Thin Places: Seeking God while Parenting in a Global Pandemic

This summer, the constant background noise of my mind has been the semi-panicked thought loop of, “The schools have to reopen this fall. I cannot have a repeat of the spring.”

Unfortunately for me, this past week our school district made the announcement that fall will be entirely online. I am in a sad/mad/fearful/confused state about this decision. I am angry at the challenges this poses to my family as well as the wide-reaching inequities this exposes — families that can pay for childcare or private tutors will do so. Other families will be left scrambling and be forced to leave kids mostly unsupervised. In many cases, moms will be the ones figuring out how to juggle childcare and homeschooling responsibilities with work, while dads are able to continue working mostly undisturbed.

Children will fall behind academically, but even more seriously, they will be at higher risk for abuse and neglect as support for families reaches an all-time low. Additionally, many kids rely on eating free breakfast and lunch at school 5 days a week. Even when schools continue to provide free meals, families may lack the transportation to come pick up food.

I do take the risks of COVID very seriously, and realize that there is no perfect solution. We can’t avoid risk entirely but we need to minimize it. I adopted mask-wearing in March and wish that everyone would have done so. As one article I recently read stated, “this isn’t rocket science.” We know what we need to do.

I wish so much that I could change the past, that I could wave a wand and our nation could have developed a better response to COVID that would now allow local schools to safely reopen. I wish so much that I could change other people’s choices in the present, that everyone would comply perfectly with mask-wearing and social-distancing so that this nightmare could be over. I cannot change either of those things. I can only control my own response (and sometimes even that seems difficult).

So how will my family get through this next season of remote learning? I’m not sure. Like, really unsure, and because of this, I’ve been praying for help. It’s one of the most basic prayers, “God if you’re listening, please help.” Save our ship.

Since I’ve been praying directly for help more, a few things have arisen. I put my daughter on the list for a fall childcare option that sounds functional, and made plans for my mom to babysit/homeschool my 5-year-old son. I have had a couple of outdoor meet-ups with friends, and just seeing friends in real life made me feel better. A retired K-3 teacher offered to help me with tutoring. My supervisor at work told me they’re looking into ways to support staff with children under age 10.

There aren’t many bright sides to this pandemic, but one idea that’s been resonating with me lately is the Celtic idea of “thin places” — places where the veil between the spiritual and physical world is thin. These are places where we may feel the presence of the divine, or perhaps experience the miraculous.

I’ve been in thin places a few times, or perhaps I should clarify, places that were thin to me. In the trailer where I taught fourth grade at a tiny mission school in northeast Portland, praying with my students daily about their little and big concerns. On a study abroad trip to West Africa, the Holy Spirit seemed almost as present as the smell of diesel fuel permeating the air. Hiking through Mt. Pisgah Arboretum with my family.

Could the idea of thin places also apply to times in our lives, and could this season become one of them for me? Could it for you? I believe that sometimes, when we come to the end of our rope, when our resources are tapped out and we can’t go any farther on our own strength — those are the times when God is able to work most powerfully in our lives.

I certainly feel thinned out, with so much of my sense of control and normalcy missing. What remains when we lose our illusions of control?

Small moments. Great blue herons fishing in the river. Hummingbirds in my backyard. My son giggling. Reading to my daughter before bed. Knowing that I still enjoy spending time with my husband after 16 years together.

Faith, hope, and love.

heron

A magical moment watching a great blue heron fish at Alton Baker Park this spring.

 

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