Vaccines and A Lipstick

I’m sitting in the observation room at the vaccination site just down the road from my house, waiting to make sure I don’t have any severe reactions. My arm starts to hurt a little when I feel an wave of emotion hit my heart and tears start to form in my eyes. I didn’t expect to feel emotional over this. I mean, it’s just a shot. I hate shots—so much so that I’m one of those people that doesn’t always get her flu shot—but this one feels different.

David and I were in the kitchen making tacos earlier this week when I asked, “Which one should I take?” Somehow I had found myself with three vaccine appointments to choose from—two appointments next week that require me to drive, and one appointment three weeks out at the site I can walk to—and I had a serious case of decision fatigue. Months ago I had informed him, “I will not get this damn shot until I can walk down the street”; yet as my newsfeed became filled with vaccine-selfies, I began feeling this overwhelming sense of being left out.

The truth is, I didn’t expect to be eligible until much later this month, but last week Massachusetts added being overweight to the list of underlying conditions. I never thought I’d be glad about those last ten pounds I can’t seem to lose. Now that I find myself on the list of eligible receivers, I want this shot now, dammit! I’m tired of being patient! But at David’s urging, I made the appointment at the site down the street. Feeling thankful that I had an appointment on the calendar, I decided I would stalk the website much like I did for beach tickets last summer, hoping for a last minute cancellation so I could get in earlier than three weeks from now. And then late last night, I logged in on a whim and found today’s appointment waiting there just for me.

And that’s how I got here: the observation room where I am squeezing back the unexpected emotion I feel. David and I have joked that this shot will give you superpowers. He’s hoping for wings so he can fly. I’m hoping for arms like Inspector Gadget—all moms need “go-go Gadget arms.” And maybe a brighter smile. I’m pretty sure that’s a positive side effect of this vaccine, so hey, sign me up.

This past year has felt so heavy. No one can seem to agree on the best course of action. Do we play a game of chicken with this virus in an attempt to build up our immunity?  Or do we wear masks, hoping they work at least a little, and when it’s available, get a shot of magic science and let our body do it’s thing artificially?

I am one of those crunchy, chiropractor going, essential oil loving, (mostly) natural eating people who did tons of research on vaccines when my babies were born. We delayed their vaccines, because I didn’t think my tiny babies needed all that much protection, but I have never been anti-vax. I think our bodies were designed to fight off bad stuff, but I also believe vaccines play an important role in keeping people safe—especially those who are most at risk. I also think the risks of most diseases far outweigh the risks of the vaccines, and who really wants to get sick anyway?!

But.

I also don’t love the way vaccines are made. Or the junk that goes into them. Or the fact that the CDC recommends tiny little babies be shot up with a lot of unnatural substances before they have any time to develop outside the womb. So, you could say I’m a middle-roader. My kids (and I) are fully vaccinated, but I also believe in healthy questioning of authority and true dialogue with your health providers. In short, I believe if you live a life of medical privilege, and your body can handle a vaccine, you should get it. Because many other people may not be as lucky as you. And your shot may help save their life.

I practically jumped into that building today. So much of the last year has felt helpless. There has been nothing I could do that would really make a difference in making this terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad disease go away. And today, instead of saying no to one more thing I really want to do, I got to say yes to something.

Sure, I got a shot for my own sake, because I am a homeschooling mama and writer who does not have time to get sick. Because I miss my friends. Because I want to visit my family without worry. Because I want to take that trip to Niagara Falls we had planned for last year. But mostly I got it because it’s a tangible way I can show my love for my neighbor.

After my observation time was done, I walked to Whole Foods across the street and bought new lipstick. Because one day soon, we won’t need masks anymore, and I’ll wear lipstick to mark the occasion.

One Year Ago: A Lego Club Church

One year ago today, we went to Lego Club at the Library. My 5-year-old had been talking nonstop about Legos, and I didn’t want them in the house. I wanted to nurture her interests though, so I compromised and agreed to go to the weekly Lego club down the street. “Club” is really a misnomer—they just pulled disorganized boxes of Legos out and let the kids go to town.

The kid sitting next to us had a snotty nose and I can remember being totally grossed out. Even pre-covid, I never understood why parents would take their kids out in public with snot hanging from their nose. Just keep your snotty kids home please! The rest of us don’t want to have to wipe up snot for the next week. It’s really just common courtesy to other parents, ya know? 

I moved my kids to the end of the table and sat next to the snotty-nosed kid. Maybe that way my kids wouldn’t end up snotty nosed. If one of us was going to get sick, I’d rather it be me. In my annoyance, I almost missed the creation that was taking shape before me. 

“What are you making?” I asked my oldest, who had just turned 8. 

“Church,” she replied. “See the organ? And that’s Mr Ted. And over here is Pastor Anne. She’s doing Communion. I have to make the pews and the people next.”

By the time she was done, it looked just like the Sanctuary we had learned to call home. All the way down to the Christ candle and the people in the pews.

