The grief that comes with returning to normal(ish)

When school was closed temporarily last March, I didn’t think I could handle it. I love my child more than my own life. And, I didn’t want to be his primary teacher. I didn’t know what first-graders were supposed to learn in the year of our Lord 2020. I also needed him to be out of the house so that I could work and get my essential introvert time.

When school was called for the rest of the year, I curled up in the fetal position.

One year later, it is astonishing to me that he’ll return to a classroom in the fall and that I’ll probably feel ok about the safety of it. On the virtual school mornings when we are frustrated with each other (these occur often, by the way), I dream of August 10. The rest of the time, though, I’m sad about sending him back. I have learned a lot from his resilience and adaptability. I have delighted in midday snuggles. I have laughed at the stand-up comedy routine he’s developed and shaken my head in wonder about everything techy he’s taught himself to do while he’s been at home. I am relieved that his quirky spirit and big dreams remain intact, uncrushed by teasing peers and unimaginative adults.

Sending my child back to school isn’t the only part of the world re-opening that I’m not too sure about. It’s been fantastic not worshiping in the fishbowl as a clergy spouse. I have not missed the seasonal flu one bit. Though there was a brief stretch when I lamented not traveling for work, I’m not looking forward to the prospect of having to do it again. And my beefs are small compared to many others.’

There’s a lot we have lost this year, individually and collectively. It’s vital that we process our reactions to it all. But I don’t hear many people talking yet about the grief that awaits us when we emerge from lockdown. Any change, even one that is largely for the better (and a world not held captive by Covid-19 is of course a positive change) brings grief. If we’re not ready for it, it will knock us on our butts. If we feel shame about it - why am I down when everyone else is celebrating? - we will replace physical isolation with its emotional and relational cousins.

With regard to clergy specifically, I hear anticipatory grief about what the After will mean for their vocations. They have pivoted and innovated, and what has not been ideal has nevertheless become familiar. What will it mean to leave the safety of this new familiar? If the church tries to make them pull double duty, continuing online ministry while leading in-person versions of the same events, they will burn out. If the church tries to forget the last year and all its lessons, grasping for a pre-pandemic iteration that was already in need of rethinking, they will not abide it.

Grief points us to what we value. Don’t ignore it. Don’t try to process it alone. Instead, let’s listen to and learn from it. If we allow it, our grief will be an unforgiving but invaluable teacher about how we can move forward together with faithfulness, grace, and intention.

Photo by Karim MANJRA on Unsplash.