Five Weeks In: The Tricksy Virus

On March 12, I started having symptoms of the novel coronavirus.  On April 8, I posted on Facebook that I was finally feeling like myself, and I was.  But this virus is tricksy, as Gollum would say.  The image above is from Gandalf's fight with the Balrog in the first Lord of the Rings movie.  Towards the end of the battle, Gandalf drives his staff into the ground and declares "You shall not pass!" The stone bridge on which the Balrog approaches cracks and sends the gargantuan monster falling to the depths of the Mines of Moria.  As Gandalf starts to rejoin his companions, the Balrog's fiery whip snaps up and wraps around Gandalf, pulling him down, too.  Just when you think Gandalf has won, he slips over the edge.

That is the image that keeps coming to mind with this virus.  For a couple of weeks in the middle, I actually thought I was in the final stages of recovery. Perhaps I didn't quite have normal energy levels, but they were high enough.  Two steps forward, one step back - work and rest.  All through Holy Week, I had the stamina to work during the day for Bruton and SpiritWorks and then do services in the evening.  Until Easter.  Once again it was like the Balrog whip wrapped itself around me and yanked me down.  During Easter week I had more tightness of chest and shallow breathing than I did when I was much sicker.  And the fatigue. Taking a shower in the morning and coming downstairs is enough to put me back on the couch for a time until I can regain strength to get breakfast.

From what I've read, the tricksy return of symptoms is normal for some people. Fortunately I haven't had the version where two weeks in you take a sharp downward turn and land in the hospital.  But I'm now entering the 6th week of this virus, and I'm weary of it.

On Saturday, my bishop directed me to stop working until I've fully recovered.  Since I'm a classic workaholic and codependent, I am grateful for her wisdom.  On Monday, I called the doctor's office and explained how long I'd had symptoms.  The doctor said, "It's time for you to know for sure what this is."  So I trundled off to Urgent Care to be tested.  The test is a battle in and of itself, but that is a story for another post.  Suffice it to say it's not fun.  I nearly passed out.  Yesterday I got the results - positive for COVID-19.  The monster still has a grip on me, though not the death grip that many have experienced.

The health department is confused by my case because the symptoms have lasted much longer than those of most people.  But they also know that it is tricksy, and so they have encouraged rest and fluids and a new seven day quarantine.  No argument here. My cough and shortness of breath have pretty much disappeared, but the fatigue remains.

Spoiler alert:  we do learn in the 2nd Lord of the Rings movie that Gandalf and the Balrog have quite the battle as they continue to fall through Moria, and eventually Gandalf kills the Balrog, though things go dark for a time while he is transformed into a new version of himself.  My fight with Covid-19 does not require superior magical powers or force or a wizard's staff.  Apparently my battle with the virus requires one thing - rest.

In his fight with the Balrog, Gandalf the Grey is transformed into Gandalf the White.  I can't help but wonder what transformation I'm undergoing as I wait for the virus to let go of me.  What transformation is the world undergoing?  What are we meant to learn from this virus?  Will we learn it?

I don't have any answers.  But I have surrendered at last. The virus can't be beat through force; I must completely rest for my body to heal.  How grateful I am that I have the means and support to do so.  Thank you for all the prayers and positive thoughts - truly they have sustained me.  I'll keep you posted on how the transformation is going.

The Triumph of Love

Yesterday morning, I woke up sad.  Now that may seem backwards.  But so has everything this Lent and Holy Week.  On Palm Sunday I learned that we had lost a young man in the SpiritWorks community to a fatal overdose.  On Monday of Holy Week, I let my sweet, loving cat, Spirit, return to the care of her Creator.  I grieved that day, and then I plunged into the work of preparing for Holy Week liturgies.  Proofing bulletins and creating Noonday Prayer and Compline videos.  Learning to use the new camera so we could livestream all our Bruton services.  Attending daily Zoom meetings and answering emails.  When you're busy, you don't have to feel much.

Maundy Thursday service went well, and then it was Good Friday.  Talk about backwards.  I spent the day practicing the Exsultet and writing my Easter Vigil sermon.  I was in Easter before I had reached Good Friday, but we were recording the Vigil right after the livestream of Good Friday.  Liturgical whiplash!  All day it felt wrong to be singing Alleluia, but I decided that I'd already experienced Good Friday this Lent with the pandemic and the deaths.  It was okay.

Holy Saturday, I got to walk the labyrinth.  And rest.  And Easter morning, I woke up sad.  I had to remind myself that it was Easter, but even the reminder didn't bring the usual smile of joy.  Tears lurked behind my eyes, threatening to slip down my cheeks.  As I glanced through my email, I saw  that a message had come in from Christ and St. Luke's, the church that sponsored me for ordination.  It was the link to their Easter service. (View here.)  I decided to "attend" the video while I ate my breakfast.

Like a child returning to the comfort of her mother, I returned the church that had been the spiritual home of my young adulthood.  And I was nurtured yesterday as surely as I had been nurtured 25 years ago.  The sound of brass playing Easter hymns lifted my spirits, and video footage of that beautiful church reminded me of other happy Easters, long before I knew the joy of Easter as a  priest.  And then came Win Lewis' sermon.  Win is the first person I ever wrote a fan letter to, and it was because of his sermons.  He was the Associate Rector when I attended in the 90s, and his sermons always spoke to me.  He preached about Easter as the triumph of love, telling stories of how love overcomes grief, bitterness, trauma, hatred, and death, preventing those things from having the final word.   He quoted Corrie Ten Boom - "There is no pit so deep that God's love is not deeper still."

He also quoted his New Testament professor who said, "Resurrection is not resuscitation."  It's not resuscitation of the old; resurrection is the transformation into something new.

In my own Easter Vigil sermon, I had preached that saying "Alleluia" in this time doesn't mean we have to pretend to feel happy when we're not.  Yesterday morning, I heard my own words.  It didn't matter that I didn't feel joyous on Easter morning.  It was okay to be sad.  It was okay to be where I was.  Resurrection is not up to me.  It's up to God.  If I do not insist on being resuscitated into myself before the pandemic, God will transform me into something new.  Love triumphs over everything.  Death, grief, pandemics, isolation, despair do not have the final word.   Love has the final word.

In that moment as I sat curled up on my couch, I heard God speaking to me through Win Lewis, and I knew it was okay to be where I was, to feel what I was feeling.  Being sad on Easter doesn't mean that Christ isn't risen.  Christ is risen indeed.  Alleluia.  A bit later, walking through the churchyard before the Bruton service, I took the picture above.  Standing amid graves and viewing the Easter lilies, I heard the words of our burial office, "In the midst of life, we are in the midst of death.  Yet even at the grave we make our song, Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia."

On Good Friday, my rector, Chris Epperson preached that two things can be true at the same time. I can say, "Alleluia" while feeling sad.  I may be sad for awhile, but that doesn't mean that Easter didn't come.  Easter comes whenever love triumphs. Even my grief is a triumph of love, for if I had not loved, I would not grieve.

Happy Easter, everyone.