Hospitable Hospitals and Space to Grieve What's Lost

As Nate and I were falling asleep last night, I said, "It's been almost a year since we saw a movie in the theater."

It's actually been over a year.

I spent the first month of 2020 sick and the second month still choking back coughs and trying to birth a book into the world. We've only been sat down in two restaurants since December 2019. I haven't nestled in a corner table of a coffee shop for a full thirteen months. I haven’t had more than four human visitors in my home in since February 7th, 2020.

I know some will read the above and think we're crazy for continuing to live with restrictions and I guess I'm generally feeling okay about that (today). We're all going to have to stand before God someday and make an account for the ways we walked in faith or fear, regardless of the actions those two resulted in. I say that because I've been hesitant to grieve publicly about these limitations a year into them now. I know people whose lives have gone back to pre-2020 norms who ridicule those who haven't, and I know people who live with continued restraint who bully those who aren't. And both think they're 100% right. I'm learning to not get caught in the crossfires of anyone who thinks they're 100% right about most things.

My friend Aarik Danielson had some thoughts about surety yesterday that are ringing in my ears still today. A few months ago I said I’ve been 100% sure of only three things in my entire life. I’m not glorifying doubt, and I certain wish I had a little more certainty about a lot more things, but whether it’s a thorn in the flesh, a gift from God, or just a value held, certainty about much of anything just hasn’t been my portion.

I used to envy the sure, sure that if I could muster up an ounce of their confidence I’d be stronger, prettier, better, smarter, faster, quicker, slicker. But as my faith in God alone increases, I find my faith in pretty much everything else decreases. This is a double sided sword, for sure, because it means that in God alone my hope is found, so I’m unswayed by petty arguments or pretty people or patriotic pleas. But it also means that I sometimes envy that degree of confidence and surety in a thing. The Constitution or an article of theology or a principle of practice in the Christian life or a mere opinion. Life just seems simpler for those folks, more black and white. Sometimes I think to myself, “What is it like to feel so sure your way of thinking is right that you’ll demonize or marginalize or alienate or gaslight others who have a different experience than yours?”

This is why I’ve struggled to grieve publicly about my sadness of the collective year we have passed or are coming upon soon. I think a great number of you are grieving too and a great number of you are unfazed, and it’s the surety with which you hold your position that intimidates me sometimes. I am nothing if not a bit wobbly and I’ve never pretended otherwise.

But it’s not my faith that’s wobbly and that’s the thing I keep coming back to in recent weeks and months. I love God, the God of the Bible, the one whose character is good and just and merciful and kind and faithful and enduring and gracious. That’s the God I love. But he’s also the God I am loved by. He loves me into loveliness, he is faithful in spite of my faithlessness, he is just and kind toward me. I’m so completely certain of that, it makes everything else I could be certain about pale in comparison. His kindness compels me to walk kindly, his justice compels me to care about justice, his love compels me to love my neighbor. But it’s the certainty of Him that keeps me saying, “I honestly don’t know what’s best or right or most good in the world. I just know how to put one foot in front of another, doing what seems best or right or most good in each moment.”

Some people might call that weakness or think I lack spine, and to them I would say, “I think you’re right and I’m okay with that. I really am. Because I know the One whose strength girds me up, whose love upholds me, whose kindness keeps me, and whose justice preserves me.”

This was kind of a long way to simply say that I’m sad today. I’m sad about the state of our country. I’m sad about the state of the Church. I’m sad about the divisions in families. But I’m also sad about the ways the fractures in our country and in the church play a particular role in my own community, church, and family. I’m grieving what’s been lost this year in my own life, exacerbated in part by moving across the country during it all (no regrets, just saying there’s a unique ache to that experience if you hold similar convictions to ours). I’m sad about it and it’s okay with me if you think I’m stupid for feeling that way.

My mother-in-law sent me a sweet email this morning with the postscript, “Never try to teach a pig to sing; it wastes your time, and it annoys the pig,” and I thought, well, I might pick a different mammal to make the illustration but the point is made: I can’t teach nuance or care or consideration or empathy to those who are convinced they are right about most things in life and, honestly, I don’t really want to anyway.

God has called our family to those in the mushy-middle, to those in the hospital of doubt, to the fearers and waverers and grievers and sinners. We know this with deep certainty (it’s one of the three things I said I was 100% sure of). Fredrick Buechner wrote, “The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet,” and this is where our deepest gladness resides. So if you are a griever or fearer or doubter or sinner or find yourself caught between the 100% certain most days, I hope you’ll know I’m there with you and we can be company for the journey.

When this pandemic is over and we can visit safely again, our front door is open to you.