the beach together, and I’m certainly not baking anyone cinnamon rolls anymore. I sometimes even look at my phone, consider a text or call, but don’t – because the phone looks like it weighs about 300 pounds. Somehow, some way, a few of my friends have stuck with me in all of this. I’ve heard it said that those who suffer from chronic illness are the loneliest people anywhere. I believe it. But God has given me the gift of a few good friends and they have made all the difference.
  • God made Olipop. If you’ve never heard of this heavenly healthy beverage, let it suffice to say that the Diet Coke in my fridge is afraid. Very afraid.
  • Some people never give up on a neighborhood. Our lovely, fragile, diverse, and economically challenged neighborhood is breaking, bursting and, as always, crying out for help. Paul and I were utterly blown away when we moved to the city by the amount of people relentlessly doing the hard, thankless, and tiring work of community care through neighborhood ministries. These brave and devoted few are bringing the shalom of Jesus to a worn-out world and we are so privileged to journey with them.
  • I’ve been given a baby to love. I’m so thankful that a neighborhood couple who needed a little help with childcare thought of me. It’s no secret that COVID has forced me to quit my job as an RN, has kept Paul and I from many of the things we enjoy, and has even wreaked havoc on my mental stability. I didn’t even realize how much a baby brings HOPE and JOY and LIFE into a bleak existence, but it’s true: a baby changes everything! (Even my shitty attitude)
She loves me.
Really she does…

Please, share with me some of the things you’re most thankful for this year. I’d love to hear them and God gets the glory!!!

How to Launch Into Winter with COVID All Around Us

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My stupid COVID dog (not that she has it, but we bought her because of it) woke me up way too early one morning. I wouldn’t mind if our Governor mandated all humans shall not stir before 8:00 a.m.

Vie (my COVID dog’s name – which is French for “life”) needs a walk immediately upon waking or she’ll poop in the house. So at the crack of dawn I headed outdoors in my pajamas for a dog walk.

With sleepy-eyes and morning breath I bumped into my neighbor just two doors down. She was loading her last piece of luggage into her car before heading to the airport. She was meeting up with her parents so they could tearfully send her off to live in the Middle East. She’s young (25?), very blonde, very attractive, and traveling solo to teach at a high school in Afghanistan. Yes, you heard that right:

Af-freakin’-ghanistan.

God knew this one last impromptu meeting was needed by both of us. We had a precious exchange there on the sidewalk and I was able to send her off with a blessing. With mutual  tears, she departed. I wondered how in the world her parents were handling this. Afghanistan. Who even does that? (Okay…. So maybe I did that. But WE went as a family. I had a brave husband at my side along with two strapping, tall teenaged sons and two very confident daughters. I was not ALONE. And Morocco is no Afghanistan. Not even close. People actually take vacations to Morocco.)

Before I had much of a chance to process the bravery of this young woman, I turned the corner and ran into a homeless man. He was picking at garbage in the park across from our home and so I greeted him warmly, “Hello!”

He launched into a rambling apology, “I’m sorry. So sorry. We didn’t mean it. We’re leaving.” It was then I noticed his tent that was erected just beyond the children’s play area. A second man was exiting their “home” as we spoke.

“Sorry for what?” I asked.

Without making further eye contact, he shuffled away saying, “We slept too long. We’ll be gone soon. So sorry.”

Homelessness in Grand Rapids is a thing – as I imagine it is in every city. But I’ve heard we are known as a destination for the homeless because we have plenty of shelters and food distribution centers, clean parks, friendly police and a plethora of Christian organizations that will do anything to help. But COVID has definitely made the homeless issue worse here in GR.

One thing I know for sure: Homelessness is not of the kingdom of God. This is not the way things are supposed to be.

I quickly realized the reason my stupid COVID dog woke me up so early is because God knew I needed to run into my Afghanistan-bound neighbor and my neighbors with no home because I needed the reminder that life is rarely what we thought it’d be or even what it’s supposed to be.

