An Altar in a Pandemic

I haven’t tuned in to any news today.  Nor did I last night before bedtime.  That was intentional.  If I had viewed my newsfeed, I would have learned of a thousand more deaths.  I would have seen photographs of front-line nurses and filled body bags.  Even without those images at night I toss and turn.  And so, instead of watching CNN this morning, I’ve placed a homemade mask on a homemade altar.  

I meditate at this altar in my rocking chair.   I notice wet April snow through the window, dropping on the yellow forsythia bush.  My husband’s late grandmother often announced that after the forsythia blooms, snow will come three times.  Lately I wonder how global warming affects her Appalachian prediction.  But every year, even in this year of unprecedented pandemic events, her crone wisdom is proven right about falling snow.  She also believed in the blood of Jesus.  And Easter.

I am certain of the snow.  I am not certain of the other two things.  As I sit before my altar, I want to be.  I wish that I could easily yield fears to faith.  My cute, homemade mask helps me pretend that cloth and elastic can save me from possible death.  I wear the words of prayer: “Jesus.”  “Please.”  “Thank you.”  “Forgive.” “Heal.”  Even with this act, I worry I might be pretending.  Deluded that anything can save us.  The predicament of human suffering seems so heavy.

And yet, after anxious sleep, I woke up this morning.  Put on the coffee.  Padded in bare feet to the rocking chair.  And sat at my altar with the background of snow.  This altar is my simple attempt to make meaning, to collect together fragmented images.  Like light, flowers, and personal protective equipment.  An altar focuses thought, faith, intention, longing, prayers.  It is all I can do today.  And it seems enough.

Light, Flowers, PPE…

This altar is my simple attempt to make meaning, to collect together fragmented images.