Quarantine journals: April 5

312,245 cases

8,503 deaths

15,021 recovered

*****

I remember

the Sunday school teacher handing out branches,

thick, green leaves rustling like crinoline as we

held back our glee about going to Big Church and

singing and waving for the grown ups

HOSANNA!

How long ago this was, how long ago it seems

we went to church at all.

How hard to find a way to praise this day

when the worst is coming.

Is this how Jesus felt inside as the palm branches waved

in Jerusalem? He knew

His doom awaited.

But still He rode.

Because He also knew the way the story ends.

And so we sing

hosanna

in small voices that tremble.

hosanna.

hosanna.

hosanna.

“So they took branches of palm trees and went out to meet him, crying out, “Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord, even the King of Israel!””
‭‭John‬ ‭12:13‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Quarantine journals: April 2

242,182 diagnosed.

5,850 dead.

8,991 recovered.

*****

I’m really thankful

today

for friends who have more faith than i

who post truths my head knows full

well, but my heart

falters.

Just sharing one of those

today.

Waymaker. That’s what we sing.

Even when sorrows like

sea billows

roll.

“…for God gave us a spirit not of fear but of power and love and self-control.”
‭‭2 Timothy‬ ‭1:7‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Quarantine journals: March 28

104,837 diagnosed

1,711 dead

897 recovered

Back on March 19, when I first started keeping track of the numbers on the Johns Hopkins site, regarded by those in the medical profession as the most comprehensive, just 1,300 were diagnosed. My blog posts between now and then are a mix of vacillating emotions. I want to write about hope and faith and quote scripture, and for some time I have felt inadequate, unable to really do so.

I feel like I’ve been failing you, dear readers.

But today, I’ve decided to write to you anyway.

Just write.

Part of this journey is not only that we are all in this together, but that we are all struggling. We are all overwhelmed. We are all trying to get through each day, each minute, without crumpling and curling into fetal position for the duration, even if the duration is months, which it appears by all indications that it will be.

I can’t promise you Psalms and rainbows and butterflies, but I can promise that I’m there in the seat next to you riding this struggle bus.

I’ll try to share a little as often as I can, good, bad and ugly. A little from a nursing perspective. A little from a writer perspective. A little from a poor excuse of a Christian perspective, and whatever else pops up in these extraordinary days.

Today is Saturday, a welcome reprieve from the hospital, where updates and warnings come to us in rapid and constant succession. A pause from watching as beds fill with the virus and push out every other diagnosis, as if cancer and heart disease and strokes and broken bones require band-aids and a pat on the head. A chance to reset and brace for whatever unimaginable awful this beast has waiting for us on Monday.

So today I’m doing my best to escape and pretend like this isn’t real.

I will turn off the news and paint the rest of our upstairs hallway and plan out a big board and batten project and make frames for my barn paintings.

I will walk my dog even though it’s cloudy and count the daffodils blooming in my garden (three to be exact).

And I will try to pray. Spindly threads of frayed faith tossed Heaven-ward where maybe a low-hanging angel will catch one and weave it into something more, save me from unraveling altogether. Save us.