A Stormy Season
Recently, I heard a group of liturgical scholars refer to these long months of pandemic as “Covidtide,” almost as if it were an official season of the church year. Unlike the joyful twelve-day period of Christmastide, which leads to the celebration of the unveiling Christ’s glory at Epiphany, the season of Covidtide has been marked for many by unrelenting emotional, spiritual, and physical storms.
Although the “tide” in Covidtide doesn’t refer to the sea, it reminds me that, like the ocean, the seasons of life often wash over us until we are afraid that we are going to drown. In one such season many years ago, I and my three children shared a house rental near the beach with another woman who, like me, had recently left an untenable marriage. She had two small children of her own, so we took turns watching each other’s kids, one of us waiting tables at a jazz club at night while the other worked the register at the food co-op by day. Between us we could just about afford to pay the rent, put food on the table, and help each other out. With so many people in a small house, there were a lot of stormy days. Someone was always getting into someone else’s toys or clothes, someone was always having a meltdown over something or other, someone was always having to go to the doctor or the ER.
Meanwhile, my mother was newly diagnosed with colon cancer, and my sister was living in the desert, too far away and too consumed with her own problems to be any help. Like the disciples who thought that Jesus didn’t care that their little boat was about to be swamped by the waves,* I was sure that no one cared that I was about to drown in the troubles that were constantly washing over me.
What I only came to see in hindsight is that a miracle was taking place, right in the middle of the storm. My roommate and I had only met a few weeks earlier and renting a house together had seemed merely a practical solution to our mutual poverty. In deciding to share that little, run-down house, a deep friendship developed between us, leading us to share all that we had and all that we lacked. In one of the stormiest periods either of us had ever known, we learned to trust each other with our lives. Along with some other women who were also struggling with rough waters, we became community for one another.
In that small community, I gained the courage to keep on going, and the faith that the storm was not the end of the story. On those rare occasions that all the children were with their respective fathers, I would walk the few blocks down to the beach and just sit alone, staring out at the endless Pacific Ocean. As I looked out toward the horizon and listened to the waves crashing steadily onto the sand, I began to feel comforted, as if someone were saying to me, “Peace, be still.”
Today, as the buffeting waves of Covidtide seem to be subsiding, at least here in the US, I am aware that the storms of racism, climate change, and political polarization continue to rage while illness, poverty, and broken relationships continue to wreak havoc in individual lives. I am also aware that Christ is not ignoring our peril. He is inviting us to live in community, bailing out the boat that we are all in together, while he stretches out his arms to calm the waves of fear in our hearts.
*Mark 4:35-41
–Deborah Sokolove, Seekers Church
This post originally appeared on the Inward/Outward Together Email Blast (Sunday, June 20, 2021) from the Church of our Savior in Washington, DC.
Questions:
When has community sustained you during a difficult time?
What lessons from your past have you been able to draw on during the year of Covidtide?
What are you learning from Covidtide that will help you weather future storms?
