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.

When Following Jesus Looks Like an Empty Church. Even during Holy Week.

It’s Palm Sunday. 2021.

I’m sitting on the couch, my daughters snuggled in tight on either side of me, the computer sitting on the coffee table in front of us. The organ plays, and they begin to sing the first stanza of “All Glory Laud and Honor” with all their might. Feeling my eyes start to water, I stand up and walk toward the kitchen, looking for something to keep my mind off what I’m feeling inside. This isn’t what I want for today. I don’t want to watch this service. I don’t want to imagine Jesus’s procession in my mind. Not here. Not now. I want to ignore it and pretend today is just another day of the week.

This is not what church is supposed to be like. There is no celebration in my heart for this Jesus that is coming into the city. It doesn’t feel celebratory. It feels too far off. Jesus’ power feels empty today. Or maybe I’m just cranky.

A cramp forms in my stomach and I feel the physical pain of mourning. A physical sign of the angst my body feels over spending this holiest week at home, without my beloved church community. Sure, there will be a celebration of sorts on Easter Sunday, but without the other gatherings of this week, I almost don't even want to go. I don’t want a substitute Easter celebration. I want Easter like it’s always been. Gathered together, wearing our best dresses and our fanciest hats, singing “Alleluia” and “Christ is risen” and celebrating the truth that Jesus is victorious over death. 

Usually Holy Week feels sacred. The most sacred week of the year. The week when we remember the death so that the resurrection feels majestic. The resurrection has no teeth without the days that precede it. But this Holy Week feels different. This Holy Week feels redundant. Like it started more than a year ago and has been the longest Holy Week of my life. More than 365 days of remembering loss. Of feeling sadness and lament and heavy, heavy emotions. I am ready for the flowers and the new life and the resurrection. 

I have experienced resurrection in my own life. I know it’s real. I know it’s beautiful. And I don’t want to wait for it any longer.

And yet.

We have to. 

We have to continue to live in this place of lament. This last year has shown us the stark divide between God’s kingdom and our world. In the last year we have seen, firsthand, how the world is not what God intended when he created it so long ago.

We’ve seen almost three million deaths worldwide because of a virus that no one could control.

We’ve seen black men and women killed. Simply because they are black.

We’ve lost friends and relatives without being able to say goodbye. Unable to celebrate their lives with other people who have loved them.

We’ve seen mass shootings.

Nuclear bomb testing.

Nasty and emotional political divides.

Broken democracies.

Fights for power.

Children torn from parents.

And so much more.

It has been a year from hell. It has been a year like no other I can remember. Ever. In my life. It’s like in Harry Potter when Voldemort increasingly gains power until it feels like he will win and kill them all. It feels like evil will win this world and we will all be crushed to pieces. We know how the story ends, but right now, it feels like maybe we’re wrong.

Is this what it felt like on that very first Easter? The mourning, the uncertainty, the pain of loss? This sense of unbelief—Will we ever get through this? Will the church as we once knew it ever be quite the same? 

Church isn’t supposed to be virtual. Church is supposed to be the living, breathing, touchable hand of God. Church is supposed to be the place where we physically feel the touch of other humans, a promise that God is here, in the midst of us. Church is supposed to be the place where we feel the water dripped on our heads and taste the bread and wine on our tongues. Church is a sensual place; not a virtual one. And we haven’t had any of that in over a year. No wonder this Holy Week feels so dark.

The pastor starts his sermon with a question that pierces my heart and puts me back into my place: “Are we willing to make the sacrifices required in following Jesus?”

This is really the crux of our faith. Even today. Especially today. We have given up so much of our lives over the last year; not for our own safety, but for the safety of others. For those who are more vulnerable than we. We have sacrificed our own desire for “church” to protect the ones who need it most. We have laid down our own hearts for the sake of others’ lives. 

This question makes me wonder: What if church is more than a community of people gathered together to worship this Jesus that we all love? Maybe church is a community of people willing to sacrifice everything—even its own life together—for the sake of the world. As painful as it feels not being together, maybe this year Holy Week isn’t so much about gathering together to remember Jesus’s death. Maybe it’s about what our empty church represents instead.

We represent a Jesus who was willing to give up his entire life so that we would know how much God loves us. We represent a Jesus who was willing to come to the earth and live his entire life as an outcast so that each one of us could experience true love and eternal life. We represent a Jesus who everyone thought would break down the walls in this world, but instead was about showing us that greater things are still to come. We represent a Jesus that proclaims the Kingdom is here, and yet will never be fully here, all at the same time.

At the start of worship I thought to myself, “This is a Holy Week like no other.” But now I’m not quite sure. Now I think maybe this is a Holy Week like all the others that have come before. Maybe this Holy Week feels different because we really understand what Holy Week is all about. Maybe this Holy Week is about reminding us that death and resurrection will never be truly complete here in this life. Easter is always temporary—and permanent—all at the same time. That is the paradox of the Christian faith. 

And maybe this year we are experiencing that in a very real, and very tangible, way.

Remembering Elaine on International Women's Day

Have you ever had someone in your life who made an impact in a single moment? 

Earlier this year, my church community lost a dear woman who transformed my life in a single moment. And I’m not even sure she knew it before she died.

I didn’t know her well—we’ve only been attending the church for two years now, one of which has been mostly virtual. I don’t know if she was able to participate in church during this time of virtual worship or not, but I do know that in the nine months that we worshipped with her in person, she made a lasting impact on me.

She was an artist. And she loved my children. Every Sunday she would make a point to stop by and say hello. To tell me how beautiful they were, and to share with me how precious this time with them is.

She saw me crying in worship once. I do that often—especially on days when there’s some talk about answering God’s call. I remember that service quite vividly. I was feeling a little torn between wanting to live this homeschooling life that I feel very called to and wanting to make a very big difference in the world—also something that I feel very called to. 

We were singing “Will You Come and Follow Me” when the tears fell so hard and fast on my face that I couldn’t even sing the words aloud. I tried to hide it, but sweet Elaine, she saw. After worship that day, she came up to me during coffee hour, placed a gentle hand on my arm, and in her sweet 89-year-old voice said, “I felt it too. Sometimes God just shows up in church like that. Everything falls together and I feel the Holy Spirit like I feel the wind blow in my hair.”

And then I hugged her. And the tears started once again. I felt seen—not only by Elaine, but by God. In that moment, she reminded me that I’m not alone in whatever it is I’m going through. In that moment, she saw me, in a way that I hadn’t felt seen since I first moved to Massachusetts several years before. In that moment, she was the living, breathing, hand of God that I needed to feel wrapped around me. 

Now that sweet old lady has left this world. She is resting firmly in God’s presence and has left us all behind, and her body will one day return to dust. But she will forever remain in my heart.

Elaine, Beloved Child of God, may you rest in peace my friend. I will miss you. Until we meet again.

Like what you see here? Don’t forget to sign up for the Monthly Munchies Newsletter! Each month I collect all my favorite things from the month and send them straight to your inbox!