In the musical Les Miserables, there is a song called "One Day More". (You can hear it here.) The world is on the cusp of change. Every person is affected, some personally, some because they are being swept up in societal unrest. When tomorrow dawns, everything will be different, and no one knows what the sunrise will bring. It is a song of hope and longing, a song of fear and anxiety, a song of anticipation and dread, a song of triumphant resolve and tentative ambivalence. Everyone knows that things are about to change, but no one really knows how. No one knows how those changes will affect them personally. And, in many ways, it seems like an appropriate song for today.
One day more.
For the past six months, I have been living and working at home. My physical world has become really quite small. I've gone from driving 400 km a week to driving about 40 km a week. My social circle has become even smaller. And that's all about to change. On Monday (ok, so not quite one day more -- more like four days more) I will resume teaching in person. My world will once again expand 100 km down the 401. My circle of contacts will expand from approximately five people to closer to 50 people.
One day more.
For the past 10 years, I have known exactly how to teach. Being in the classroom has always felt comfortable and safe and familiar. I have prided myself on being fairly technically-savvy. My classrooms have always been paperless, or very nearly so. But even so, I'm stepping into a strange new classroom, a classroom with plexiglass and microphones, and students are spread far and wide across a vast, echoing space, and group work and class discussions are a thing of the past, and masks and physical distancing are the new reality. Some of my students will be at tables in front of me, and some of my students will be on screens in front of me.
One day more.
When things shut down back in March, they shut down on a world that I was part of. I was out and about. I rubbed shoulders with people on a daily basis. I knew how to greet people with a handshake or a hug where appropriate. But the world I am about to reenter has changed. Where anxiety and depression were common before, now they are rife. Where stress and impatience and frustration were common before, now they are widespread. Where anger simmered, now it boils. And the world feels a much less kind place now than it did six months ago, not to me personally, but in general. Perhaps all those things were always there, and we just managed to cover them with a sheen of civility. Perhaps the past six months have done nothing but strip away the veneer to show the toxicity that was always there. Still, the world feels like a dangerous and unkind place now. One slip, one wrong word, one perceived wrong word, one thing spoken when someone should have kept silent, or one thing kept silent when the world judges someone should have spoken, and the mob roars in and cancel culture kills another person created in the image of God.
One day more.
I scarcely dare to move.
One day more.
I am filled with hope and longing, fear and axiety, anticipation and dread, triumphant resolve and tentative ambivalence.
One day more.
I'm looking forward to the drive again. I'm looking forward to seeing colleagues and students. I long to be in community again. Even off-the-scale introverts get lonely after a while. I hope my office remembers me. But at the same time, I'm nervous. Will we stay well? Will I stay well? Logically, I tell myself it's not if I get sick but when. After all, we are dealing with a highly-contageous disease for which there is no immunity and no cure. Logically, I tell myself that, regardless, my chances of getting a serious case or dying are very low indeed. I remind myself that every day of mine is in God's hands, and that I am not going to die one second before he calls me home, and if he is calling me home, I'm ready for that. But I do not want to get sick. I don't want my loved ones to get sick. I want to go back. I want to stay at home where I feel safe. I don't want to have to go back into lockdown. I am afraid to come out of lockdown. Hope and longing. Fear and anxiety. Anticipation and dread.
One day more.
I can't wait to get back into the classroom. I can't wait to see my students again, even if it is behind plexiglass and masks. Part of me believes that, regardless of the changes, it will feel more familiar than unfamiliar. I pray that the unfamiliar becomes familiar quickly. I pray that the internet doesn't go down and the projected slides stay up. I want so much for my students who are live-streaming to feel as much part of the community as they possibly can, given the limits of time and space and screens. I want this year to be truly good, not just ok, not just makeshift until we can get back to normal, but a year of excellence. I'm not sure I have the skills necessary to make that happen, but I'm giving it my best shot. Hope and longing. Fear and anxiety. Anticipation and dread.
One day more.
Oh, how I pray that these six months alone have taught me a measure of wisdom and grace, patience and kindness, love and faithfulness more than they have taught me fear and anger and depression. Oh, how I pray I can be a light shining in a world that feels so dark right now. How I pray that I can lean in hard to my faithful Father and lead well. How I pray that my classroom, and our school will be a light that the darkness cannot overcome. I feel so small and insignificant to the task, but then I am small and insignficant to the task. So I pray that in my weakness, God might be strong. Hope and longing. Fear and anxiety. Anticipation and dread.
Tentatitive ambivalence.
But, I pray, mostly triumphant resolve. By God's grace and in his strength alone.
One day more.
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