Republished from The Lebanon Enterprise
Dear Covid et al.,
I’ve hesitated
about writing, but
you might as well
know how I feel about you
since you left me months
ago. I was grateful to be
over you and was hoping
never to see the likes of
you again, but they tell me
you and all your cousins,
variants they call them,
will be a permanent fixture
of our lives from now on.
You’re all the same to me,
though you come at us with
your fancy names. And
though your travels take
you around the globe, you
carry the same ol’ bad news
everywhere you go: fear,
sickness and death.
Just when we thought
it was safe to take off our
masks, jump, and sing
together again, there you
go, plopping yourself in the
middle of our playground,
like the Grinch who stole
Christmas, sending us scurrying
back inside to the
privacy of our rooms.
They tell me you are so
smart, so clever, and so
innovative that you can
mutate, surreptitiously
slithering through the shield
of protection our vaccines
were supposed to provide.
 |
| David Whitlock |
And since I’ve raised
the issue of prejudgment,
do you realize what you’ve
done, Covid? You’ve managed
to divide us into the
“vaccinated” vs. the “unvaccinated,”
the “masked,”
vs. the “unmasked,” the
“conspiracy theorists,” vs.
the “purveyors of ‘fake
news.’” Okay, I’ll grant
that you may have brought
out the inevitable, but
you certainly hastened the
divide among us. You’ve
managed to make yourself
known in such safe havens
as churches, not so much
through bombastic preaching
as through our various
opinions of and reactions to
you, Covid.
Do you see what you’ve
done? You’ve even got
me singing Marvin Gaye’s 'Inner City Blues:" “… make
me want to holler/And
throw up both my hands...”
And the sad thing is, I live
in a rural community.
I know what you can do
to a body. You and I have
a personal history. Need I
remind you? You put me
in isolation for a couple
of weeks back in January.
After you left, I wondered
about the lingering effects
you might have on my mind
and body and whether you
would come back to haunt
me. I’m ashamed to confess
how much I thought about
you after I had my second
vaccination. That’s when
I experienced a mild case
of vertigo, a condition I’d
never known before you.
Was it the vaccine, or were
you somehow worming
your way back into my life
in some mysterious way?
You perplex me, I admit.
Anyway, vertigo disappeared
after a few weeks,
and here I am: vibrant, vital,
and armed with an arsenal
of antibodies to ward you
off. So, back atcha, Covid.
Now, here you are again,
you pesky, little mutant.
You’ve figured out a way to
get through. So, today, I’m
back in mask mode, and
if I’m not wearing it, I’m
again trying to remember
if I washed my hands after
that overly friendly person
I don’t know reached out to
embrace me.
I want to say goodbye
to you, but if you insist on
hanging around, at least
know I’ve taken some positives
from your uninvited
intrusion. You’ve reminded
me of things I already knew
but had taken for granted,
things like being with family
and the healing power
that has; the sheer peace
and joy of getting into the
outdoors, with simple things
like a walk, or working
in a garden, and how that
reconnects me with nature
and others; the fact that
being busy does not always
equate to being effective.
Yes, Covid, before you, I’m
afraid I had drifted into a
cycle of work-related activity,
much of which was
unnecessary.
So, you see, Covid, as
bad a rap as you have, you
did do something positive
for me.
But, before you think
you’re okay with me, let
me tell you, you squirmy,
pesky, low-down, good-fornothing,
life-threatening,
vaccine-adaptive variant:
don’t let the door hit you on
your way out.
David Whitlock,
Ph.D., is the pastor of Lebanon Baptist Church in Marion County. He can be reached at drdavid@davidwhitlock.org. His website is
www.davidwhitlock.org.
No comments:
Post a Comment