Our almost-8-year-old son is attending two weeks of day camp right now, in the middle of July, hopefully before the second wave of covid-19 crashes into our area of central Virginia. When the summer camp that he attended last year announced they were opening up on a modified and very limited basis, my husband and I talked it over, weighing the risks and benefits before even mentioning the possibility.
Risks: Our child might be exposed to covid-19 and expose us and his grandfather, and any of us might get sick. There are also financial risks involved because I am not currently working and our disposable income is limited.
Benefits: He is an extrovert who misses socializing in a group and this would be a chance to “fill his bucket” before the loneliness of the fall, with online-only school. Also, I am drowning. Drowning under the weight of four months of non-stop childcare, quarantine, and worry. This would give me a chance to get things done around the house and maybe even write some words that make sense and have meaning.
After an evaluation of the camp’s policies and an email exchange with the owners, we decided that in this moment, the benefits were worth the risks.
“John Paul, do you want to go to {Much Beloved} Camp for two weeks? It won’t be the same as last year because of coronavirus.”
“Do I want to go? Do I want to go? YES.”
Okay then. So off to camp we go.
One of the things that is different is that there is no camp bus, so we drive him to the wooded oasis outside of town and pick him up every day. The soundtrack in the car has been the music from a Vacation Bible School several years ago on repeat (and repeat) and one of the songs is about holding on to God’s promises and believing that God will never let go of us or those promises, no matter the circumstances.
When we arrive at the camp, I pull up to the camp’s (masked) director, who asks (masked) me about covid-19 symptoms and exposure, takes my (masked) child’s temperature, and then pours a gallon of sanitizer on his hands once he is cleared to exit the car. John Paul runs (masked) to his tiny camp group all of whom were — you guessed it — masked, as I drive away. I can’t help but think about all the unspoken promises involved in that moment.
My family put our faith in the adults who run this camp to make informed plans and choices and to do their best to keep everyone safe while also trying to have fun. We also put our faith in the other families to communicate honestly about symptoms and exposure, just as they are trusting us to do the same. But there are no guarantees and really, the only legitimate promise all of us can make is to do our best in this situation.
But when we look around us, we see broken promises scattered like roadkill along the highway. Our national and, frequently, local governments have let us down spectacularly in the past 5 months (or since forever if you are a person of color). Teachers and school staff are rightly skeptical of plans to “safely” re-open schools in the coming weeks. And every day we are witnesses to examples of selfish choices that endanger our collective health and well-being. We are drowning in the rising waters of this pandemic, a tragedy made all the worse because it is flooding a society built on the unstable sands of persistent and systemic racism, sexism, violence, and self-enriching behavior.
Where is God in all of this – what about God’s promises? I will be honest and say that sometimes, I don’t know anymore. Maybe I never knew. But this is a Christian online community, so I probably shouldn’t close on a note of despair.
My son is taking this whole terrible time in stride. He is more sheltered from reality of course, but he’s also able to live more in the present. He doesn’t question me accusingly about God and suffering. Maybe the promise I’m looking for right now, from God, is that everything will be okay, somehow, and to trust that God too, is trying to do the best He can for us.
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