Monday July 13, 2020
Jenny Greenleaf
Give
“Peace I leave with you;
my peace I give to you.
I do not give to you as the world gives.
Do not let your hearts be troubled,
and do not let them be afraid.”
—Jesus, as written in John 14:27 (NRSV)
For days now I’ve been meditating on the word “give.” Attempting to absorb and flesh out this word is like trying to pick out one cricket’s song from thousands on a sleepless summer night. Such an expansive word, it’s like verbal origami: “give” is a shape-shifter, revealing new meanings with each fold. The word “give” pulls like a magnet toward it’s lifelong partner, the word “receive;” on it’s own, “give” floats off as lonely as an untethered astronaut into an emotionless, sunless void. And that’s kind of how I’ve been feeling, really, since St. Patrick’s Day in March 2020 when the Vault of the Normal closed and was locked, quite possibly never to be reopened again—sealed by a new, secret combination known only by that insidious thief named Covid-19.
Raise your hand if you’ve said, “Siri, what day is it?” Raise your hand if the first time you “attended” church with St. John’s on your laptop you felt both comfort and a bit of sadness as you realized what you had been taking for granted. Raise your hand if you got a little verklempt the first time you experienced a Zoom group video chat. Raise your hand if you have trouble concentrating on even the smallest things—case in point, (and keeping with the “give” theme, so it seems) I have started Jojo Moye’s novel, “The Giver of Stars” 15 times and have not passed page 25. Can. Not. Concentrate. I thought it was just me, but I’m hearing I—we—are not alone with all of these.
By mid-March our common world began shutting down. We watched fellow citizens become victims and we prayed for hospital staff as they heroically rose to the daily challenge. It became clear that this would be no day sail, but a circumnavigation through very tumultuous and deadly seas. This daily toll of pain and suffering—both from the pandemic as well as our troubling times—weighs heavily on me and can lead me to a sense of hopelessness. At these times I recall this promise from Jesus; it’s my own personal worry stone, my amulet, my comfort. Back in 2005, I smoothed this promise to a high sheen in my heart day and night as I watched my mother fade from the known to the unknown at Brigham and Women’s Hospital in Boston: “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give you...do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid.” Do not be troubled, do not be afraid. What a gift! Jesus the Giver throws us a lifeline—all we have to do is receive: grab the rope and hold on. We don’t have to figure out how to pull ourselves out—He will handle that. Just grab the rope. Give. Receive. Peace.
—Jenny Greenleaf