Into the Woods

I wasn’t going to write this; I told myself I’d steer clear of Covid and quarantine and things that divide. But I can’t shake it. So here it is, for all of us lost in the woods.

*

On Sunday, my heart broke.

Brian was giving the boys a bath when he found me on my knees staring blankly out the living room window, tears in my eyes. I’d been carrying a heaviness all day, and in those moments, I couldn’t carry it anymore. It literally took me to my knees with wordless prayers.

He immediately got down to my level, put a reassuring hand on my shoulder, and asked if I was okay. I made a non-committal grunt as I tried to marshal my thoughts. And then it all came pouring out: All day long I could feel the brokenness of our world, feel the desperation and fear and grief and loneliness and suffocation so many are experiencing. Feel the anger and division and hatred getting spewed everywhere. Feel the fear that fuels it.

And my heart burst. Because I have been there. I know what it’s like to feel isolated and alone and uncertain and confused and angry and lost and bitter and terrified and anxious, sometimes all at the same time. And how all that emotion can fuse together like a ball of fire needing a place to go. It burns us up until we unleash it in a fury of anger and malice. Sometimes it’s at a person close to us. Sometimes it’s a celebrity or politician or expert we don’t agree with. Sometimes it’s a complete stranger or people group; sometimes it’s all of the above. We dehumanize and blame and lash out and hurl down contempt from our self-made platforms of superiority. We want to win, to be right, to crush the other, because somehow we think it will validate us or eradicate the turmoil inside. I know; I’ve done it—and sometimes reveled in it.

*

Just over a week ago we received a threatening letter from an anonymous neighbor saying our dogs were harassing her. This person is convinced that Brian and I don’t care about her safety and is taking measures into her own hands. After a few calls with the county sheriff, a bottle of bear spray, and two hostile interactions, I am left dumbfounded. We’ve apologized, tried to make amends, and are taking significant measures to make sure she feels safe. And with each thing we do, we are met with hostility, disdain, and outright hatred. Here’s the rub: According to the law, we (including our dogs) have done nothing wrong, and we don’t actually need to do anything. And the vindictive part of us wants to do exactly that: nothing.

But.

When Brian and I can get over our anger and pride and wounded sense of justice, we see that it’s not actually hatred. It’s fear. She is in a higher-risk age range for CV-19, and I imagine her world is swirling with panic and anxiety and uncertainty. Maybe someone she loves is sick. Maybe she longs to hold her grandkids. Maybe she’s frustrated at a mandated quarantine or scared by her dwindling retirement investments. So when there is something in the actual, physical world she perceives as a threat, all the anxiety comes out as a fear-fueled hatred targeted at that thing: us.

And so we pray. Pray that the Lord changes our hearts towards her. We pray that the Lord blesses her and keeps her. We pray that her loved ones stay safe. We pray that there would be peace and unity in her family. We pray that Jesus would become real to her.

And we love. We do what we can to make her feel safe. We turn our cheeks at her accusations. We give our complaints of injustice to God, and we wave when she goes by, and we extend to her the same Grace that’s been extended to us.

This is not to show how magnanimous Brian and I are. Really, it isn’t. Because it’s hard. There are days when my anger flares, and I just want to give her a piece of my mind—and then some. But if we really want to be more like Christ, we have to let Him use our situations and circumstances to refine us. We have to be willing to surrender everything and trust that the Lord will use it all for our ultimate benefit and His glory. We can’t sacrifice the dignity and humanity of others for our own comfort or pride.

*

To see the world as it is, is short-sighted. Jesus didn’t come to overthrow Rome. He came to overthrow death and destruction. To bring a subversive Kingdom that would topple our selfishness and transform our hearts and bring forth Life from the ashes of our self-destruction.

Those quarantine protestors? Maybe they’re feeling betrayed by a government and scared about the economy shutting down and their families starving. Or maybe they’re carrying the weight of their business failing and having to lay off people who depend on them for income. Those who are pro-quarantine and calling the police on their neighbors or filling their social feeds with memes and rants about those who disagree? Maybe they or a loved one is high-risk for this virus, and they feel beyond helpless or can’t shut off the alarm bells in their heads. Maybe they are terrified at the thought of a painful death without anyone to hold their hand through it.

You don’t know what you don’t stop to see. Strong emotions and knee-jerk reactions are always an invitation to look deeper, both in ourselves and others.

*

Eventually, Brian got up and went to check on the boys in the bath. But I was rooted there, praying and staring out at the woods. These days we are all, in some ways, lost in the woods. We can’t get our bearings, we panic, we blame.

But.

If we can stop long enough to pause, take a deep breath (or two or three or ten), and look up, we can reorient ourselves around Hope. We can bless and not curse. Trust and not doubt. Surrender, not control. Give and not hoard. Love and not hate.

And if we do, I think we may just make it out—together.