Keep Dancing in the Storm...and other lessons we're learning in a weird and wonky time.

Our era was called the Age of Anxiety long before the centuries-old divisions in our society reared their ugly heads, long before the pandemic, long before much of what has faced us these last months in our nation, communities, and homes. I wonder what these past eight months have done for that baseline of low level anxiety many of us live with on even our good days. To back up a bit, I have written before about the anxiety that I have experienced and struggled against most of my life. As I've aged, I've learned to understand it not as a character flaw or a mark of weakness, but as a hurdle I must constantly negotiate, especially in times like these. But have there ever been times like these? Not in my lifetime. 

In July, after having survived three months of remote learning and teaching, after having adjusted to more months at home together than we have had since our littles were babies, after having retaught ourselves how to teach and then frantically executed it from every corner of our home, after having given up any kind of privacy in our home because of it and at the same time, felt isolated and removed from even our families, after all that, we packed up the family minivan and made the 900 mile trek to Michigan to see our families for the first time since December. (Oh, that innocent month.) The journey there was relatively uneventful, except for the fact that not being able to find the hand sanitizer after a pit stop set my heart racing, except for the seemingly endless planning of how we would help the kids remember to distance themselves from people they have never in their lives kept distance from, except for wearing masks every time we emerged from the car. So it was a stressful drive. Once there, nothing really got easier. We were thrilled to be with our families, of course. But at every turn, we had to decide if activities we normally engage in without much thought, were safe. Camping together? Ice cream outing? Church? Buffet-style eating? Hugging? Sitting on Grandma's lap? Going into each other's homes? Visiting a playground? Shopping at a favorite store? You name it, we wondered about it, and discussed it, and made decisions. Decisions, our kids never failed to point out, that utilized a random and idiosyncratic set of rules they could not follow. Still. It was worth it. We relaxed as the week went by. And we left feeling filled up by all the people and places we love. 

 After ten days, we reluctantly started home. As we approached the Canadian border that we would not be crossing this year to visit one of my besties and her family, I grieved that seeing her in December may have been the last time for a long time. I missed her. I missed her sweet littles. Then, the unthinkable happened. And all our weeks of planning a safe vacation, all our caution while we were on it, just fizzled away. Faster than it's taken you to read these three paragraphs, it all changed. Without going into too many details, we were hit on the highway by another vehicle that crossed the lane line. A woman and her (ex)boyfriend were in the midst of a domestic argument when he interfered with her driving and sent her from the left lane where they were passing us, into the middle one, where we were driving. She side-swiped us, tearing a hole into Kaleb's door and sending us into a 360-degree tailspin that caused us to hit a high, concrete median twice at highway speed. That moment changed the course of our summer, shook us to the core, and turned all our anxiety about washing hands and wearing masks and social distancing on a trip to Michigan during a pandemic into a silly charade--something we mused about even as we waited for emergency responders to help us off the highway. We stumbled from our totaled van in total shock, the girls and I each only wearing one shoe, my right leg quickly swelling up and giving way under me, the horn on the van stuck on full blast, and the couple who hit us emerging from their vehicle still screaming at each other. "We're still here," I whispered to Mark, who huddled us in a bunch in the left breakdown lane and wrapped his arms around us--me holding Kaleb in my arms, Audyn sobbing, Emelyn silent and wide-eyed. 

Really, Lord? And also thank you. Thank you. Thank you. 

The remainder of the summer involved navigating insurance claims (more time-consuming than we ever imagined possible), helping the kids to feel safe again, resting and physical therapy for me, purchasing a new car, and of course, starting to think about the approaching school year. By the time I was preparing for the two college courses I'm teaching this semester, my leg was mostly healed, but my mind was a mess. My sleep was erratic. My heart raced at odd times and for no apparent reason. I couldn't write. My brain felt fuzzy. I forgot the kinds of things people don't forget. Names, where I was, why I had walked into a room. I was in a fog. A fog is not a great place to be when planning new classes or starting new jobs. Remotely. Again. Things improved, but by last week, my heart was back at it, my sleep elusive, my body achy and inflamed. Small problems felt overwhelming. 

Summer had been healing and full and lovely. But it took so little to find myself back in this unhealthy space. So that, friends, is where I've been. Soaking up all that summer has to offer--lakes, sea, mountains, family, friends, more time with the kids to enjoy our home together, we've drunk it all up and grown stronger by it. At the same time, there's the storm inside that looms and is so easily provoked to break over me. 

Last Friday was the first time I jogged since the accident. It was slow and loping, but it was lovely, too. The simple fact of a mid-morning jog. That my legs could carry me. That the sun was shining. That the water shimmered under it as I passed over the causeway. That my kids were happy to be back in school. That my stress was from navigating a new job (we both have jobs!). There were so many reasons to be thankful. 

Here is what I have been learning again in all this. That we hold our struggles and our joys together. That so much of life is both-and, instead of either-or. This summer I have not been joyful or discouraged but joyful and discouraged at the same time. I have not been secure or afraid, but secure and afraid. My children have not been happy or unhappy, but happy and unhappy. All at once, all together. All jumbled up. What have Mark and I modeled for them in this? I hope that we have allowed ourselves the space to feel all the feels. To say yes and okay to the things that grieve us, to hold them and ourselves tenderly, because trials are difficult and real and also sanctifying. I hope we have also said yes to the big and small joys that bouy us in the rolling waves. It's okay, we told our kids, to be afraid of being in the car and to still get it in it to go somewhere. It's okay to be excited about school and still be uncertain of what it will be like when you get there. It's okay to be upset that you can't do the things you normally do and also be grateful for your overflowing cup. Not only is it okay, but it's right. 

How far will our hearts stretch this year? How will they learn to contain all that grieves us as a nation, as communities, as individuals? How will we still keep putting one foot in front of the other? How will we lament and rejoice together and all at once? And how will doing these things help us to do good work in this beautiful-broken world? We are asking: what must we do about racism? What should we do to help those in our communities who need it? And maybe first, how can we work to SEE injustice? Since, at least in my experience, my privilege gives me this terrible option of seeing others' pain or not seeing it. Of acting or not acting. And so, my mind races on. I'm recalibrating. Remembering where my priorities are and asking how this new challenge of a new job and new school year and always more questions of what the near future holds for us all, can continue to form and mold us to be more human, more gentle, more compassionate with ourselves and others, and more engaged with our world in the ways Christ calls us to. "Feed my children," were some of his last words. And he didn't just mean physical food. "Tell all the world the truth," he meant. And he didn't just mean words. 

Perhaps if we ask ourselves one thing in this weird and wonky time, it could be this: How will it form us? And how will we become more human, more real, and therefore, more passionate and compassionate and justice-loving, mercy-full people of God?

And so if, like me, you are feeling overwhelmed or anxious or bitter one minute and overflowing with gratitude in the next, be gentle with yourself, allow those feelings to pass by, uncriticized and uncondemned. For in that storm, there is strength to be found. And in those dark nights, there are sparks to ignite. Who are we now? Who are we becoming? What kind of world will we be part of changing? We've got this. And what's more: God's got this.

Keep dancing in the storm.