The "Pandemic" Poem

A roundup of a few interesting and introspective takes on the current global crisis:

Let’s start with this image of Pope Francis in deserted Rome, making a pilgrimage on behalf of the people.

Kathryn Lopez writes in National Review, “Will coronavirus change us?” I think it is what everyone is asking. After this, our lives may not be what we think they are. She questions how people already living paycheck to paycheck will carry on, and also notices how families are delighting in newfound time spent together. A silver lining, if indeed there could be one. She also asks whether having no access to the Mass and church will remind Christians what our heart longs for, what we are missing. Maybe this will result in wonder and gratitude once we do have access again.

Over at Foreign Policy, Lyman Stone writes that “Christianity has been handling epidemics for 2,000 years.” His opening line in particular echoes something I have been thinking: “The modern world has suddenly become reacquainted with the oldest traveling companion of human history: existential dread and the fear of unavoidable, inscrutable death.” In general, as far as pandemics go, those of us in the west are living hugely comfortable, connected, unstressed lives. It is still mostly true that whatever I want, I can get; my apartment is warm, the water is running, I have truly limitless entertainment options. Our lives, in general, are like that, and so the longer, healthier life spans that modern medicine has, praise God, afforded us, means we are less likely to be acquainted with discomfort, let alone our own impending death. His article is a beautiful summary of not only how Christians care for the sick, but how times of plague have led to Christian flourishing.

Lastly, a friend shared the below poem with me last night, which I have since learned is called “Pandemic” and was written by Lynn Ungar just a few days ago. It is many of the thoughts that I have had, or should strive to have, right now, about how to seize this moment to slow down; to cherish the time as something special of its own and see in it an opportunity to pray and live (rather than cry and stop).

Pandemic

What if you thought of it
as the Jews consider the Sabbath—
the most sacred of times?
Cease from travel.
Cease from buying and selling.
Give up, just for now,
on trying to make the world
different than it is.
Sing. Pray. Touch only those
to whom you commit your life.
Center down.

And when your body has become still,
reach out with your heart.
Know that we are connected
in ways that are terrifying and beautiful.
(You could hardly deny it now.)

Know that our lives
are in one another’s hands.
(Surely, that has come clear.)

Do not reach out your hands.
Reach out your heart.
Reach out your words.
Reach out all the tendrils
of compassion that move, invisibly,
where we cannot touch.

Promise this world your love—
for better or for worse,
in sickness and in health,
so long as we all shall live.