January 6 was a scary day. It was Day 300 of the surreal world we've been living in (literally 300 days between March 12, 2020 and January 6, 2021—I counted), and it was the day I realized the toll those 300 days have had on me.
I watched the events unfold at the Capitol in mostly real time, and I felt nothing. No fear or outrage or sadness or horror. Certainly no shock or suprise. All I felt was numb. It wasn't until a couple days later that I felt anything at all, and what I felt was scared—not for our nation, but for my numb self. Why can I watch shocking, "unprecendented" things take place and feel absolutely nothing?*
I've never been on social media, and I am selective and careful about how much information I allow into my head. But in the days that followed January 6, I started reading and listening broadly, trying to process, trying to get my moral and spiritual bearings, trying to feel.
It was a mostly successful endeavor. I read articles and listened to podcasts that made me say, "No, that's not right, that's completely out of step with biblical truth." I got a little feisty, and it felt good. I read things that totally resonated with me, perspectives that aligned with the truth-grid that lives deep inside me, and I felt hopeful and grounded. I was able to name certain things as "bad" and others as "good." It wasn't quite the same thing as experiencing real feelings, but it was close and it was better.
I stayed in the Scriptures. I stayed in prayer. I stayed in conversation with people I trust as wise and holy.
I had mostly moved on, thankful to be feeling more like myself, until last night. Last night I sat with a group of 16- and 17-year-old girls processing life together. And what I heard from these vibrant, passionate, brilliant girls was this: "I just don't care anymore." They've had too many cancellations and too many disappointments. Too much time alone in front of a computer pretending to learn U.S history and chemistry. Too many days that all look exactly the same. Too little to look forward to. Too many "unprecedenteds." They're done, and done looks like, "I don't care, not even about the things that used to be so important to me." We spent 45 minutes talking about their frustrations, and then when I asked them, "Where are you finding hope right now?" the room was dead silent. No answers.
These are girls from strong families with a solid spiritual foundation and a deeply rooted faith in Christ. How do the kids without those things feel? I can't stop thinking about it.
I can't stop asking God what to do with all of this. How do we live when crazy becomes normal? When unprecedented becomes daily life? When we're all so disoriented and depleted that we barely have anything left to give?
Can I hear an "amen"? Because we're all in this together, right?
My message throughout 2020 was, "We can do hard things." Hard things are good for us. We wouldn't choose the hard things, but we will be grateful for them one day. Consider it joy, my friends, when you face trials of many kinds.
What enables us to do hard things is hope. I can do mountain climbers for a minute if I have hope that I only have to do them for a minute.
But what do we do when our hardship has no end date? It's 2021 now, and this is still hard. We're all still doing mountain climbers, and there's no clock running down to zero anywhere to be found.
Where do we find hope when our struggle seems never-ending? When we're numb and apathetic? We see answers all around us. People put their hope in a vaccine, a new administration, a return to normal, plans for a great vacation once this is all over. But vacations get rained out and administrations disappoint. So what, then?
What can a shell-shocked, still-slightly-numb 50-year-old say to a group of despairing teenagers? It's what I've been telling them since we started meeting eight years ago. While they've been outgrowing their shoes and learning algebra and discovering that boys aren't gross, the world has changed. But my message to them hasn't. It's still this: Our only hope is a person. His name is Jesus, and He is all we can count on. Hoping in Jesus isn't a slogan or a crutch. It's the truth, and maybe the biggest, best truth we could ever know. Jesus is unchanging but never boring. Jesus fills up the empty. Jesus enlivens the numb. Jesus is hope for the hopeless. The closer we get to Him, the closer we are to hope.
*I should clarify that I wasn't feeling nothing about everything. I still had plenty of feelings related to my own little world: sadness and excitement about my kids going back to college, nervousness about my younger girls return to in-person school and how long that would last, bliss at Colorado restaurants opening back up, surprised giddiness when I filled up my gas tank for way less than I expected, gratitude after a good conversation with one of my kids.
