July 25: Poem from "Kyrie," Hopes for 2020, Prayer Time

Poem from Kyrie

by:  Ellen Bryant Voigt

To claim the War alone changed everything
can't be entirely right, too few of us
went over there.
                          My mother used to phone--
the telephone was new, electric lights,
cars among the horses on the street--
my mother every morning when we woke
rang around to see who else had died.
She and Uncle Henry had a faith
deaf as well as blind, but most of us,
the orphans and the watchers and the stung--

at recess there was a favorite game:  the chosen
died, in fits and twitches, while the other
stood by to cross the arms on the chest--that angels
might get a better grip--and to weep.
____________________________________

I have been wondering what my kids will remember about this pandemic time.  What will they tell their children 20 or 30 years from now?  I imagine them dragging out boxes filled with the masks we wore--showing sons and daughters their favorite designs.  The mask they wore for the first day of school.  And the one they wore for Christmas day.  They'll show their kids pictures of people in cars lined up for Covid-19 tests.  Empty highways and parking lots during the shutdown.  And they'll tell their kids stories about the Covidiots who crowded beaches, refused to wear masks or socially distance, and got mad at people collecting unemployment benefits.  (A question:  why aren't these Covidiots mad at the millionaire politicians who refuse to provide hazard pay to essential workers?  That seems like a more legitimate anger, instead of blaming people who've lost their jobs.)

I had high hopes for 2020.  At the stroke of midnight on January 1st, at my New Year's Eve party, I truly thought that things couldn't get any worse than 2019, which was a pretty shitty year.  I was wrong.  Things got way worse.  Now, I know my son is going to struggle when school starts back up (in whatever form) in the fall.  My daughter is simply hoping that her professors have learned how to teach online better.  Me?  My goal is to make it to December 31, 2020, without catching Covid-19.  Being an insulin-dependent diabetic, with asthma, I am pretty sure contracting the coronavirus wouldn't end well for me.  I want to live long enough to tell my grandkids stories about this pandemic.

Of course, I have other hopes for the rest of this year.  Hopes that I don't want to name here.  Private hopes.  At every church service I've ever attended, there comes a moment when, during the prayer time, the pastor or priest will say something like, "And now we lift up silently those concerns that we hold in our hearts," followed by some seconds of quiet.  Usually, I find myself scrambling to name all the things packed onto the shelves of my heart.  Pains.  Hurts. Mistakes.  And hopes.  I open myself up, and let all those things flood through me.  It hurts a lot of the time.  And this year has magnified that hurt.

Tonight, at the end of this post, right now, take a moment with me.  Think about all that troubles you.  All that you give thanks for.  Hold these things close for a few moments.  Feel their heft.  Allow yourself to hurt.  To celebrate.  To hope.

Now, say this with Saint Marty:  "Lord, hear my prayer."  Have faith.  Expect miracles.