For the past ten weeks, The Carver Project has published a gathering of stories, a series of reflections from a wide variety of contributors, each trying to think through what this global pandemic means and how we, as Christians, should respond. Today we draw that series to a close, and next week we begin a different way to connect. In this last, longer post, therefore, I wanted to observe some of what we have learned together and note some of the themes that have seemed to prevail. . . .

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I have found myself singing or humming to the tune of “My Hope is Built on Nothing Less” just about every day for the last several weeks. There’s something very reassuring about that powerful reminder of Christ being a constant solid rock on whom we can place our hope, especially in such uncertain times.

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When I found out eons ago—on March 13, 2020—that I would be working from home “for a few days,” I was initially relieved. I thought it would allow for a bit of rest. Even while maintaining my workload at home, I looked forward to a less hectic pace and maybe a nap here and there. During the six to seven months leading up to the COVID-19 outbreak, I had experienced stress and anxiety connected to transitioning back to Chicago after two years in St. Louis, getting settled at my new place, reengaging in my local church community, and starting a new high-pressured job. I was concerned about COVID-19, but as an introvert and as a single person, I looked forward to time alone on my couch with my cat, some British murder mysteries, and books…all the wonderful books I planned to read. . . .

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One of the most embarrassing moments of my life was when I was a young law student at a clerkship interview. The judge made me so nervous that I totally bombed the interview. To make matters worse, when I got up to leave, I opened the door to the coat closet instead of the office door. It has been a while now, so I do not know if I opened a second wrong door as well, but I do recall a moment of real anxiety, standing in the office surrounded by four doors with identical door knobs and being unable to remember which one led to the hallway. The dilemma ended when a voice behind me said very kindly, “Look up.” When I took my eyes off the doorknobs and looked up, there was, of course, a red exit sign over the door leading out. . . .

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I’ve found it harder to pay attention these past few weeks. Granted, part of this change is specific to my circumstances: my wife and I had our first child about three months ago. This makes paying attention both more difficult (I don’t sleep as much) and more important (if I turn my head for a few seconds while changing a diaper, pee ends up all over the wall). But some of this is, I think, widely shared—the days seem to blur together in quarantine. In addition to its medical symptoms, COVID-19 warps our sense of time and removes many of the routines that normally structure our weeks. And given the news updates that flood our phones, who can blame us for not wanting to pay attention?

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The Carver Project wishes to pause our Conversations today to acknowledge and celebrate those students who have graduated this week from Washington University in Saint Louis. Finishing a degree -- whether undergraduate, professional school, or PhD -- deserves a specific moment that highlights the achievement. These completions are remarkable accomplishments, and we wish all graduates were in town today to celebrate with their families and friends, crammed into the Brookings Quad and praised with all the proper pomp and circumstance due on such an occasion.

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According to my phone, I have listened to “Joy Invincible” by Switchfoot more than any other song. This is not surprising considering I’ve been an ardent Switchfoot fan since my angsty middle school days in Southern California. Many of the San Diego band’s songs serve as timestamps for me, holding layers of memories from when I first heard them long ago right up to today, and if my experience of COVID-19 had a theme song, it would have to be “Joy Invincible.”

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I've always been fascinated by a simple paradox: Why does it feel good to sing a sad song? In our house, we've been watching a lot of movies lately. It seems that nearly every night is "movie night" now. I've enjoyed the routine and the regular time we have together, but as you might imagine, we do not all have the same preferences. My daughter, in particular, loves tragedies. Once, we had selected "Bridge to Terabithia," and she was completely uninterested in the story until (spoiler alert) one of the main characters suddenly dies off screen in a tragic accident. Suddenly, she was riveted. Now she wanted to watch it all over again from the beginning, this time eagerly anticipating the rich sorrow to come. . . .

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Tomorrow evening, The Carver Project and Christianity Today are cosponsoring a live forum on my new book, Uncommon Ground. And my friend and colleague John Hendrix will moderate. My hope is that the work and spirit of The Carver Project reflects the values and aspirations that my collaborators and I lay out in Uncommon Ground. Two of those values are the importance of story and the importance of friendship. . . .

