Rising waters, spreading flames

When you go through deep waters, I will be with you.

When you go through rivers of difficulty, you will not drown.

When you walk through the fire of oppression, you will not be burned up;

The flames will not consume you.

Isaiah 43: 2

The rivers of difficulty are rising as the wildfire that is COVID-19 spreads and devours. The state of our mental health is a secondary fire that is causing its own desperate devastation. When widespread disaster strikes, we get to see up close and personal how people respond, individually and collectively. Sometimes, it’s like witnessing the horrific, and not being able to look away.

As a rule, I try to keep my head down, do what I can and need to, and attend to what is in my immediate sphere of influence. But this week, friends, I looked around and became discouraged.

This week, a local 11-year-old, yes 11, took his life at home during a school Zoom meeting. He and his younger sister, both elementary age, were home alone, doing school.

This week, our governor enforced another stay-at-home order because our hospital ICU’s have reached 85 percent capacity and it is feared we will have nowhere to house the gravely ill and dying. Three weeks before Christmas, restaurants are limited to take out only, hair salons are closed, stores must limit capacity to 20 percent, and gatherings of any size are prohibited.

This week, my sons’ school shut its doors to students and went back to distance (distant) learning. The hope is to return in a week for finals, as there is no test security with finals online, but that isn’t likely to happen. The sports season they were hoping to have was pushed back to spring, if ever. There have been no extracurricular activities for my senior and freshman in high school, and there aren’t any scheduled in the foreseeable future.

The rivers of difficulty are rising, and seem positioned to overflow their banks and flood. But I refuse to believe we will drown.

One of the most difficult aspects of life these days is the sense of powerlessness. People do not like to feel as if their lives are out of their control. Everyday people. But people in recovery have an advantageous adaption in dealing with life’s disasters. People in recovery have come to terms with what it feels like to be powerless. We practice acceptance. And we are intimate with surrender.

The season we are walking through is no doubt, a struggle, a slog, and a big ugly trial, whether you are sober or using unhealthy coping mechanisms to make your way through. But there is something to be said for the resilience that sobriety brings. Maybe it’s because we felt so bad for so long, and may have even had a brush with death. Maybe it’s because we had to live for so long in a life where our mental and physical wellbeing were so uncertain. Or maybe it’s because we are grateful to have survived what we did, and now each day is a gift.

The flames of oppression are bright all around me, but I will not be consumed. I wake up each day, even this week, and look around for opportunities to encourage, hands to hold, and chances to respond with grace, even when others don’t. There are a lot of them.

I don’t know if this is as bad as it will get for us, or if it is going to get way, way worse. And I’m okay with that. I am acquainted with powerlessness. I met acceptance years ago, and I now hang out with grace, for myself and others.

My security lies in that fact that I’m not alone. Though difficulties rise and swirl around me, and flames spread and lick my heels, I will not drown or be consumed. And my job is only to look around for opportunities to encourage, hands to hold, and chances to respond with grace. One day at a time.