I’ve had it. I’m over it. I’m empty. Or at least that’s how it feels. This pandemic is taking its toll, and my bounce back is no longer bouncing. I feel more like a deflated balloon.

Part of the problem is, well, life. Because the things of life that might feel manageable--you know, when we’re not in a pandemic--just keep piling on. Uncertainty. Loss. Grief. Conflict. Care for children and elderly parents. (I am dealing with the latter.) Decisions feel nearly impossible to make, because what we know today will most likely change tomorrow.

And life is loud right now. So loud. Protests and the urgent need to listen, to learn, to stand against injustice. The divide over basics like masks and the protection of life. (Why this is debatable escapes me completely.) The divide over defunding and reforming law enforcement. Oh, and the very loud divide over a certain upcoming election. Which will only get louder. The fear mongering. The misinformation. I am only stating the obvious now. And the obvious is enough to send me straight to bed for a nap.

I need the quiet desperately these days. Stillness. Rest (and not just the nap kind, although that can help). In this kind of space I remember. I remember the goodness of God. I remember Christ in me. I remember I am held in an unyielding embrace with great tenderness. And I can start to breathe again.