For of Such is the Kingdom of Heaven

Love in the Time of Corona #5

 

Then little children were being brought to him in order that he might lay his hands on them and pray. The disciples spoke sternly to those who brought them; but Jesus said, ‘Let the little children come to me, and do not stop them; for it is to such as these that the kingdom of heaven belongs.’ And he laid his hands on them and went on his way. ~ Matthew 19:13-15

I remember the mural so vividly. The blue sky. The kind eyes of Jesus. The open faces of the children, "red and yellow, black and white." It was on the wall of Mrs Missplay's Sunday school room and I think it may be the cornerstone of all I believe about Jesus' life and ministry. When everyone with any sense said, "Stay away!", Jesus said, "Let them come to me."

Believe me, I know how lucky I am. Here, in the time of corona, I can still go to work, not because I'm essential, but because essential people need a safe place for their kids while they are working in emergency rooms and ICUs. I learned years ago, I am not important, but God has allowed me to do important things. It is a burden and a blessing for which I will always be grateful.

The kids? Yeah, red and yellow, black and white, just like the song says. They are short and tall, thin and fat. Some have special developmental or medical or emotional needs. There are girls who will very soon be women, and boys who are already practicing how to behave like men. Some need a nap in the afternoon. Others never, ever, EVER shut up. They all love the pool. And nearly all of them break the no-running-in-the-hall rule when their parents or grandparents come to pick them up. Hell, they run to the nurse to line up and have their temperatures taken every 2 hours.

This is not really my demographic. In ordinary times, I spend my days with people who are old, who have been sick, who have looked down the tunnel and seen death's dark train coming, but are determined not to climb aboard just yet. But these? These little children see life waiting and they run toward it, whether it's a swimming pool, a swing set, a soccer field, or the weary arms of a mom who has just spent 12 hours drawing blood and swabbing noses. They are wearing me out. And they are teaching me lessons of life that I somehow forgot.

It's scary, too. During my quiet moments, "What If" haunt me. What if I say something hurtful? I know how much I like to run my mouth. How hurtful I can be without meaning to. What if I make a joke that stings them for years? What if I'm distracted while guarding the pool and one of them slips under the water? What if I miss them? These thinks probably help me to stay vigilant, but they wear on my spirit, as well.

And, God forbid, what if I come in one morning with a fever? What if I test positive? What if the whole program is shut down and all the kids and staff are quarantined because of some precaution I missed or forgot to do that lead me to a positive test?

I think about that way too much. Especially at night. And I cannot imagine what it is like for a dad who spends his days in a mask and gloves, touching people who are coughing and sweating and weeping and sometimes dying with this bug in them. What's behind his loving smile as his daughter runs down the hall to him and throws her arms around his legs?

Every adult I meet has the look. We all know it's out there. Some of us are terrified. Some are angry. But all of us think about it way too much.

But the children? They don't see death. They see life. They play kickball and make mermaids out of paper plates and take turns diving to the bottom of the pool. They are relentlessly, gracefully, irresistibly alive.

I'm sure there are stories I don't know about. Some of them have probably been hurt. Some know too much and have seen far more than they should have. They have tearful moments and some of those tears come from deep places that most adults can't even remember.

They make me want to scream, sometimes. And they are so very easy to love. 

No wonder Jesus' needed them around. 

God became flesh to learn what it was like to be a human. The children were his teachers. They are what we could be at our best. 

They are alive.

Swimming in the Shadows

Love in the Time of Corona #4

There is light in the darkness. I have to remember that, or I'll go as crazy as the world has gone.

But there are shadows, too. 

The unkind word from a friend. The news of racist attacks on neighbors who look Asian. The lies and self-dealing from people we trusted to lead us. Americans buying up all the ammunition they can find. The rules that seem to change from hour to hour.

And then there are the things that are not part of my life, but that I know my friends are living with.

Life in a house full of kids you love that still feels like a cage sometimes. Long shifts at the hospital, not knowing when things are going to blow up. Having to not and take it when some customer lays into you about shortages, when you just spent 10 hours trying to keep shelves stocked. Handling checks and currency  and mail from customers and wondering where those pieces of paper have been and who coughed on them before sliding them across your counter.

Yes. There are shadows.

And I'm sorry, but I don't have a bumper-sticker slogan to make them go away. 

But I do have a strategy. Find a purpose. Choose a direction. And start swimming.