Watching my neighbor leave for Afghanistan I thought, “I bet when she was born and her parents first saw her rosy little cheeks, blonde tufts of hair and blue eyes they never once thought: “I hope that someday this one will move to Afghanistan all alone – a place where young beautiful blondes really stand out and American’s are not particularly welcome.”

I bet her parents never once imagined this for her future. But…

“A man’s heart plans his way, but the Lord directs his steps and establishes them.” Proverbs 16:9

I bet when my two homeless neighbors were in high school, they never once thought to themselves, “I hope someday I will be without a home. I just know that I’ll end up jobless, with no prospects, and unable to secure safe shelter.”

 But…. “A man’s heart plans his way, but the Lord directs his steps and establishes them.”

We were invited to 3 weddings this fall where the bride and groom watched many lifelong dreams shatter as they moved up their wedding date, changed the venue, and shrunk the guest list due to COVID.

But… “A man’s heart plans his way, but the Lord directs his steps and establishes them.”

Our college graduate daughter was supposed to be living abroad in France or Spain or Honduras right now developing her language skills but instead she is home here with us working as a barista.

Because a man’s heart plans his way, but the Lord directs his steps and establishes them.

Referencing changed plans and directions is not meant in any way to minimize those who have lost loved ones from COVID. Those losses are incalculable and we can’t even begin to make sense of that. But I think that, without exception, we ALL had plans, dreams, and hopes for 2020 that look nothing like the 2020 we’re living. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

THESE WERE NOT OUR PLANS, GOD!!! DO YOU REALLY KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DOING???

Never before have we all been so at the mercy of the Lord’s plans. We can barely plan next week, let alone next month or next year.

But one beautiful takeaway of this COVID reality is to realize I am not in charge of me and you are not in charge of you. We can plan all we want and hope and dream and whine when these things may have to be changed, cancelled, or never come to fruition – but the truth is that The Lord Our God alone is sovereign and we can never take his place on that throne no matter how much we think we belong there.

We can only surrender our plans and trust Him.

That’s it.

That’s all.

Whether in Afghanistan, a COVID-unit at the hospital, the Champs-Elysees in Paris, in a tent in the park, or stuck under the same roof between the same 4 walls for an entire year, the Lord has indeed directed those steps and he alone establishes those steps that lead us into our futures.

Every Rose Has It's Thorns (or why America is in a crap-load of trouble)

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The last movie we saw before that devilish virus shut down all the theatres was “I Still Believe.” I’m still not sure if it was KJ Apa’s impish little grin or the story line that made me so emotional and bawl like a baby. Either way – the film is incredible and if you love love stories and/or Jesus, you should go see it.

But even better than the movie itself was one of it’s theme songs. It jumped off the screen right into my head’s hard drive and I can’t get it out of my mind. Not that I want it to.

The song’s message couldn’t be more relevant to the season of life we’re in. It’s as if God actually knew what He was doing when He released this movie (and this song) to usher our world into this perilous season of pain, suffering, uncertainty and division.

Hmmmm.

The song, a remix from the now disbanded group Delirious?, is called “Find Me At The River.” Rather than quote the whole thing, I’d LOVE for you to listen to it right here. Essentially, Martin Smith, who penned the lyrics, suggests when all hell breaks loose and it feels like Jesus has left the building, we should be found at the river of life – standing in the waters – eyes wide open for Jesus to show up.

Because, Jesus ALWAYS shows up.

The following phrases from the song are so profound I MUST quote them:

“We longed to see the roses

 But never felt the thorns

And bought our pretty crowns

But never paid the price….

We didn’t count on suffering

We didn’t count on pain

But if there are blessings in the valley

Then in the river I will wait”

OH MY GOSH!!! Do you see what I see??? This is AMERICA today!!! Martin Smith is speaking to America!

