I'm still sad about the pandemic

Ghosting, grief, and trying to move on

Typically, I send out My Other Job posts every Monday in a short and sweet format with a little topic, a few recommendations, and a photo. But occasionally I have different writing that doesn’t quite fit and that will get sent out monthly(ish) and often includes some kind of paywall. Thanks to everyone who pays for a subscription and supports my writing by buying books. You’re the best.

---

I’ve had to throw away several expired Covid test boxes. I had to look closely at each box, to find the exact expiration date as many had been extended. The jumbled boxes told the story of when we got seemingly unlimited tests through our insurance, when we stocked up from the local grocery store, or when my parents passed along their extras. Some with the little vial that sat neatly in formed plastic. Others with the cardboard square you’d shove a swab up into.

All critical for our daily living until at some point they weren’t.

We’re still using these tests when we have cold or flu symptoms. I still carry around my vaccination card in my wallet and keep high quality masks available. The privilege of my life means days go by and I don’t think about the pandemic.

I always think about the pandemic on Sundays.

---

My congregation was small when I arrived. We averaged about 40-50 people for Sunday worship. I was a bivocational pastor from the start. I loved small churches! And this was an enthusiastic, creative small church. I got to enjoy what often happens when new pastors arrive, which is people show up again to see who you are. There’s a little jolt of energy and excitement. There was cake to welcome me. There was food every Sunday.

My congregation looks different now. Our Sunday morning attendance is split between online and in-person. Our attendance is also about half of what it was. Since 2020 we’ve had folks die. Some others moved away.

But others—well, they’ve ghosted us.

I’ve heard anecdotally this is not uncommon. The chaotic transitions of 2020 gave a window for many who were waiting for permission to leave. In some churches this was deeply political. That’s not my story. In my church we’ve always been pretty progressive, so it wasn’t that. It was more of a moment where people thought no one would notice when they slipped out the back doors.

I would call people and leave voicemails, likely with a very weird tone of voice. “Hi! This is Pastor Rachel! Just wondering how you’ve been doing!”

I sent cards. “Hi! We’ve been missing you at church!”

I would wait, like someone waiting after a first date to send a text at an appropriate time. You don’t want to seem too eager, but you want them to know you’re there.

My church is small and so I’m the one who sends the Mailchimp emails. I send out a newsletter and worship announcements. I also receive the unsubscribe notices. I hate getting the unsubscribe notices. I know it’s not personal. I don’t even think people know it comes back to me. But every time I see one my body involuntarily freezes up.

I could name for you the exact people I haven’t seen since March 2020.

My grief hides under the enthusiasm I’ve genuinely had for this long season of innovation. I do not romanticize the pandemic. But there were moments I loved. For instance, I loved creating and sharing a Facebook live series called Bible & Baking. Each episode had a different scripture and themed food associated with it. We’d set up extra lamps in my kitchen to make sure the lighting wasn’t too shadowy. I’d often have practiced the recipe ahead of time and already had the fully baked good just sitting out of frame. I loved being able to conversationally chat with those who joined in about the bible.

And the series seemed successful. It created joyful moments of community in a disconnected time.

But then life moved on. My hours at my church were reduced and along with that I made a commitment to myself to not take on additional educational programming. I’ve thought about trying to do a Sunday Bible & Baking with my congregation in our church kitchen, but just haven’t had the energy or enthusiasm to put that together.

---

I love this song by The Beths called “Expert in a Dying Field.” It’s a breakup song, but honestly it works pretty well for being a professional clergy person. My favorite verse is about the accumulated knowledge that sits unused.

Hours of phrases I've memorized

Thousands of lines on the page

All of my notes in a desolate pile

I haven't touched in an age

And I can burn the evidence

But I can't burn the pain

And I can't forget it

How does it feel? (How does it feel?)

To be an expert in a dying field

This song is meant to be metaphorical, but I have literal filing cabinets full of bible studies and music that’s just gathering dust. Prior to the pandemic I enjoyed teaching an adult education class prior to worship on different seasonal topics. I liked how it meant people were milling about the church building all morning, either setting up for post-church food or sitting at round tables and discussing a Psalm. Sundays are a lot quieter now.

---

I keep telling myself this is grief. I want to swallow down the lump in my throat, but saying this is grief this is grief this is grief makes me hold steady and let the sadness wash over me. When there are ever cascading new tragedies to experience, it’s difficult to remember that I haven’t really gotten over the old ones.

---

I had a piano student that began lessons February 2020. We had a few really excellent introductory lessons. She was bright and loved piano. When things first shut down her mom and I decided to take a momentary pause on lessons. When I checked back in after a little time went by to say that I was offering Zoom lessons I didn’t hear back. I tried once more with no success.

I moved on.

This past winter I heard from this family again. Not only did the daughter want lessons, but her brother did too. Was I still available?

“Yes!!” I responded.

This sibling pair played me an original duet composition the other week. Watching them enact one of my most beloved things in life, playing music with my family, I felt my eyes well up. But then I felt the buzz of my phone, notifying me that it was time to leave for my next lesson or else I would be late. Quickly offering my praise I dashed out the door with my piano bag stuffed full of books and stickers. It was time to move on.