I teach adults to swim at the Y. I'm not a very good teacher, but the people who come to me are so determined and courageous that my shortcomings can't hold them back. Some of them have been afraid of the water for 20, 30, 40 years. Some longer. It is an honor to be present when a 70 year old discovers that she can tread water for the first time in her life or a retire veteran learns that he can swim again after losing his legs. It fills me with awe. I can't imagine the courage it takes to overcome a lifetime of fear. My students inspire me to find the courage to keep trying. And with God's help, I try to pass that courage on.

When the shadows fall across your path, and they will, open your arms, pick them up, and carry them with you for a while. Trust that when it's time to put them down again, you'll know. The Buddha said that suffering is a part of life. Jesus said that we need to be willing to take up a cross and drink the cup from which he drank. 

When we try to escape our suffering, we deny life. That's what addiction is. "Just give me something to make the hurting stop." But it doesn't stop. It's always there.

My friend Art, a cancer survivor of inexhaustible good humor and courage once told me, "I knew I could get up and live or else lay down and die. So I got up." (He used to deny that story, but my memory is clear and even if I did make it up, it's so much like something he would say that I feel fine about quoting him on it.)

No matter how loudly you sing Kumbaya, the shadows will come. Let them come. 

They will break your heart. Let it break.

Your friends will turn crazy and angry and mean. Let them turn.

Open your heart. Catch them up in your arms. Carry them along.

Be afraid. You'd be insane not to. Just don't let your fear pull you under. Just keep swimming.

Swim for the light. Reflect it when you can. And when fear and anger darken the water, swim in the shadows. 

Be the one who helps people find their own courage. Don't worry about what a lousy teacher you are. Trust that they have it in them to be brave, too. Be the one who shows the way.

Find a way to live, even when it hurts. Find a chance to love, even when your heart is broken. Find a way to give when you feel empty. Find the humility to receive grace when you know you don't deserve it. 

But for God's sake, keep swimming.

The Wrong Bug

Love in the Time of Corona #3

Yesterday was my first day at the Y since we announced we were closing down to provide child care for the staff of local hospitals. Several of the team had spent the previous day and evening sanitizing everything a child would touch, from door knobs and tables to lockers and cubbies. Disinfected laundry baskets were lined up along the hall where coats and personal items could be stored safely. The wellness center was silent. It was otherworldly to see the treadmills and weight machines frozen in stillness at 10:00 on a Monday morning. We are a pretty tactile group. It was uncomfortable to greet one another without hugs and hand clasps. I grabbed a walkie talkie at the desk and clocked in.

We had our first change of plans. My assignment was to be in the Lifeguard chair while the kids played in the pool. Some glitches in the registration process kept people from signing up before Wednesday, so no kids in the Y, yet. Instead of changing into my red trunks and whistle, I reported to my boss for credentialing . Before anyone can have direct contact with the kids in a child care environment, she has to submit a complete background check. We sat down in her office (two meters apart) while she asked me lots of personal questions. At one point, I coughed, covering my mouth with my hand, and she reflexively passed me the bottle of sanitizer without even looking up from her monitor. Finally, it was time for a search of the national sex offender's database.

And my name is Bob Johnson.

Damn, there are a lot of nasty people out there with that name. 

Good news: While several people have considered me a sexual disappointment, I have never been an offender in the legal sense. I got a printout to that effect and joined two colleagues for the short ride down Loudon Avenue to the the department of something or other where the state would record our fingerprints. On the ride, we shared stories. Our driver was supposed to be married last Saturday. She seemed to have a pretty good sense of humor about the whole thing, and I suggested that once the danger had passed, we could have her ceremony on the pool deck at the Y and instead of a broom, they could jump over the edge of the pool into the deep end. We laughed, which felt good.

My head felt a little funny as we crossed the parking lot to the office. Not enough coffee. I had a thermos with my lunch back at the Y, and resolved to empty it when we got back to work. The three of us found the door and walked down an empty hallway to a large room full of unoccupied desks. It was the kind of vast, fluorescent office scape that always says "bureaucracy happens here." The kind lady who greeted us told us that "the system was shut down because of the virus" and they would not be able to take our fingerprints. We thanked her, and walked back out to the parking lot.

"They understand that it isn't actually a computer virus, right?" Laughing in times of crisis; my bravado of choice.

My young colleague, another lifeguard and swimming teacher explained patiently that they could not take fingerprints if we could not touch anything.

