COVID-19 & The Comfy Chair
As 1 January 2020 approached, so did the hope of a new year, a new decade. Full of energy to run wholeheartedly into the vision and dreams of God for the next season of life, I knew a fresh page was turning and God was writing the next chapter in the book of my life. The bubbling sense of unlimited potential, the mountain peak of long-held and cultivated dreams were finally in view after a brutal, hard-fought previous decade. The time of convergence was rising in the horizon; the convergence of lessons – chosen and imposed, experiences – welcomed and begrudged, triumphs – apprehended and unexpected, and failures – earned and undeserved, were culminating together to welcome the decade where impact and legacy are lived and recorded. My ticket was purchased, my bags were packed, and even my two doodle fur babies, Bella and Toby, had their pet passports. My heart was full and I was ready to go - back to Iraqi Kurdistan.
Suddenly, the rumors of a dreaded virus were speckling the news cycle, but at first it didn’t seem relevant to me and the place of my calling. After all, Iraqi Kurdistan was geographically removed from China and culturally a million miles away from the wet markets of Wuhan. Nevertheless, I listened to the reports and considered the implications of what appeared to be a growing wave of concern over this invisible enemy. Still, nothing that started so far away had ever impacted my life directly. I felt safe, perhaps immune, and continued to move ahead into the promise of all that the new year had in store.
Then just like the dark of night that slowly and subtly settles upon day, the virus was here—in my city, in my neighborhood. It had swarmed every nook and cranny of the globe, and almost without notice, everything changed. This superior, powerful, unfamiliar force had slammed on the brakes of the world’s momentum, and all of sudden I wondered, “What now?” The map of precedent had not been drawn for a time like this, and life started to feel a lot like walking into a dark room slapping the wall looking for a light switch.
Roadblocks in Kurdistan
In my daily conversations with my national team in Iraq and my Kurdish family, I sensed that life as we knew it was about to screech to a halt, perhaps never to be the same again. The Iraqi government was calling its people to wash their hands, social distance, and shelter-in-place. Day by day, travel between towns and villages and cities and towns was restricted. Barricades of concrete and walls of dirt were dropped in the middle of every major transportation artery so that non-compliant citizens could not spread the virus across the region. Television channels flooded with service announcements and commercials instructing citizens to follow the guidelines outlined by public officials and health care advisors, but many people wrote off the conversations as non-credible. After all, they have been repeatedly misled by leaders who seek to maintain their authority and prominence in the ever-changing political landscape. The people often feel, in the end, where resources and services fail to meet their needs, they are expendable to many of the power players in the region. God alone can protect them, so why worry about doom and gloom? Life has enough of that already.
The virus began to pierce its ugly horns throughout vulnerable communities across Iraq, and its vulgar threat loomed over the more than one million refugees and internally-displaced people living in camps across the country. So, the Iraqi government called for a nationwide airport closure. No flights in and no flights out. Only senior government officials, supply chain businessmen, and health care workers had authorization for movement and activity. Thus, international workers inside Iraq were locked in, and I was locked out.
My heart sank. I didn’t hesitate to investigate alternate routes into Iraq, even if I had to stay up to one month in a hotel quarantine upon arrival. But there were none. None that could be accomplished without the highest level permissions from the Iraqi government and a private plane. I was stuck; I was obliged to wait it out – praying for my team, my Kurdish family, and the countless people we were eager to serve.
One morning at the end of February, I sat down in my comfy corner chair, the chair where God and I have our most important conversations. I asked Him, “What just happened?” I was confused, deflated, and insecure about my ability to hear God. Hadn’t He just outlined His promises for a new decade? I was running head-long into those promises and filled with more faith than I had experienced in a long time. Now I felt as though that faith was being swept away by the winds of another storm of uncertainty, and no measure of grasping could collect it all back again. Anxiety welled up in my chest and my mind raced through a rolodex of issues and implications from this shutdown. How long will this last? Can I pay my staff? Will there be enough funds for current projects? New projects? The victims of the virus? Will my team and family be safe? Will the region again deteriorate into chaos and conflict? Will I be able to go back? So much to think about. So much to worry about.
Wait…Stop…I put on worship music. Took a deep breath, and asked God to declutter my mind and settle my heart.
That is what He likes to do. That is what He does. That is what He did.
In that quiet moment and the comfort of my corner chair, God spoke to me about the way of peace leading forward. I recognized that in the cloud of this crisis there was a silver lining. I prayed for eyes to see it. In our transparent and unfiltered conversation, this is what God showed me:
An attitude of gratitude paves the road of grace through trial. There is always something, and usually many things, to be grateful for. Focusing attention on those things, no matter how small, diminishes the size and authority of hardship, pain and uncertainty in our lives. Gratitude kills despair and helps us to see others’ needs as greater than our own (Philippians 4:6-7).
God’s promise does not evaporate in the face of uncontrollable circumstances. His promises were written before those circumstance unfolded, and they exist above and beyond the unpredictable. His promise is eternal and unshakeable (1 Thessalonians 5:24).
God gives us rest, even when we don’t think we need it or deserve it. God cares for our well-being, because we are made in His likeness and a reflection of His image. When we refuse to take the rest God commands for us, He might just have to sit us down in our corner chair (Exodus 33:14).
Pruning is the precursor to progress. I don’t like to be stripped back to bare, but sometimes the weight of the branches becomes too heavy for the strength of the tree. He lightens the load so the tree can live and provide fruit and shade for many years to come (John 15:2).
Opportunity can be found in any circumstance. There are always people to serve – across the globe, across the street, or across the table. The greatest antidote to depression and anxiety is found in loving and blessing someone else. This expands unforeseen opportunities and releases the purest joy (Luke 6:38).
In the end, it’s going to be OK. This too shall pass. There is always light at the end of the tunnel – in this life…or in the life to come (2 Corinthians 4: 16-18).
After two months of self-quarantine, I see these silver linings illuminate the clouds. The sun is peeking out from behind. I have comfort knowing that we are all in this together. This virus has been a great equalizer for our humanity. We have a lot more in common than we have different. We share frailty and strength, failure and potential, grief and hope. God’s grace and love tether all these parts together in every circumstance.
Maybe today you too can grab a moment to sit in your “comfy corner chair”, take a deep breath, and listen for that reassuring voice of your Heavenly Father that will show you the way of peace that leads forward. He has much to share with you. He knows what’s ahead, and He will go there with you.