I truly believe that much of the world – whose people and cities and stories go back thousands of years before ours – are sitting back and listening to our country’s whining and just shaking their heads. Places like Iraq, where the Biblical Tigris and Euphrates flow through it’s center, or Syria, where the capital Damascus is mentioned in Genesis, or Egypt, where Joseph and Mary fled to with baby Jesus – yes, places like that are like our wise old great-great-great-grandfathers looking at the “barely formed” America and thinking, “Yes, America, you immature teenager you, there IS suffering in this life. You have known great prosperity but it will not and cannot last forever. Suffering will come and it will go. Again and again and again. And when you are an old grandfather like me, you will come to understand that you can’t only have the roses and never know the thorns. You can’t have pretty crowns and never pay the price. Hang in there, America. You’ll understand someday. You’ve been on waaaaaaay too long of an enchanted journey so reality is gonna bite. But it is in that reality where you will find that which really matters. And (spoiler alert) it isn’t in having the biggest military, or being the strongest and richest country in the world, or even the most powerful and influential. No, even if you were to lose all those things and all that status, you could still be a great nation – but only if God finds you in the river waiting there for Him.”

We may think America has fallen on “hard times” and we may think that things are ramping up to some kind of cataclysmic fall, but the truth is, we don’t even have a clue what hard times are. What we’re experiencing now? It’s barely a tickle.

We once heard a princess from Burundi speak at our church. It was her first visit to America so she asked if she could begin her learning and understanding of our country by seeing America’s poor people. Her host picked her up at Chicago O’Hare and knew exactly where to take her – the housing projects of Chicago’s south side. There are not many, if any, poorer huddled masses in America. When they arrived she asked, “What are those buildings?” Her host, thinking she must be devastated by the blown out windows, the fire scorched brick, the bullet holes peppering the exterior, said, “That is where the poor people live.”

Then she asked, “What are those structures out front?” Her host, again, thought she must be so sad to see garbage strewn everywhere in the dilapidated playground surrounded by broken fencing. His eyes met hers studying the basketball court with no hoop, two garbage dumpsters tipped upside down, four black men playing cards on a cardboard box while perched on buckets, and two separate gangs of fierce-looking youth hanging out in the perimeter, so he knowingly replied, “Yes, that is supposed to be the playground for the poor people’s children.”

Next she asked, “And how about those cars?” Again, her host, assuming her pain as she gazed at the line of rusted out, old model cars with barely any hubcaps, missing tires, blown out windows, and some even burned down to a crispy shell of metal, replied, “I know. It’s so sad. Those are the cars of the poor people.”

Again, she asked, “This is where the poor people live?”

“Yes,” her host said sadly.

Slowly, the princess looked over at her host and replied in her heavy Burundian accent, “America does not have poor people.”

Do you see it??? Do you see who America is to the rest of the world??? A spoiled teenager. We long to see the roses, but we’ve never felt the thorns. We want our pretty crowns but we don’t want to pay the price.

I believe the pandemic mayhem, the racial tension and political division resulting in a time of historically high hate levels is really just the thorns. We’ve had a lot of roses, America. Despite two world wars, a brutal Civil War and, according to most accounts, over 100 smaller wars, still, America has collectively never known the hardships experienced elsewhere in the world – we just haven’t been around long enough to know the same extent of suffering. We’ve never known hunger to the same extent as the developing world. We’ve never known the depth of violence, poverty, persecution, oppression or civil unrest as much of the world experiences as “everyday life.”

No matter how we come out of this mess, if we (believers in Christ) stay in the river and keep our eyes focused on Jesus and believe that He alone is all that matters, we will indeed find blessings in the valley. It does not matter if we come out on top. In fact, it’s often best if we don’t. If we are no longer the “greatest” or “most powerful” country it’s still going to be okay. If we lose our 401k’s or our homes or our cars or our jobs or even our health, we’re still going to be okay. Because, at the end of days, those are not the things that matter.