OK, Boomer.

On the ride home, my head felt even fuzzier, and my stomach started to complain a little. It felt like I was getting car sick, in spite of the fact that our drive took about 6 minutes. By the time we got back to the Y, I was having trouble keeping on my feet, and leaned on a light pole while my the retching began.

Clearly, I would not be part of the days efforts to prepare for the children.

I told the boss I would be clocking out. Grabbed my lunch and thermos and left, asking the folks at the desk to have somebody sanitize the door where I'd touched it. I remembered reading Barbara Tuchman writing about plagues, back my European history classes. Managed to hold down my rising sense of the over-dramatic. Janey, the nurse on duty agreed with me that she hadn't heard about any stomach symptoms associated with CORVI-19, but that there was some kind of stomach thing going around. Just my luck.

Driving home, I prayed to make it to the house before the next spasm from my stomach, but a quick stop at a crosswalk sent it spinning. I managed to pull over into the parking lot of the rehab center, punch the flashers, and hop out before emptying myself out onto the grass by the curb.

One of the residents, alone in the cold morning light, stopped at a safe distance. I felt like Typhoid Mary.

"You all right, brother?" He asked like a man who had seen much worse; he asked like a stranger who cared.

"Just my luck," I said between spasms, "in the middle of a plague and I went and caught the wrong fucking bug."

He laughed hard, and I was grateful that I could still get a yuck out of a stranger, even as the last of my breakfast bid its farewell.

Back in the car. Shoes seemed clean. The cuffs on my pants were going to need to be pre-treated. Home to the birds. I emptied my pockets. Phone. Wallet. Name tag. Walkie-talkie. Shit. I put it in a baggie and drove back to the Y, hoping that there was nothing left inside me. Put the baggie on the mat at the front door, and asked the boss who greeted me to sanitize it all before putting it back into service. 

Back home in bed, with my teeth in a jar and a glass of ginger ale at my side, I remembered the stranger on the street. What demons had he battled? How many people had judged and walked past him when he was in trouble? How many reasons did he have to avoid a puking white man in the middle of an outbreak that had already killed thousands of people all over the world? And yet he stopped. He offered gratuitous kindness. A samaritan on the road to the Y. An agent of Grace.

Thank you, brother. Stay well. Stay clean. I hope we meet again when my breath is better.

I owe you a hug.

In the Presence of Greatness

Love in the Time of Corona #2

After a Sunday of reading, writing, conference calls about work, and meal prep for the week, it was time for a quick run to the neighborhood market for some essentials. Dish soap. Bread. Mint chocolate chip ice cream. A short list to keep my exposure to a minimum.

Walking through the parking lot: social distancing will not be a problem here. The parking lot is practically empty. My heart goes out to the family that runs the King of Food Chinese restaurant. Their health department inspection scores are always borderline at best. I hope they can hold things together, keep things clean, and not lose their business during the coming craziness.

Entering the automatic doors, I see a hastily printed sign announcing per family limits on all the usual staples. It's a noble try, but there are an awful lot of families in this neck of the woods. I'm grateful for the run I made at the beginning of the month that filed my pantry before the shortages began.

There's one woman running a register. The rest of the staff are out in the aisles, cleaning. The cashier greets me with "Hi, Hon." That's the way we roll uptown.

I head straight for the cleaning supplies. Everything with the word "Bleach" on the label is gone, but still plenty of dish soap, both brand name Dawn and the blue generic liquid. I pick up a bottle of Dawn, but the top shelf stuff feels foreign. No sense changing now. I throw a bottle of blue Glo into my basket.

As I walk past the empty shelves where the TP used to be, there is a page over the PA. "Joe, there's a lady on the phone asking if we have any toilet paper in stock." I smile quietly to myself.

Cold cuts and cheese. Still plenty in stock. Lots of soup and sandwiches this week. Bizarrely, all the buttermilk is gone. There will be plenty of biscuits in the neighborhood this week. No eggs either. Pandemic or not, breakfast is still the most important meal of the day. 

The freezer case looks reasonably well- stocked. There are only a handful of the sausage and egg burritos I prefer. I usually grab one for each work day so I don't have to think too hard in the morning, but that would clean them out, so I get two of the good ones and three of the 99 cent ones, hoping that actual chickens were involved in their manufacture.

Hallelujah! Mint chocolate chip is still in good supply. My drug of choice. So much for losing weight during the plague.

