Finding peace even when you feel as ‘hopeless as a penny with a hole in it’
I gave her a quick kiss, told her how much I loved her, then turned to, well, find a place for Jimmy and I to wait. The hospital waiting room was closed to anyone not scheduled for surgery that day.
I was not happy but at least I’d been afforded the option to stay with Jamila until she was wheeled into surgery. Jimmy hadn’t been so fortunate. Up until that moment, only one of us could stay with her. Up until that moment, we’d always been a team. Wherever either of our daughters needed us, whenever they needed us, we’d always been by their side. Together.
It felt odd but I knew, in this age of covid, how lucky I was. How lucky we were. Not only could Jamila have her surgery, I got to tell her I loved her before a nursed wheeled her away.
Still, on my way back to the ground floor, I couldn’t help thinking how sick I am of all this. I’m tired. And angry.
I want my life back.
When I retired back in January, I knew there would be at least a few more months before I could move about my small little world without worrying about covid but I hadn’t counted on a resurgence and certainly not in such a menacing and destructive manner.
A few more months, I thought, and I’d be able to go out again, unmasked and with little thought to distancing myself from others.
I could spend a couple of days a week volunteering and return to my beloved Antioch Baptist Church North, attend Sunday School, and sing in the adult choir. By October, I told myself.
For the first time in my life, I felt, to borrow a phrase from Dionne Farris, as hopeless as a penny with a hole in it.
That isn’t to say that I felt just as worthless. I didn’t. I knew I had much to offer but I’d long believed that service happens outside the walls of the church and thus outside my home.
Covid, however, was preventing me from venturing out, at least in a volunteer capacity.
When I retired, in addition to continuing to serve in my church, I’d planned to rock babies at a hospital nursery, take swimming and Spanish lessons. More than anything, I wanted to travel the world with Jimmy.
Instead, I clean and clean and arrange and rearrange our home. I meddle in my grown daughters’ lives. I pester Jimmy about his eating habits.
I watch the news and I grow more and more weary and angry at what I see. I read my local newspaper and nothing has changed. Vaccinated politicians pushing anti-vaccine messages. Vaccinated pundits doing the same. And parents, who blindly support them, fighting to unmask their children rather than doing everything they can to protect them from disease.
All of it seemed unconscionable. I felt hopeless to help. I still do.
To make matters worse, Antioch North, long my place for understanding, wasn’t gathering for worship. It still isn’t — at least not in the traditional sense.
I find Jimmy outside pacing. We walk across the street to a Dunkin Donut, order a breakfast sandwich and coffee. We talk about everything and nothing all the while taking note of those who are wearing masks and those who aren’t. We wonder out loud if they’re even vaccinated.
An hour passes and my phone finally rings. It’s Jamila’s doctor. She did well during the surgery and was in recovery.
Suddenly, my anxiety falls away and I’m reminded of my, no our security, in Christ even in the midst of a storm or, in this case, a pandemic that seems to have no end.
We gather our things and walk back across the street to the hospital. Because of covid, we can’t wait in the lobby and there is nowhere to sit outside so we stand, pacing until our legs are so tired we agree to just go sit in the car.
Another hour passes and my phone rings again. It’s a nurse calling this time to give me post op instructions. An attendant would be out with Jamila in just a few minutes.
Relieved, I drive around to the pick-up area to retrieve our daughter and head toward home. Grateful.
Grateful for God’s faithfulness towards us. Grateful for his word: lean not to your own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him. Weeping may endure for a night but joy cometh in the morning. God will cause all things to work together for my good.
We arrive home to find flowers from Jamila’s fiance on the front porch. Once inside, the doorbell rings. More flowers. These from her co-residency interns.
Jamila, our little groggy pediatrician, is smiling. Now more good news. The FDA has granted its full approval of the Pfizer vaccine. Things are starting to look up again.
Maybe, just maybe, Antioch will open her doors soon. I feel hope again and am reminded that even when we’ve lost all hope, God is still faithful.
That’s worth more than any amount of money and most especially a penny — hole in it or not. That’s priceless.
