THE RONAS DONE GOT US!

Well, the Ronas came and they done got us, you guys. Ruined our weddings, senior years and the mental applause we were sure to receive in our Easter Sunday dresses. 

When Rona first declared she was in charge, we didn't even lift our heads from our virtual shopping. Hawaii and Women's Conference and Rod Stewart in concert? Add to cart. We rolled our eyes at the jock straps and bras that were tied to people's faces and questioned the sanity of the people wearing water coolers as head gear. "Bat shiz crazy" (I still stand by that assessment) we called them as, speaking of such, we walked past the toilet paper aisle and figured we could go another couple of days with what we had. 

But now, just look at us. We prematurely carry our grass filled baskets through the house, gnawing on hardened marshmallow peeps and Chicks and Rabbits, wondering why we didn't have the foresight to not sign up for that weight loss app that is now charging us for every single notification and prompt we ignore, because LISTEN, NOOM, WE ARE JUST TRYING TO SURVIVE, OKAY?  FIRST A PANDEMIC AND THEN AN EARTHQUAKE AND ISOLATION AND NOW YOU WANT US TO EAT AIR AND GO TO THE GYM? WELL WE CAN'T, OKAY NOOM? NOBODY CAN. WE WOULD IF WE COULD, ACTUALLY THAT'S A LIE BECAUSE WE DIDN'T WHEN WE COULD, BUT YOU CAN'T PROVE IT, SO JUST BACK OFF! 

Plus that cinnamon roll ain't gonna eat itself, am I right? 

Just chalk up my chins to a casualty. Unintended consequences. This Rona has been a ruinous thief in the night and as my daughter ran into my arms in the parking garage of the airport, I couldn't help but consider the collateral damage we're now experiencing. More has been stolen than just our simple joys and expected homecomings—also our sense of purpose and control.

Julia's 18 month mission was cut short by 14 months. She went from teaching people about Jesus Christ and writing us stories about the *misguided (see *meaner than hell) folk who threw coffee on her car every day, to a midnight phone call telling us she was coming home tomorrow. 

I hardly slept that night. 

I worried about everything from her sense of worth to my own part in this play. Although it was true that her asthma put her in a high risk category, it was also true that for months, she'd had the lazy trained out of her until productivity was her new normal.  

Now, overnight, she was told to stay in her apartment, do nothing, go nowhere and think of only herself and her companion while nobody accepted the invitation to be taught or contacted. Indefinitely. That's kind of like telling a nursing mother to stop producing milk and forget her baby for a few weeks or maybe months. Despair is sure to follow. 

"Don't lament the experience," they said. "Celebrate the homecoming and act like nothing was lost!" "Just focus on all of the good that's coming from this time in the world," they suggested. 

Wonderful advice. But really hard to follow when you hold the other end of the experience stick.  This side feels incomplete and disappointing and fills the palm with slivers as we pretend to only notice the smooth wood. 

The other night, Julia said through tears, "I know you're disappointed in me. Go ahead. You can tell me. You wanted me to stay on my mission and you're disappointed. So am I."

For a moment I considered the lie. But then I thought better and I told the truth. Yes, we are disappointed. But not in our daughter. Not. In. Our. Daughter. This was not all she was meant to have or experience and we are sad. Pretending it doesn't exist is like telling that nursing mother she has nothing more to offer her child when everything in her says otherwise. 

But grieving is not the same as wallowing. And sitting in the sadness for longer than is necessary negates all that is ahead. Julia is meant to have and experience more than she did, and that is what the rest of her days are for. The weeping ends and she'll rise again.

We're not the only ones looking at a weird, surreal wreck right now. And this isn't the hardest thing that has or will happen to any of us. We are all together in this misery, and it turns out the old cliche is true—Misery loves company. It also loves Cadburys and pandemic memes and Dr. Pepper and sweats. And it loves prayers, fasting, sunshine and hope. 

But mostly, misery loves Christ. Because if ever there was somebody who knows what it feels like to be isolated, disappointed and sad, it is Him. And yet, He didn't wallow for any longer than was necessary to redeem us from the weight of our burdens. 

He had the rest of His days to live, so He rose again. 

And we will, too.