Where were You?

Where were You in those rooms? Where were You while the oxygen liters were being titrated up? When those patients would simply turn over and their oxygen levels would plummet? Where were You when I would stand for ages just staring at their chests rising and falling, praying and begging that they would recover quickly after I let them drink water for the first time in hours, but had to take off the bipap mask first? Did You care? Did You hear their cry? My cry? Where were You?

I see their faces, I hear their family member’s groans and desperate cries for me to do everything I can to save their loved one’s life. Even still. After “the surge” is over. Sitting in these ashes, tear after tear falls into them. Nothing happens at first. Because I would save them. I’d heal them all, God. So why didn’t You? Where were You?

I’m not familiar with abandonment. Is this it? Feeling as if it’s me fighting alone for these lives? It’s so heavy, God. So heavy, it’s more than just my patients, it’s as if I’m carrying every life that was lost in this pandemic. Where were You?

More than that, why did I feel rejected and hurt by my brothers and sisters? The Bride is exposed and it’s unsettling. She’s not dressed in white, it’s more covered in shit than anything else. “We just trust in the blood of Jesus.” How dare you! How could You let this happen, God? When did people I trust and love start using the name of Jesus as a license to do whatever they want? Isn’t humility part of being human? Brokenness runs deep. Oh Jesus, it’s so heavy. This anger weighs more than I thought. Another tear falls into the ashes. The Groom, oh He’s so handsome and perfect. But, His Bride? Well, she’s been playing Judge and Jury. She’s been choosing who to condemn and who is right and wrong. Dividing the Body so traumatically, I can’t see it being whole again. Has it ever been whole? Where were You?

The heaviness starts to make me sink under the pressure. Before I know it, I’m drowning. Not in depression, not even in anxiety, but in something tragic just the same. How do I separate myself from the Bride? From the Body? I can’t! For You knit me together to the church. I was created to be part of this Body.

And they’re back. The patient’s faces, their names. Each soul and life was lived, perhaps not well or full, but they are a life nonetheless. How do I reckon my career choice when the very brothers and sisters I love choose openly to disregard something they can’t even see? My job is now granddaughter. It’s sister. It’s niece and daughter and best friend. I hold the hand as these people, so their family can gather “in Jesus name.” Where were You?

Oh Jesus, those rooms were so loud. The high flow machine hisses out oxygen. The negative pressure rooms rumble. The PAPR makes a perpetual buzz in your ear. And the masks, on top of it all, make it difficult to communicate with the patient who will probably not be there when I come back for my next shift. How could I hear You over the noise? When I prayed for those patients, when I touched their chest, as if I touched their very lungs and they would be healed, were You there? What else could I do, but pray? But did praying do anything? More tears fall. The ashes are shifting. My word, I’m uncomfortable sitting in these sticky ashes. I want to stand up and run and scream, but the weight of it all keeps me there. And Someone else also keeps me there. Are You here?

How do I let this go? How do I not carry this? How dare I continue to live my life when living has been taken away from thousands? I think letting go is selfish. Letting go means I keep on living and stop remembering the legacy of so many COVID victims. I have chosen myself as the memoriam of these patients. To let them go seems outrageously cruel. Because who else cares about them? Who else would know about their life?

King Jesus. You do. You see them. You care about them. You know every thing that makes them who they were. But, most of all, You love them with a love so fierce, not even Your death on a sinner’s cross could stop the love. I feel it already. The heaviness is lighting. Each soul, each life I’ve seen taken away is back in the arms of Jesus. His arms, not mine. They are His precious children. Each brother and sister I feel moved to forgive, to love even more fiercely than before. I feel it again, the shifting of the ashes. Tears are still pouring, but they are precious to me now. I see buds all around me! Something is growing, can’t you see the beauty! The arms of King Jesus are also wrapping around me. With one hand He cups my head into His shoulder, and with the other He wraps around my waist. Holding me in His safe and loving arms. There’s nothing to justify. I can’t explain why these people, at this time, caused by some new virus ended up dying. I know this as He holds me even tighter, but He knows even more so. What was uncomfortable and scary has become nothing more than beautiful. He picks up the crown of thorns I’ve placed on my head months ago and says, “This does not belong to you, beloved. I’ve already taken care of it.” You are here.

You were there. You were there in those rooms. My God You have never forsaken me. You are not a killer. I will still never experience abandonment. We were created to be loved wholly. Jesus is washing the dirt off His Bride…and off of me, a sister who has judged her brothers and sisters most unfairly. He is very gentle and taking His time, but healing is being experienced. He has not abandoned the Body. Each lie, each false prophet, each idol worshipper He sees. Oh Father, I don’t need to carry the weight of Your church. The weight of each death. Your arms are wide, deep, and high enough to hold it all effortlessly.

I still don’t know what will be growing out of this ash garden. I know there is still healing to experience and hope to be found. I’ll still feel angry sometimes and quick to judge when I see something unjust. I trust this journey is worth the time. Pressed, but not crushed. You have, are, and will be here.