It started a few months ago. I woke suddenly from a deep sleep. Certain I had something important to do, but no idea what it was. My first thought was to wake my husband. Ask him. He’s usually good at remembering such things – it seemed an obvious solution. I was about to rest my hand on his shoulder, when, becoming more fully aware of the time – 1:26am, I thought better of it. I decided to go back to sleep, and deal with whatever ‘it’ was, in the morning.
It happened again last week. I woke with a start. Jumped out of bed. The dog! He’d been waiting all this time to go out. I’d completely forgotten about him. I pictured our beautiful brown and black, (and surprisingly large) dog – waiting for me downstairs. Poor thing. I rushed to the bedroom door, put my hand on the doorknob, and stopped short. “Hold it. Do we have a dog? Yes. I’m pretty sure we have a dog. Wait. Am I dreaming? I might be dreaming. I don’t think we have a dog. Do we have a dog?” (We don’t have a dog.)
It’s anxiety, of course. The constant waiting and wondering when the proverbial ‘other shoe’ will drop – and on whom. Watching as, each day, the world falls deeper and deeper into despair. Disrepair. My mother describes it as constantly feeling like someone is about to sneak up behind her. With me, it’s the feeling I’ve forgotten something. And all my to-do lists and reminders, don’t seem to help.
It’s human nature to set goals. Imagine the outcome of our planning – with all the pieces falling neatly into place. But the fluid nature of the pandemic has changed everything. Although we still plan, we plan with the knowledge that situations may, and probably will, change at the last minute.
I wonder what churches will look like moving forward? Will we ever again feel comfortable sitting next to our neighbour? Will we ever be able to relax and enjoy the light streaming through the stained glass windows? Be filled with the ministry of music coming from a full choir? Concentrate on the message, as we socially distance – behind our masks, with our hands carefully sanitized?
Our church, like so many, switched to Sunday morning online services at the beginning of the lockdown. During these services, we are sometimes invited to join virtual ‘small group’ discussions in an effort to stay connected with one another. One Sunday, our small group was chatting about the various signs of God noticed during the week before.
It threw me. It was the Sunday after George Floyd was killed. The horrifying images that had played out in real time had left me reeling. Feeling untethered. I answered honestly that I hadn’t noticed any signs of God in the week that was.
A friend, and Spirit Sister, one of the others in our small group, calmly said my name. She wanted to make sure I heard her words in our strange new cyber-world bubble. With the reassuring confidence she has accrued over her 93 years, she said, “God was standing with the women. The women who stood with arms linked, between the police and the protestors.”
It was a lifeline.
My friend invited me to step away from the media onslaught, and instead, look to those at the heart of the matter. It was what I needed in that moment.
And so, I did. I looked to the women in the crowd – for their wisdom and guidance. The mothers. Weary from burying their children. Standing together in solidarity. Repeating the names, and demanding justice for black lives lost. Because Black Lives Matter. And I realized, yes, God was there. Standing in the heart of the heartache.
Perhaps that’s what we have to do in this time and space. Lead with faith – instead of fear. Plan, and organize, and anticipate, but also, allow room for contemplation and reflection. Be still. Listen.
Only then, will we be open and receptive to the difficult conversations ahead. Only then, can we support those working toward meaningful change. Only then, can we put our faith into action – reach beyond the quagmire of conflicting reports and endless name-calling; the polarization of pontificators and politicians. Stay grounded in the knowledge we are not alone. That God is at the heart centre.
This realization has afforded me a way to move forward. A certain measure of serenity. I no longer think I was looking for a dog in the middle of the night. I think I got it backwards. I think I was looking for God.