What matters in this crisis is that we live and love like Jesus. We must come together in unity, and bear one another’s burdens and open our homes to those who have lost theirs. We must feed those who can’t afford to buy food. We must reduce our spending so we can assist those who have lost jobs. We must reach out to those who are being forgotten, trampled, hurt, and afraid. We must rise above our differences and show love to everyone – even those who see the world differently than us. Scripture’s quite clear on what it is that we are to DO, both in times of plenty and in times of great need: love the weak, the poor, the oppressed, and defend the cause of the orphan, the widow, and the alien in our midst. And right up there with loving the Lord Our God with all our heart, soul, mind and strength is loving our neighbor as ourselves. That means ALL the neighbors.

It’s okay, America, if this is a hard season. This is only the thorns – and we haven’t experienced many. And it is only in the thorns that we discover the true beauty of the roses.

Perhaps America does not yet know just how beautiful the roses are and just how rich a crown she wears. Perhaps that is why she is now suffering.

When Is It Time To Let Me Die?

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My doctor is very clear, if I get CVD-19, it will not go well for me. My stupid lung-sucking disease puts me in the small minority of the population for whom the rest of you are being quarantined.

Perhaps you’re experiencing some of the same vacillating opinions as me where one day (maybe even one moment) you’d like to poke the eyeballs of someone who says, “Well, you know this isn’t even as bad as the flu” and then, on another day, you flip viewpoints when you hear of the woman down the street who, due to quarantining with her abusive boyfriend, landed in the shelter for battered women –  at which point you scream into the abyss: “This BS has to end, God! LET MY PEOPLE GO!”

We’re not only confused from the polarity of the narratives we’re given, but also because our favorite people sometimes view the exact same reality completely opposite than us. Because this pandemic has been usurped and exploited by the political extremes it is fracturing our country into two camps at a dizzying pace. Some are desperately trying to minimize this crisis so their man looks good and responsible hoping he can restore the economy in time for the next election. On the far opposite side are those who are actually wishing for a significant death toll and accompanying pandemonium to portray Trump as an incompetent madman. Either way  (and every way in between) – we must never forget that this whole mess is NOT about politics, IT IS ABOUT PEOPLE.

These are people made in God’s image.

And people matter.

All people.

Initially, when this thing first reared its ugly head and many people said (and continue to say), “This isn’t so serious. It’s only the elderly and those with underlying conditions who are at high risk,” I truly felt as if my life did NOT matter. Those comments have repeatedly made me feel dismissed, disregarded, unimportant and not worth inconveniencing the rest of the people that DO matter in America – the HEALTHY ones.

Oh, don’t mind me. Just little ‘ole me with an underlying condition over here…  I get it that you think I’m already half dead and therefore not worth your suffering. So you just go right ahead and get your haircut, purchase that lawn fertilizer and run to Costco without a mask. I see how you value things in life. The sick and the elderly apparently rank fairly low. But you know – we’re not all that different, you and me. I, too, strongly believe in fighting for the unborn, our religious liberties, and our American freedoms; but it grieves me that now that I need someone to fight for me (and by fight, I mean “stay home”), you won’t.

TIDES DO TURN

We have three California kids and Paul and I have sat and watched the Pacific ocean for countless hours – mesmerized by God in creation. Anyone who has seen the ocean knows the tide comes in, and then goes out. Surfers, boogie boarders and swimmers all know the tide sometimes pulls you north, and some days it pulls you south. One thing that will always be certain in this life: the tides are always turning.

And I’m wondering if the tide has turned for me. I don’t know if the guilt of watching an entire nation on lockdown on behalf of people like me has just become too much or if I’m just sick and tired of the fighting. It just feels like my mindset is shifting and the winds of change are blowing…

  • Is it time for us to say we did the best we could and gave social distancing a good run, but now it’s just too much and it’s time to move on regardless of the consequences?
  • Is it time for those with underlying diseases and the elderly to acquiesce and say “I give” – concluding the devastation resulting from this quarantine is worse than us losing our lives?