This church was fairly new to us, we found it just a year before. Although the congregation was largely made up of people much older than us, it felt like home from the moment we first walked in. It was a place that welcomed us with open arms, even if we were the only family with small kids in the pews on more Sundays than not. We could truly come as we were and be loved and accepted.

Little did we know that we wouldn’t set foot in that Sanctuary the rest of the year. Little did we know that in six months, our beloved pastor would retire and we wouldn’t get to hug her neck before saying goodbye. Little did we know we’d already had Holy Communion for the last time in who knows how long. Little did I know this tiny little Lego Sanctuary would speak such loud volumes to me now.

I snapped a picture and sent it to my husband, and then to our pastor, impressed with my kid’s desire to build a Sanctuary from Legos.

When our time was up, we cleaned up the Legos, left the room and went the bathroom to wash our hands. Then we went home, fairly certain that none of us caught some terrible disease. 

I wish I had snuck that Lego Sanctuary out of the library that day. I wish I had known how special that memory would become. It was the first of many lasts for a very long time. 

This post was written in response to 10 Things To Tell You Podcast Episode 106: 10 Questions to Mark One Year of the Pandemic. What was your life like in early 2020?

Ash Wednesday: 2021

I wasn’t happy about it. 

If it weren’t for A asking me what we were going to do for Ash Wednesday, I probably would have ignored it. Pretended it was just another day. Neglected to do anything, simply because I couldn’t have it the way I wanted. It would have been a terrible decision, and one that I would have regretted, but it would have been the easy one. Instead, I did what I felt obligated to do—I put this worship guide out into the world—it was only right that we actually used it.

I also knew if we did nothing, my girls would grow up and always remember the year we didn’t do Ash Wednesday. It would be one more thing the pandemic took away.

So when we finished eating dinner, I quietly cleared the dinner dishes and lit all the candles I could find. We turned down the lights and sang a version of Create in Me that will forever be a favorite (thanks John Tirro). I asked if anyone wanted to read from the Bible, and A jumped at the chance. I always get a little teary when I hear her read from Scripture. There’s something about hearing God’s Word from a child that gives me a new perspective on whatever is being read.

After she read from Joel, we talked about what it means to confess our sins and to return to the Lord. This is always hard for the girls. For all of us really. None of us really want to admit when we’ve been bad. We want people to love us, and if we’ve been bad, that might not be so. We want to be right. We don’t want to think about the people we’ve hurt; or the ones that have hurt us—lack of forgiveness is a sin too. 

We talked about how God is a merciful God. Slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love. And that because of that, we can feel free to confess our sins to him and know that we will be forgiven. We had a few moments of quiet as we each contemplated what to write on the blank page before us. One looked at me with tears in her eyes, so I took her to the next room and we whispered about some of the things she’s done over the last few days that might not have been the best behavior. It reminded me that sometimes it’s hard to think about what we need to confess. We get in our routine and we don’t even realize how we have turned away from God, or the need to repent—to turn back.

We folded our pieces of paper full of confessions and threw them into a bowl, praying that God would create in us clean hearts and renew right spirits within us. We lit a match and threw it in. One after another, the pieces of paper caught fire and we watched as they burned. When the smoke began to rise we feared the smoke alarm going off, so we moved the bowl to the stove and turned the vent fan on. “But I want to watch!” they cried. So we moved the stool and gathered around our bowl of sins, and watched as we lit match after match until they were finally all burned.

There’s something almost cathartic about watching your sins burn. The flames lick the edge of the bowl, the colors change from red to orange to blue and back to orange again. The paper that was once white is now black and ashy. “That looks so cool,” the littlest one said. “I love watching all the colors.”

It reminded me of a time at church camp when I was a teen. The confessing of sins and the burning of them in the courtyard outside our dorms. I don’t remember the confessions I made, but I remember how I felt when I watched them go up in flames. I remember the tears as I apologized to God for the things I had done. And I remember the way my heart felt lighter after the absolution had been proclaimed. 

After they were all gone, we moved the bowl over and let them cool. We read more Scripture, talked about what we might do during Lent to turn ourselves back towards God. And then, in the holiest of moments, the baby of the family—my tiny 6-year-old—she turned those burned sins into ashes with her hands. As she mixed them with olive oil and her fingers turned black, she took on the role of the one who reminds us. I put my finger in the bowl, turned towards her and made the mark of the cross on her forehead as I said “remember you are dust ... and to dust you shall return.”

She took great pride in reminding us all. She dipped a finger in, pulled it out, raised it up to a forehead, and in her small, quiet, 6-year-old voice, “remember you are dust....and to dust you shall return.”

For me.

For him.

For her sister.

It was in that last tender moment between sisters that I most strongly felt the presence of God among us. It was in that moment that tonight became most holy. In that moment, God took all my sorrow of being away from my beloved church community and filled my heart with a deep appreciation for this tender family worship experience we shared around the same counter we had just eaten dinner on. 

We washed her hands, then gathered in a circle to say the Lord’s Prayer together. And as I heard their little voices say the words louder and clearer than they’ve ever said them in church, I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that this will be an Ash Wednesday we will always remember.

Not because of what it lacked, but because of how God showed up.