Be with us

Image by Jacqui C Miles, 2020

Our city has been subjected to some of the harshest restrictions anywhere in the world to contain the second wave of the virus. 

What this means to our every day reality is homeschooling, working from home, quick trips to purchase food, being unable to travel further than 5km from home, limited time spent outdoors, and until recently, a curfew. Nothing is open. We are masked. We sit, we wait. 

Going deeper, this has meant a creeping sense of despair as the restrictions are extended again and again, even as the case numbers have gone from 700 new ones a day, to just six today. I open my diary and the monthly calendars between April and October are empty. There was nothing to plan for, no concrete day in the future where something would occur (the exception were church services, I am lucky to be able to sing once a week in a tiny choir, to an empty church). It is hard to adequately describe how these restrictions impact on us psychologically. For a time I would wake up and feel as though I was lying under heavy sheet metal. Enter early pregnancy, and I was in a haze of physical illness and psychological stress. 

Despair became anger and distrust, as those questioning the measures and opposing them were arrested under State of Disaster laws, which somehow trump constitutional law here. That anger calcified as it became obvious that our state government was responsible for the second wave due to absolutely botching hotel quarantine, which allowed the virus to spread from overseas arrivals into the community. 

How to balance this anger, this very real despair, with maintaining a prayerful state—of humility? Doesn't humility imply a level of acceptance of God's will? What is the correct attitude between sensing a great lie and injustice being done to us, and living peacefully (and not complaining and despairing)?

The Orthodox Church uses a powerful hymn in the Great Compline, called Lord of the Powers. It is Lenten in spirit, encouraging yet sombre. And this lockdown has been one giant trial like lent. The words of the hymn are: 

Lord of the Powers, be with us.
For in times of distress, we have no other help but You. 

Lord of the Powers, have mercy on us.

You can listen to the hymn here.

We live at a time when there are a great many threats and unknowns looming. This doesn't make us unique: I am reading the diary of Holocaust victim Etty Hillesum, sensing the world is falling apart is quite common to humanity. There are degrees of threats; immediate, longterm, and the slowly encroaching vs boarding a packed train in 1943. Distress at any time is real. I don't think burying it under platitudes and ignoring danger is helpful. Lately I've been hearing "hang in there" when I rail, and it sets my nerves on edge ('hanging' implies dangling painfully, and 'there' is so dismissive and distancing). I have been weak, I have been proud, yes I complain. But I have no other help but You. Help me to accept that with humility. 

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In May we scouted land in southern New South Wales and made an offer on a large mountainous acreage. My last memory of nature is when we descended into a valley on that land and four black cockatoos lifted up into the sky. The distant ranges of Mount Kosciuszko (pronounced Koschooshko in Polish but in Aussie parlance, something like Kozi-osko) were capped in snow. The land turned out to be unsuitable and overnight some great hope of a new start withered. 

The land we made an offer on before the second wave, and before the borders closed. 

Soon after, state borders were closed anyway.  My grandmother passed away in Sydney, and ironically, her body was able to cross the border without a hitch. We could have 10 mourners in church and five running the service. The family became choristers and altar servers. My grandmother was 99 and had touched many lives but she looked tiny in her coffin, as hundreds of mourners watched the burial service online. 

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Maybe there is a breeze of change, not in the world but in our hearts. A lot has been stripped away during this lockdown. What remains? What can't we live without?

For me, I still have hope we will move away from the city soon. Not rushing headlong into a decision has meant that we now know better what we want from our move (there was a business plan with statistical analysis and pie charts somewhere too). 

My daughters (aged 10 and 7) are going back to school next week after almost 8 months at home. I am not going to gloss over it; it was tough, and there were a lot of emotions and missed friends, but we also buoyed each other—we learnt together, we dreamt together and prayed together. And maybe that is all we can ever do and should do in the face of uncertainty.