Which all begs the question:

WHAT IS MY LIFE WORTH?

I don’t doubt my life is worth more than your hair, your lawns, or your beers. Most of us (Christians, anyway) would, at the very least, SAY that people are more important than money or things. So when I hear everyone talking about the failing economy as the primary reason to open things up, I feel as expendable as a Jew in Auschwitz (who were, btw, blamed for any economic woes in Germany).

HOWEVER…

Because of all the cultural pressure, the noise and opinions coming from the far right, and the collective anger mounting in our country as a result of the quarantine, I’m beginning to feel my life really isn’t worth all this suffering. I’m wondering where we draw the line at what my life (and those in similar situations) is worth.

  • I’m wondering if my life really isn’t worth the collective livelihoods of thousands, maybe even millions, who are now unable to maintain food, shelter and clothing for themselves or their families.
  • I’m now wondering if my life really isn’t worth someone losing their family business they poured their entire life into for the past 32 years only to head into retirement penniless and too old for a plan B.
  • I really don’t believe my life is worth children going to bed hungry tonight.
  • I don’t believe my life is worth soaring suicide rates or increases in domestic abuse. This makes me sick to my stomach just thinking about it.
  • I’m wondering if my life isn’t worth the broken relationships, the constant fighting, or an insurmountable division in our nation.
  • I’m wondering if my life isn’t worth the words “civil war,” “holocaust,” or “tyranny,” entering our daily vernacular (which, if you haven’t noticed, they have).

I have not seen actual numbers or even predictions of how many people would actually LOSE their lives should the quarantine linger on vs. how many of us will LOSE our lives if the corona boogey man be set loose to come and get us. These numbers are probably impossible to know definitively and impossible to compare. I mean, is it even possible to measure pain and suffering? And then, at what point does intensive and widespread pain and suffering equal the cost of a life? This is my conundrum. Is it unfair of me to suggest my right to a life safe from a deadly virus and with a healthcare system able to accomodate me is worth MORE than the price you are all paying to achieve it?

I have seen some terrible things in this life and I truly believe there are things of this earth worse than death. I’m concerned that as a result of this national shutdown and rapidly declining economy, many people are being forced to face some of those things. Dying while still living is worse than death. That’s been my experience, anyway.

I am 53 years old and maybe that’s why I even dare contemplate if my life has less value than others. Our kids have grown – two are happily married and the other two are soaring. So, even if I were to be robbed of 30 years, I’ve still lived fairly long and I’ve lived well. I certainly can’t speak for anyone younger than me. No one should die with children still at home. The truth is, I don’t want anyone to die. I don’t believe in euthanasia, abortion, genocide, or capital punishment and I didn’t think my abhorrence for gun violence could get any worse until I heard how Ahmoud Arbury was shot in cold blood this week.

I truly do believe Every. Life. Matters.

But…. What if …. What if we are FORCED into a corner and were FORCED to decide whose life matters MOST? Are we there and is it time to have this conversation?

IF SO, WHAT’S NEXT?

If this is a war of sorts, then there WILL be casualties. People will die either as a result of the battle with coronavirus or people will die (or, more likely, their dreams, ambitions, and futures will die) as a result of a too-long quarantine. Either way, both are casualties.

I realize simply opening up America is not an automatic death sentence for me. I realize I can CHOOSE to stay quarantined (and I will) and I can CHOOSE to stay away from people who might be potential spreaders (which is everyone, but still I’ll do it) and I can CHOOSE to live isolated like this for a year or two if necessary. I’m not opposed to quarantining the sick and elderly instead of the healthy. But do not tell me this is like “leprosy” or “TB” – because I do NOT actually HAVE the coronavirus and I basically live as a healthy person, yet I’ll still have to quarantine indefinitely so YOU can get your life back and I can hopefully save mine.

I’m just truly wondering if the time has come for me to “head to the front lines” in this battle against coronavirus in the sense that if America opens back up, my vulnerability and risk of infection and death suddenly skyrockets.

