When We Suffer

I have listened to and heard of a great amount of suffering this week. Perhaps you have too.

We were already weary, us poor frail humans — weary of this pandemic and its miseries, weary of being alone, and weary of the way of this world which seems to test us just up to the edges of what we can bear, sometimes beyond.

Then along the road, rushing like a freight train, came this storm. There have been other storms in other places far worst — blizzards, hurricanes, hail, fire — every kind of horrible storm has been visited upon this old planet. There wasn’t anything particularly fierce about this one. But it visited its wrath upon a people unprepared. Not individually unprepared, we had perhaps gathered our firewood and our packed our pantries if we could. But collectively we were unprepared (Do we even know collective preparation anymore?) — our infrastructures were unprepared for the heaviness of snow, for the deep freeze of consistent sub-freezing temps, for the havoc placed upon thin wires carrying energy and thin pipes carrying water.

And so from all over our cities and our state we learned of bursting pipes flooding households that became ice rinks, of moms and babies huddled around fireplaces as furniture is burnt for fuel, of grandparents alone in apartments with no water and no heat, of families sleeping in running cars, of house fires and horrific car wrecks, of boil notices, and conservation of power. Our “power grid” had failed us. Never have those two words been used together so often in my proud state: “power grid.” We learned quickly that under and above our homes, no matter their size or wealth, we are tied together on these grids. Some of them went black, some of them maintained their power, with seemingly very little rhyme or reason. You and your grid sank or swam together, often without knowing it, holed up as we have been in our own homes, unsure of which to fear more, cold or disease.

Today is the first week of Lent and how fitting it is that it should come in this shroud of cold with whisperings of death. Does “death” sound too harsh? Isn’t “death” what winter always whispers? We carry through winter and even rejoice in winter because we know the rebirth of spring is coming. And so we carry through this tragedy knowing that rebirth is coming. It has to come.

And amidst the suffering of millions in my state this week, if you pay close attention, you can see mini-enactments of life-giving, of renewal: Neighbors opens their doors to friends and acquaintances as they find warmth and water in true hospitality. A brave soul spends hours under a house not his own using the power of a hairdryer to thaw frozen pipes and bring the gift of water. Employees at a lumber store give away chopped lumber as firewood. Generous plumbers brave harsh conditions to patch up pipes. Women and men circle the city picking up those without homes and bringing them to safety. Everywhere there are images of life giving, hints at the possibility of resurrection.

Pay attention. Even as you grieve this Lenten season, pay attention to the life giving, to the rebirth. It is there, I promise, even in the grief.