In the summer of 2020, Shannon and I embarked on a three-week driving trip to Colorado and Wyoming. It was less than four months into the pandemic; slightly over three months since my father had died. His death was unexpected; an early victim of Covid 19. The vacation was our attempt to find relief from both the grief and the pandemic. We camped most nights to avoid hotels and crowds. And we used a lot of hand sanitizer and Clorox wipes!
Three memories stand out about that trip.
Memories
The first was spending the Fourth of July on Yellowstone Lake, at a beach behind a shuttered Yellowstone National Park Visitors Center with an empty parking lot and completely devoid of human beings. Positively apocalyptic.
The second thing I remember was being assured by a farmer in Nebraska that this “covid thing” was no worse than the flu. I assured him that was not what we had experienced. His determination to deny the reality of the situation was unassailable. Positively shocking.
The third memory was a comment from a seminary classmate over an outdoor coffee: “I’m preparing my people for the likelihood that we’ll be shut down for two years.” Positively demoralizing…and ultimately absolutely accurate.
Lifting the Fog
I’ve come to think of the last two years as navigating through dense fog. Even though we’re familiar with the roads, every step has had to be taken with caution. Sometimes the fog got so thick, we couldn’t venture out at all. Other times the fog appeared to be lifting, only to roll in with even more disastrous consequences.
Two years is a long time to be blanketed in the fog of quarantine, anxiety, suffering, loss, and grief. Given the number of people who’ve died from Covid, chances are you’re grieving the loss of loved ones. But even if you aren’t, we’ve all lost something: our peace of mind, a job we loved, precious time with grandchildren, hope for our retirement, plans to travel, time with friends.
These losses must be acknowledged and grieved in order to fully enjoy what I hope and pray is a period of uninterrupted sunshine.
I’m reminded of Brene Brown’s observation that emotions are not on individual dimmer switches. We don’t get the option of “dimming” grief and “amplifying” joy. It doesn’t work that way. If we avoid feeling the sadness, we’ll simultaneously diminish the joy. The grief must be grieved in order for the joy to be enjoyed.
This is where our faith comes in.
It would be reasonable to wonder (as many have — both inside and outside of faith communities), “Where is God in this awful situation?”
Walking with Jesus through the events of Holy Week to Easter, reminds us of the answer: Right here with us.
Jesus has walked through the fog of sin, suffering and death. He knows firsthand our pain, our grief, our frustration, our loss, our exhaustion, and our tendency to turn on one another. Yet he stays with us through it all and leads us out of the fog into Resurrection light.
But remember this: there are no shortcuts or detours. The way past the pain is through the pain. Jesus will lead us in this journey through the fog if we take his hand, but he doesn’t force us to take his hand. God’s love for us is never coerced. That wouldn’t be love.
Walking with Christ
While the fog of these last two years appears to be lifting, the grief remains. My hope is that we will allow Jesus to hold our hand and carry our ungrieved grief during Holy Week and Easter. As we journey with Christ from the euphoria of the “Hosannas” of Palm Sunday, through the tearful goodbyes of the Last Supper, amidst the grief of Good Friday, through the intolerable silence of Holy Saturday, we will experience our Covid grief being transformed into the eternal light of God’s unending love on Easter Sunday.
This is the Way, the Truth, and the Life that leads us from fog to light, from death to life.
Always.
Come and see.
— Peace
The Rev. AJ Heine, Rector, Trinity Episcopal Church of Staunton
I encourage you to download our 2022 Holy Week Guide-At-A-Glance* to see the many ways Trinity’s programming can help deepen your walk in faith.