I’m seriously just wondering, is it time to let me die?

I AM OUT OF CONTROL

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When we lived in Morocco, every single day felt like a monumental challenge. It certainly wasn’t because of the people (they were incredibly kind, generous and welcoming). The challenge primarily came from being so out of place – so keenly aware we were foreigners and didn’t have much sense on how to navigate an alien nation. Simple things like retrieving cash from an ATM, adding minutes to our cell phones (no iphones there), getting groceries, visiting the orthodontist, buying underwear, paying bills, etc., etc. were all accomplished so differently from what we were used to they’d suck us dry of time, energy, and brain space. The language barrier also played a part (we often complained of headaches in the evening from speaking French all day long).

For example, we had to pay our utility bills in person in the nearby village. Payments had to be in cash, in an envelope, in the exact amount. If you forgot the envelope or needed even 10 dirhams back, they’d refuse the payment. If you couldn’t say your address clearly in either Arabic or French, they couldn’t process your payment. Some days the office was closed (for no apparent reason) so it was a crap shoot if you’d be able to make your payment or not. It was an enormous headache (quite different than having your bills electronically paid each month…)

Because life was so hard in Morocco, I was immediately stripped of cockiness and confidence. I quickly learned how incredibly incapable, insufficient, and dependent I was. I had NO CONTROL.

We had only been their a few weeks when I woke up one morning paralyzed by fear. I couldn’t imagine getting out of bed and facing the day – there was just so much unfamiliarity and overwhelming newness bombarding me each day, I was beyond exhausted and discouraged. I remember thinking, “I don’t even want to swing my legs over the side of this bed because when my feet hit the ground, there’s no turning back.” So I cried out to God and said, “I can’t do this without you, God. I can’t even let my feet hit the floor until I know you’ve got me completely covered. Help me, God. Help me.”

And every morning, for four years, before arising each morning, I said that little prayer. It’s the only way I dared to start the day. I could have never survived Morocco without that prayer.

Sadly, we had only been living back in Michigan for a few weeks when I realized I had ceased that morning practice. In America, it was just so easy to accomplish everything and I could do it all on my own. In America, I’m confident, self-sufficient, capable and energized. Simply getting money from the ATM is a no-brainer and I use NO brain space whatsoever. The same is true for the doctor’s office, grocery shopping, talking to the neighbors, and parent/teacher conferences. Life’s so simple, uncomplicated and easy back in America, it’s almost as if I don’t need a God anymore.

So it’s no wonder I stopped inviting God into my day before swinging my legs over the side of the bed.

Then came COVID-19.

I have a nasty debilitating, progressive and degenerative lung disease. I am in that “high-risk” group that those in the media treat as disposable by constantly reminding the public that the old and weak are going to make up the bulk of the dead, so the rest of the population need not worry so much.

But because of my lung disease, COVID-19 has given me a new wake-up call and once again reminded me how OUT OF CONTROL I really am. My life is not my own and I am at the mercy of a virus that not even the brightest minds in this entire world can explain or predict.

Every day I wonder if this is the day.

So I’ve returned to that morning practice that I should have never stopped. Before I even swing my legs over the side of the bed, I pray: “Okay, God, this day is yours. You alone know the pathway of an unseen virus. This is all in your hands and I MUST trust your sovereignty. Whether I live or die or am asked to simply sit here for another 12 weeks, give me peace. Whatever your will, Lord, I don’t want my feet to even hit the ground until I know you have me covered.”

And then I get out of bed. My feet hit the floor and I say, “Here we go, Cindy.” It’s weird, but I truly feel like no harm can befall me. Even if the COVID-19 finds me, I know that virus can never steal my joy. Am I afraid? You bet. But I KNOW that I am covered – and that covering makes all the difference.

Tell me, my friends, how are you covering yourselves in this unprecedented crisis? I’d love to hear all your innovative ways!