I have surpassed the 50-day mark of social distancing at home. Even though I’ve gone out for neighborhood walks, picking up food and groceries, one doctor’s visit, and a birthday parade for a friend, I have cabin fever. The initial excitement I had at the thought of being hidden away in introvert bliss has dissipated into drudgery.
There are things I’m incredibly grateful for and continue to enjoy: hearing birds sing as they come to our feeder, wearing loungewear every day, cooking between Zoom piano lessons, not having to drive to work or church and, as a result, being able to spend a little more time with God in the morning without feeling hurried.
But this season has been emotionally and mentally grueling. Like many, it has been a struggle to stay informed about what’s happening in the world without feeling anxiety/dread/frustration. I had a couple weeks of worry when I saw lupus patients struggling to get their prescriptions for a certain medication—a medication I take to stay alive—refilled because it was being used to treat Covid-19. I’ve cried with students both from work and church who are grieving losses, worrying about unknowns, and dealing with difficult circumstances because of or in addition to the pandemic. And as I’ve cried with others, I’ve had my own set of things to cry about. High on that list was not being able to hug my seniors one last time. And then you throw in Zoom fatigue on top of all of that. (Imagine teaching piano lessons on Zoom! Oof!)
At first, I was overwhelmed as I felt all the feels. But a few days ago, I found that my mind and heart were numb. It wasn’t just a feeling of being stuck in a routine. It was a heavy numbness. Like something inside of me was dead. No joy. No fire. No intention. Just going through the motions like a machine.
I read my Bible. Nothing. I prayed, God, I can’t do this. I sat there. Awkward silence.
The night before, as I was teaching our college small group, I talked about getting comfortable in the awkward silence with God. “The awkward silence, that’s when you know things are about to get good!”
Come on, Esther! I just talked about this last night. I told the college students about being comfortable in the awkward silence. So here I go. I’ll just sit here…
And that’s when it happened. That’s when God whispered, “This is holy ground.”
What if I chose to live as though this place where my feet are is holy ground? Because it is. This place where my feet are, this is holy ground.
Because this is the place where God beckons me to sit with Him, where I get to commune with the Creator and Sustainer of the universe.
This is the place where He says to me, “Peace, be still,” and my body and soul find rest.
This is the place where God is doing something and He invites me to be a part of it.
This is the place where He gives me clarity and vision for Kingdom dreams.
This is the place where I get to prophesy over and speak life to my husband and the people I meet with on Zoom.
This is the place where He gives me words to write for people who need comfort and hope.
This is the place where He takes my hands and miraculously lets them move at the impulse of His love to make music when words aren’t enough.
This is the place where He teaches me to play and laugh and delight like the sunshine and birds I see through my windows.
This is where my feet are. And this is holy ground.