I approach the bread racks and immediately think of the Soviet Union. There might be 12 loaves left. It's the gummy white bread that I usually try to avoid, but PB & J are featured prominently in my menu this week, so I grab a loaf, trying not to squish it as I place it on top of my basket.

A grandmother, daughter, and grandson are huddled together, picking out frozen dinners. The child can barely see into the case, so he grabs the side and rests his chin on it to peer down into it.

"Boy, if you don't stop touching things..." Mom's warning has real teeth and the child steps back away into the center of the aisle. Mother and daughter exchange a look. 

"Put your hands in your pockets and keep them there," Granny warns. That boy is going to get the scrubbing of his life when he gets home.

No line at the checkout, but it's late on Sunday and most of the damage has already been done. She is wearing multiple piercings, multi-colored hair, vinyl gloves, and look that tells the story of a work day that has taken its toll.

"Hi, Hon. Find everything?" We both laugh at the idea, but I have to admit that yes, I got everything on my list.

"You've had a hell of a day."

"Oh, yes. The whole world has gone crazy. I was afraid to come in, but ain't nobody going to feed my kids if I don't work"

I have paid sick days, personal time, and vacation at my job. I don't know what to say, so I just smile and not, hoping I appear sympathetic. She scans the bread last and lays it carefully on the top of my bag.

"Well, I sure appreciate you being here."

"Honey, I know. Everybody does. But you feel like obligation, you know? Where are all these people going to find food if we're not here?"

Now, I'm really speechless. I look again at the raggedy hair. The skin is too young to be so rough. The teeth are uneven. Her posture betrays years spent working on her feet. The accent is pure Kentucky hillbilly. I see a dozen clues that make me think I know exactly who I'm talking to before the first sentence is completed. 

I am full of shit.

This is not some back-woods cracker. This woman is a hero.

I am a know-it-all liberal in the presence of authentic greatness.

Humbled, I thank her again as she slips the receipt into my bag with a gloved hand.

"OK, Hon. You have a good day. Be careful."

Be careful. Out in eastern Kentucky, that's how they say good bye. It caught me up short the first time I traveled to Hazzard, but I've come to love it. It says, "It's a dangerous world, and I care about you. I don't want anything to happen to you." I've adopted it as my own farewell. She's showed me just how deep that caring can run. 

She taught me to care enough to look again. To see beyond my own bigotry. I'll be more careful, Hon. I promise. You be careful too. It's a better world with you in it.

When I unpacked my groceries, my white bread was perfect. Not even a dent.

Love in the Time of Corona #1

He was calling from his car. In the background, I could hear rain and traffic and engine noise. In the foreground, I heard terror gushing like a firehose.

The YMCA where I work is closing down to our members. A mass email had just announced that we were being converted to a child care center for the health care workers who are staffing our hospitals during the pandemic. My young colleague at the front desk, a handsome high school senior with chiseled features, a golden heart, and a glass jaw answered the call, then turned, wide-eyed and silently extended the phone to me.
“Hi, this is Bob. How can I help?”
“Let me just explain to you fuckers what you’ve done. You've killed me. I have a heart condition. My life depends on being able to get exercise every day. If I don’t exercise, I will die. Now I get this email telling me the family membership I’m paying almost a hundred dollars a month for... that nobody else in my family uses... that we only got so my son could play soccer which I’m sure will be cancelled anyway. You realize, right, that all these kids they are sending home, they can carry the virus for 14 days before they show symptoms? Right? Closing these schools has just guaranteed that their parents will all get it. And now you’re telling me I can’t use the membership I’m paying for? I want to cancel. This email is a fucking death sentence for me. You get that, right?”
I’ve spent hours training on process and procedure. Listening skills. Customer service. Learning the right thing to say to get and keep customers for everything from store fixture manufacturers to theatre companies. I’ve performed for crowds of thousands of people who laughed and cried with me. I’ve studied the scriptures, helped lead congregations, fallen in love with church communities, and had my heart and mind broken by them. I’ve read psychology books, sat for years on head-shrinkers couches, and given speech after speech about the wonderful history and culture of the YMCA. 
None of those things prepared me for this phone call.
Or maybe, all of them did.
“I can hear how angry and frustrated you are feeling. I want to make sure you understand that we are keeping one branch in the city open so people can work out...”
“Yeah, in the hood. So I can die by not exercising, or I can die walking in the shittiest part of town to workout in a place I’ve never been before.”