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I’m the sort of person who likes to plan for the future and think about various new research projects to begin, courses to teach, travels to take, and family members to visit.  My mind contains a little topographic map of what the next months and years should look like, reassuring me that interesting events will take place, challenges will be met, and friendships continued.  COVID exploded my confidence about the future, along with my sense of independence and self-importance.  It feels strange to live in limbo, with professional plans, vacations, visits to family members, and even my own continued health all highly uncertain.

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Augustine, one of the great church leaders and saints of the church from its early days, said we long to praise God. I confess to being seldom conscious of longing to praise God and being half-hearted about it when I do praise him. Mostly I’m conscious of what I’m doing and thinking and feeling. It takes some deeper reflection even to identify my longings. In that, I imagine I’m fairly typical. . . .

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A few weeks ago, my friend and colleague Heidi Kolk contributed to this series a beautiful reflection on vulnerability. Heidi’s essay explained and modeled the challenge of showing vulnerability from a position of authority. This challenge exists in many imbalanced relationships: parent-child, employer-employee, and teacher-student, to name just a few. I’ve come to realize that another such relationship is speaker-audience. . . .

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I am a planner, to put it plainly. I do best when I have a routine and a to-do list and enough time to accomplish them. I am most satisfied when check marks appear next to tasks. Interruptions are not on my list and can’t be checked off and I do not welcome them in my life. Reading this book convicted me (again) of how possessive of my time I really am. I look for a way to hurry along the neighbor Girl Scout selling cookies and sometimes find myself looking to limit the duration of a phone call from a friend or family member. I hardly view interruptions as moments for personal growth and education, or openings where I can love and serve another person. Now we are all living through one giant interruption.

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We are all making our way through a global pandemic these days, and the ways we are making can be quite different. The pieces gathered in this Carver Connections series have come from many voices and spoken to many different audiences. Some struggle with isolation and separation, some with fear, some with sickness and death, some with boredom and disconnection. Some are stressed beyond belief; others are relatively calm and at peace. Some have lost their livelihoods, and others are carrying forward with salaries unimpeded or even increased. But all share in common a world suddenly altered. . . .

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I am currently far from home, entering the seventh week of a planned 2-week trip to our daughter’s in order to help out with her newborn son and 2-year-old daughter. The family and I take daily walks around the sidewalks of their large, suburban subdivision, calling out friendly hellos to other pedestrians and bicyclists while keeping an appropriate distance. Our food and supplies are delivered by strangers to our door. As we live in a kind of bubble, Lent and Easter have passed over us, leaving us healthy and connected to others of our faith by powerful video sermons. Somewhere in this situation, I know there are messages that God wishes us to search for and ponder. . . .

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In a Netflix comedy special filmed last year, Asian comedian Ronny Chieng takes several well-deserved shots at American consumer culture, especially our demand for instant gratification. It was hilarious and true, but one bit in particular landed with an irony I’m guessing even Chieng himself could not have intended. . . .

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Most people don’t believe me when I say that I don’t remember applying to Washington University. I had applied to a number of law schools, and apparently Washington University was one of them. I heard nothing. Then one day, scrolling through my junk emails, I saw that a month before Washington University had invited me to interview. It was the only law school that had answered, and here I was nearly missing an opportunity of a lifetime due to the woes of technology. By grace I opened my email just in time to reserve the last open interview slot before the holidays. My acceptance soon followed. . . .

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When I was growing up, we went to church twice on Sundays. The evening gathering was always smaller, the service slightly different, the sense of togetherness both more informal and more intimate. Few churches continue this twice-Sabbath practice anymore, and these days we can’t even gather once on Sunday. Occasionally I miss it, but I won’t pretend that I liked it as a kid. When I was eight, one service was well enough. . . .

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My 20s have been a transient time. I worked for a year after college. Then my husband and I moved to St. Louis for three years of law school (including a summer in Washington, D.C.). When I graduated, we moved to Des Moines, Iowa, knowing we would be there for only a year as I started my law career clerking for a federal judge. Now we are headed back to Washington. Back and forth, here and there, year after year. . . .

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