Hope Blooms

In March 2020 the world stopped turning. 

I was sitting in a booth in a loud entertainment restaurant, the neon lights of the arcade games flashing, the sound of bowling balls rolling and colliding, a few kids yelling, as I fed my baby and looked up at ESPN playing overhead. It was my oldest son’s birthday and we had spent the day going to a movie and then to this venue to play games and potentially bowl. Little did we know, this would be our last outing as a family for a long time. 

While the baby nestled close to me, eating softly but keeping one eye out for all the blinking lights, I watched the headlines scroll the bottom of ESPN. March Madness cancelled due to Covid-19. All NBA games cancelled due to Covid-19. 

I processed the news in disbelief. March Madness-the thing that seemed to be the center of the universe during this time-was not going to happen. This is bad. I think. This is really bad. I hadn’t been watching the news in months because of postpartum anxiety issues. I remember hearing a few things about concerns in China over the virus, but because of Ebola and Swine Flu and all the other scares we’ve had, I never thought anything of it. My husband’s boss had been freaking out about it and we scoffed at him; this wasn’t going to be anything, we thought. 

I went outside to process. Winter was still lurking. The trees were dead, with the remains of last fall’s decayed leaves still affixed in sparse places. Stale grass and leaves decomposed on the ground after winter’s snow melted. 

My mind was reeling. How is the sports world closing down? Is the whole world going to close down? What’s going to happen? God, are we going to be okay? 

We found out people were panic buying. Toilet paper, of all things, became scarce. We became one of the panic buyers. We bought a cow, lots of meat, lots of canned goods, lots of frozen food. We were already stocked up on toilet paper. 

The next day, the schools closed. 

I picked up my children from school, giving knowing looks to the other moms, teachers, and administrators. When will we be back again? 

I was in a state of shock. Was this really happening? How bizarre! 

Two days later, we found out restaurants, bars, and all public places were closing later that night. 

We dined at our favorite little local Mexican restaurant. My husband had to convince me to even go. I was scared of getting close to anyone. No one knew how bad the virus was or how quickly it would spread. But then he reminded me, they really need our help.

It was quiet there. The staff looked downcast and downtrodden. We smiled forced and sympathetic smiles. They played with our kids, as they always did. We prayed for them. We tipped them big, knowing they needed it. Fear was rising in me. I prayed it wouldn’t become debilitating. 

Then the world shut down.

Rumors were spread. The government will send out the National Guard to make sure no one is gathered in groups over ten. They will make sure no one leaves their home. China is putting tarp and plastic around people’s houses and shutting them in to stop the spread. We may be next. 

We waited for the economy to tank. We decided to pull a large sum of money out of the bank. While my husband was at the bank, I was filled with immense, crushing fear. It all just seemed so unreal. When he arrived home, I ran up to him, hugged him tight and burst into tears. He looked at me oddly. “I was so worried…” I tried to explain. I just didn’t know why. Panic was rising in me again. 

I woke up the next morning in a state of crushing fear. 

I decided to keep my mind focused on answering the question: How can I help others? I tried to think and problem solve. People were going to have their kids at home; As a former educator, I decided to write recommendations to help. Kids in poverty weren’t going to get their free school lunches; I bought a bunch of food and donated it.

The rest of the time, we tried to make a new schedule, figure out how to work and workout from home, and tried desperately not to feel claustrophobic. 

We woke up each morning, fear looming. We made gourmet breakfasts, Zoomed with our offices and schools, and then went to the basement for a change of pace and a workout. We cleaned the house and organized the basement. We Facetimed family in the evenings or watched movies. 

A single week passed by and were were already feeling cabin fever. 

Then the following Sunday, we woke up to pouring rain. The dark, brooding weather felt equivalent to my soul’s mood and that helped. Initially, I thought, Oh well, we are stuck in the house anyways. But then, I remembered the rain was bringing in warmth. I decided to let my kids play outside. My daughters put on their ladybug raincoat and bright red boots. As I opened the front door to let them out, the sweet smell of rain struck me. I decided to sit at the threshold of the front door, feed the baby, and watch the girls. They played in the drain. They splashed in the puddles. They held out their tongues to catch the falling drops. I ruminated over being trapped in the house and was beginning to feel grateful that we had the freedom to breathe in this fresh air to run around in the rain. 

All of a sudden, my daughter was in my face with a bold and bright yellow daffodil. “Look mama,” she said. I hadn’t noticed them before. My daughter was happy and proud. My other daughter has one too and smiled widely at me. They give one to the baby.

Then it hit me: Spring is here. Just in time. We can be outside more. Like God knew. 

I took a deep breathe as I listened to the shouts of children’s elation as they splashed in puddles. I relaxed my body as I listened to the drum of the rain hitting the rooftops. A bird chirped. I smelled the daffodils. As the world closed down, flowers were opening up. Spring was blooming with fresh hope. Even with all the unknowns, God met us at the perfect moment. 

A year later, the row of yellow daffodils are blooming outside our house. My daughters brought them to me again, as if on cue. People are being vaccinated, cases are going down, and we have been out of quarantine for 10 months. It wasn’t false hope. It was a promise. With a faithful God on the throne, I can only imagine where we will be the next time my kids want me to stop and smell the flowers.