Now, I’ve heard this sort of thing from time to time. It usually comes from people who don’t like my neighborhood, (which is actually much closer to the shittiest part of town, if I’m honest about it,) and are nervous about the fact that the branch where I work is located beside railroad tracks, down the street from a major drug rehab center, and across the road from a homeless men’s shelter, near a street that the locals still call “Crack Alley.” I’m not used to hearing people say they are furious because they aren’t allowed to come up to the ‘hood.
“All of this is such bullshit. There is only one person in Lexington with the virus. It’s all politics. They are fucking with us and killing me. I had a blood clot that almost killed me. I will die without that elliptical machine, goddamit.”
Now, I do make an effort not to play the cancer card at every opportunity. Don’t get me wrong, I’’ve milked that old cow dry more than a few times. But it’s a little game I play with myself: How long can I go without telling someone I had cancer. It’s like my secret super-hero identity. I call him “The Amazing Cancer Boy.” Something told me it was time to pull on the tights and cape.
“You know what? What you’re saying makes absolute sense to me. I am a cancer survivor. I don’t know how I would have lived this long without the Y.”
“EXACTLY! People don’t understand how important this shit is to our sanity. I almost died, man!”
“I feel you, brother. After two months of radiation treatments and chemo, I threw a clot, saddle embolism.”
“THAT’S WHAT I HAD! The fucking widow maker."
“That’s why my doc called it, right! So you know what I’m saying. I would have lost my mind if I hadn’t found the Y 10 years ago. I think the most important thing for us to do right now is to find you a place where you feel comfortable working out. Do you agree?”
“Yeah, but... Everything is closed.”
“Listen, Planet Fitness is still open. I had a membership there for a while. It’s clean. Friendly people. Good equipment. Now, look. It’s not the Y. But for 10 or 20 bucks a month, you can have a place to work out until this corona thing blows over.”
“I don’t even know where... Where are they?”
“There’s one right around the corner, right next to Krogers on New Circle Road.”
“Man, that’s all the way across town.”
OK, something isn't right about this. Kroger is emphatically not all the way across town. It is 5 minutes away at rush hour.
“Brother, which Y branch do you use?”
“I can’t drive all the way over there. I am literally 3 minutes from the Beaumont Y. That’s why I called you!”
Dude dialed the wrong number. He thought he was calling the big, beautiful Y on the south end of town. The one with three swimming pools and thousands of members and a whole studio dedicated to martial arts. The Beaumont Y is bigger than many shopping malls. He thinks he’s complaining to the president of General Motors, and he’s got a clerk from the local bike shop on the phone.
“OK, first things first. It sounds like you’re driving, right? There’s a Planet Fitness on Nicholasville Road. Get over there and get a membership. I don’t want you to cancel your Y membership. I want you to call Beaumont on Monday and have them put it on hold for four months for you. Surely to god, this will all be wrung out by July. You can reactivate your membership anytime before them, and your boy can keep playing soccer. Listen, man. It’s gonna be OK. Get in that gym. Your family needs you, OK?”
“OK, that’s a good idea. I’ll do that, then.”
“You be careful, man. We’re gonna get through this.” 
Love in the time of corona is a complicated business. Things aren’t always what they first appear. Sometimes, a package of toilet paper is really a life preserver. A doorknob can turn out to be patient zero. For me, an entitled, bigoted bully turned out to be a man so afraid of dying that he had to go out in the rain and make an angry phone call from his car so his wife and kids couldn’t see the terror in his eyes. 
I just realized. I never even asked his name. I don’t think it matters.
And I can’t help wondering... Why in hell did that guy call my branch? How did his voice wind up in my ear? Reason tells me it was just a coincidence that out of all the bright faced, part-time  staffers in the city that he could have reached on a Saturday afternoon, he managed to get on the phone with an old guy at the wrong branch who had survived exactly the same life-threatening condition that he had. It’s ridiculous to infer some kind of providence that put me right there at the desk at that moment instead of washing towels, disinfecting exercise machines, meeting personal training clients, or guarding the pool as I had been doing for 98% of my day until that moment. It is absurd to think that in the middle of a plague, God busies himself routing customer service calls.
But in my absurd, ridiculous, irrational heart, I can’t help but take comfort from the thought...
His eye really is on the sparrow. Even in the time of corona.