It's time to plan ahead
On preparing for hardship
Over lunch yesterday, my son and I talked about lockdown. He’s a new college graduate and just two weeks away from marrying the woman of his dreams, doing some landscaping with a friend to stay busy and make a bit of money in this liminal space between. It’s heaven—the man who made me a mom is under my roof for just a handful of days—and I’m baking chocolate chip cookies and fixing his favorite suppers and fawning over him like he’s a celebrity.
Covid was an unexpected topic over leftovers. I can’t recall how it came up, but the room chilled a bit as we remembered. The afternoon his state hockey tournament was canceled. The night we all sat in the living room as we learned about the schools shutting down. The next day as I filled a shopping cart to the brim at Fareway and then wondered if it was enough.
Those were some really hard weeks. My social, happy-go-lucky kids shriveled up as the days went by. We were stuck together during one of the coldest springs in memory without any of the activities that brought us all so much joy. Even now, I look back at those pictures and my heart twists. We baked and did paint-by-numbers and watched the entire canon of Avengers movies back-to-back-to-back and gathered around the kitchen table for school like we were stuck in some bad Little House on the Prairie reboot. We did the very best we could.
It was awful.
Since the moment Trump and Bibi launched airstrikes on Iran, I’ve had that Covid feeling. Maybe you know the one: dry mouth, slightly racing heart, sense of quiet foreboding. On the surface, everything looks the same-ish, but something in the bedrock has shifted—we just don’t know what it all means quite yet. From “it’s not a war” to the horrific bombing of a girls’ school to the contested Strait of Hormuz, I’ve followed the news with a fist around my heart. Every day, it seems to squeeze a little tighter.
On Sunday, the Atlantic published a piece by Robert Kagan, an American columnist and neoconservative scholar, called “Checkmate in Iran.” It begins with one sobering sentence: “It’s hard to think of a time when the United States suffered a total defeat in a conflict, a setback so decisive that the strategic loss could be neither repaired nor ignored.” Yikes. He goes on:
“There will be no return to the status quo ante, no ultimate American triumph that will undo or overcome the harm done. The Strait of Hormuz will not be “open,” as it once was. With control of the strait, Iran emerges as the key player in the region and one of the key players in the world. The roles of China and Russia, as Iran’s allies, are strengthened; the role of the United States, substantially diminished. Far from demonstrating American prowess, as supporters of the war have repeatedly claimed, the conflict has revealed an America that is unreliable and incapable of finishing what it started.” (Checkmate in Iran, Robert Kagan)
I’m not an epidemiologist, doctor, or scientist, and when Covid took center stage there was little I could do but follow the advice of those in the know and try to be a good mother, daughter, and neighbor. I find myself in the same position now: I’m no politician, strategist, or expert in foreign affairs. And as much as I long for peace, for cooler heads to prevail, and for those in power to care about the world and the people they are tasked to govern (for the love of God), there is so little I can do. I feel like I am standing on a beach, waiting for the destruction of a tidal wave caused by greed, a hunger for power, and pure, idolatrous narcissism.
The fist around my heart tightens.
And yet, I am not without recourse. I wasn’t during lockdown, and I’m certainly not now. The world has always been and will always be filled with trouble, but I do not have to turtle in fear or pretend it isn’t happening. I can—we can—face all that comes with resiliency, kindness, and hope.
During Covid, one of our daily non-negotiables was a walk. No matter the weather, we bundled up and got outside, usually trekking to the nearby prairie where we wandered—sometimes for hours. We were often eerily alone, sojourners in a world that had been utterly hollowed out. One day, my youngest son wistfully mentioned that he missed his neighborhood friends. Their daily hangouts had been abruptly terminated, and he was lonely.
“I have an idea,” I told him. We hurried home and collected a Lego figure, then found a hidden spot for the toy along our well worn path. We took a series of photos, starting up close and slowly zooming out, so that each picture became a clue. We sent the first one as a text and invited our friends on a scavenger hunt.
The following weeks were filled with adventure as we sent care packages back and forth between our houses via increasingly complicated quests. Without any coordination, we took turns blessing each other with distractions, small gifts, and treats that brought joy into our long days. Even now, I can hardly think about that time without tears, but they are not all bitter. Woven through the adversity were moments of true connection and hard-won beauty that still take my breath away.
I don’t know what the fallout from the Iran War will be. Or what other tragedy may befall our country and world as the weeks unfold. But come what may—Armageddon or a mere blip on the radar as we bump along—I know that it’s time to plan ahead. Perhaps by stocking up on a few essentials that might get pricey as the summer wanes, or by planting more in our backyard gardens than we first intended. But no matter how we choose to prepare (or not), I hope that our plans include creativity, compassion, and the unswerving belief that we belong to each other. As we head into summer, what might it look like to be a good neighbor? How can we love each other well when the future is uncertain and our hearts are hurting?
I don’t know what that looks like for you, and the answer isn’t yet clear for me, either. But when it feels like that fist is tightening around my heart, I do know that the only thing that alleviates the ache is a plan. Burying dahlia tubers for an August harvest of blooms. Stocking my freezer with popsicles for the neighbor kids who like to shoot hoops in our driveway. Making sure that my children’s friends know our house is always, always open to them. It’s not nothing.
Eyes open. Hearts steady. Hands ready.
Thanks for reading. xoxo - Nicole
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Yes, a sense of impending doom is in the air. Thinking as a survivalist is a good recommendation. The asylum period of Covid did teach us to think and act differently. One thing I have gained from the New Testament is that Christ went to nature - the sea, the garden, the mountain, the
roads. Those journeys have given me a reason to seek nature. Excuse me if you think I am preaching, I am not. Just an observation that is more positive than most use and abuse of Scripture. I am simple in my theology. Nature provides wonder and escape as you and your family experienced. Thanks Nicole
My late wife collected a vast array of facial masks during those fearful days. When she passed I couldn’t bear to see them anymore. Now I miss them, but her most of all.