Dear Helpers,
My attempt to get some major work done in the yard during vacation week was thwarted by high temperatures and humidity, so my war against the dreaded purslane and bindweed was suspended in favor of remaining inside, finishing my read of The Good Neighbor: The Life and Work of Fred Rogers. Time well spent.
Earlier in the week I had trekked to Menards, making a supply run to prepare for battle. In particular, I needed to procure a stack of those big paper yard waste sacks, body bags for my soon-to-be-annihilated weed victims. While socially distancing in line waiting for my sanitized cart, a single muttering customer returned to her car having been informed she could not enter the store without a mask. Neither the words "tyranny" nor "police state" could be heard from her lips; instead she was mumbling self-deprecating comments about her own forgetfulness. She returned to the line appropriately masked, and those of us waiting let her return to her position at the front. I assumed by the squint of her eyes that she was smiling; I do know she said, "Thank you."
Meanwhile, in some angry corner of America, a security guard gets shot for asking a customer to mask before entering a store, a clerk at a tobacco store gets punched in the face, and a customer at a 7-Eleven spits on the counter when informed of the store’s mask-wearing policy. These images, significantly more memory-searing than the quiet exchange I witnessed at Menards, make better copy for the reader to respond to the clickbait ads surrounding the articles. It’s an incredibly dangerous world; perhaps I should check out "the best ice cream parlor in every state."
Returning to my yardwork, I found myself withering and stumbled back into the air conditioning for a cold glass of water. Feeling my body return to mechanically-chilled normal, I picked up the Fred Rogers biography and found the bookmark about two-thirds of the way through. I had last left the book during knee surgery recovery in the days before. Before the masks, before the rising case counts, before extensions of mask-wearing mandates, before the marches and protests for social change. I had been enjoying the book exploring the life of a Presbyterian minister who desired to connect with children so they could know they were unique, safe, loved and worthy of being heard. Returning to the book just a few months later, it resonated with more profound depth.
“Look for the helpers,” Rogers often said in the midst of disaster and trauma; “there are always helpers.” His advice was not intended to trivialize suffering. In fact, he wrote and spoke extensively about fear, anger and loneliness. Early in the pandemic we praised the helpers, front-line workers tirelessly dedicated to offering care and saving lives. Unfortunately, as the narrative droned on, they became "heroes", characters representing the glorious best of who we are, what we long to be. It turns out they were not heroes in the mythic sense—heroes vanquish enemies with superpowers, and when they don’t win fast enough, we become bored with the storyline.
They were helpers, plain and simple, and in our well-meaning gratitude we called them heroes, endowing them with uncommon strength and certain hope. But as the weeks rolled on, we shifted our focus to the villains—their relentless treachery explains why we aren’t winning. Villains are more interesting; their rage and destruction fascinate us and bolster our deep insecurities of fear, anger and loneliness. We long for heroes to vanquish our foes. It turns out all we have are helpers. Their stories are uninteresting, almost tedious as in word and deed they remind us we are unique, safe, loved and worthy of being heard. They involve long lines of people kindly letting someone back in place in recognition and kinship of human forgetfulness.
Fortunately for me, the weather never cooperated. High temperatures and humidity made further weeding unwise. Conditions as they were made it far more prudent to continue my book. Besides, when I got home from Menards, unpacking the car with several random household items, I realized I had forgotten my paper yard waste bags.
Planning to heroically return to weeding when the heat wave breaks, I remain,
With Love,
Jonathan Krogh
Your Pastor
Dear Non-Conference Non-Attendees:
As you may know, a great deal of effort was put into planning and promoting a post-COVID conference scheduled for the second Saturday in March. Pre-registrations were underwhelming, so the week before the event I decided to cancel it. It’s bad form to have more breakout groups than attendees. I’m grateful for the presenters and preparers who were unable to showcase their no-doubt brilliant work; but discussing the impact of the pandemic four years out was clearly uninteresting to a wider public.
Upon reflection, I realize I shouldn’t be surprised. I conceived of an event designed to address the unprocessed grief we carry regarding what was lost during those dark months of soaring death rates and social isolation. I recognize now that a conference organized to address denial is doomed by its own irony.
Perhaps because I spent so much time thinking about the pandemic’s impact on our social psyche,