But I have noticed far more frequently than before, in casual conversation, that people have been asking me if I or family members would be considered to be higher risk. I'm sure it's not meant to, but it tends to feel like a judgment.
At the same time, in Canada, public discourse has seemed to become more and more polarized in the past weeks and months in terms of COVID restrictions and vaccination mandates.
And while I've already disclosed where my own views fit on this subject (fully vaxxed and boosted; I was so relieved to get the booster in December that afterward I sat in my car fighting back tears of gratitude), I'm not here to argue my position.
I am becoming more and more concerned about the "us and them" tone in my social media feeds, in the media, and in general conversation, especially with the suspicion and sometimes unkindness with which "we" tend to look at anyone who might be categorized as "them."
Disheartening doesn't even begin to capture it.
Besides, I've been reminded that all of us have a story, and that when the stories we hear, or the viewpoints we seek out, support our own positions, we're only getting part of the picture.
And that stories go a long way to helping us learn to love our neighbours better.
Before I started working at House Blend, I must confess that I had no personal experience, and lots of biased thoughts and feelings around homelessness. I mostly admired people who tried to do good in this realm of the world, but would have told you that I was called to other things.
But then I was persuaded to go to one potluck, and suddenly what had only been an issue to me had faces, and stories--and a few months later, everything had changed for me. Because of the power of stories.
So, here's part of my story, for what it's worth--not because I think I owe anyone an explanation or because I have to justify my pandemic way of life, but because I'm convinced that stories still matter, and that if we would take the time to hear one another's stories, it could help us to love one another better even in the midst of disagreement.
A year ago this past December, my friend Anita* died of COVID. (I don't know anyone named Anita. The story is true, but I've decided to change my friend's name for the purposes of this blog post.)
It's still hard to say, and because nothing has been normal for the last year, it still doesn't really seem real some days.
She texted me sometime in November saying that she wasn't feeling well, but I didn't give it a whole lot of thought to be honest. Life was very busy, as we figured out how to do all the things at church in the midst of increasing restrictions, and Anita was young--just a couple years older than me--and relatively healthy. A few days later, she texted again--she had tested positive for COVID. I sympathized, wished her a speedy recovery and lots of rest, and carried on with my life. Then another text--she had been admitted to the hospital. And again--this time a selfie, sent from her ICU bed. Still, it never crossed my mind that she wouldn't make a full recovery. She was young, and relatively healthy.
But in mid-December the phone rang. It was Anita's sister. They had done everything they could, all heroic measures had been attempted, but it wasn't enough. Anita would be taken off life support that afternoon.
Time stopped. I couldn't think of any words to say. I must have said something, but I couldn't tell you what it was.
I remember crying in the car as I drove to and from work that week, as the loss slowly sunk in. My beautiful friend, deeply loyal to her people, with a great sense of humour, a generous heart, who gave the best hugs, was gone. It was surreal to read of the death of "a Winnipeg woman in her 40s" in the public health update, and to know it was her.
COVID has never been the same for me, since Anita died. I just want to do everything I can so to prevent someone else from having to live through that kind of painful loss. Wearing a mask, limiting my contacts-- they seem like small sacrifices, almost negligible, in comparison. I haven't given a thought to erring on the side of caution.
Like I said, my goal in sharing my story isn't to justify my own position, or to try to change anyone's mind. It's simply to make the point that we all have stories.
As much I as I have mine, so do other people--stories of how they've been negatively impacted by restrictions, stories of their reasons for not getting vaccinated.
And somehow, when we know those stories, even if we still don't agree with one another, we humanize the conversation, have a reason to practice compassion and empathy instead of judgement and frustration.
More than that, some stories are deeply personal and not the kind of thing that we are willing to share in casual conversation. Even here, there are details of Anita's story (including her name) that I'm choosing to keep private.
I've been trying to remind myself that everyone has a story, even if I don't know it. I don't need to know what your story is to know that you have one. So I've been trying to choose compassion and empathy instead of judgment. Sometimes I do better than other times.
But as a follower of Jesus, "love your neighbour" is a command that I take pretty seriously, even if I don't always succeed. And it's easier to love your neighbour when you see them as a storied person, beloved by God, than as a nameless face on the "wrong" side of an issue.
I wonder if we might be well-served by taking on a stance of curiosity as a discipline of sorts in these times--curiosity to wonder what another person's story might be--all while fully knowing that we are not owed the answer to that question. I wonder if curiosity alone might not help us to be more loving--and if even small acts in the direction of love, added up, might not make a significant difference.
O Divine master grant that I may
Not so much seek to be consoled as to console
To be understood, as to understand.
To be loved. as to love.
Not so much seek to be consoled as to console
To be understood, as to understand.
To be loved. as to love.
