This past week I filled out my family’s data for the 2020 Census. I like the feeling of being counted among my people. There have been days not too long ago that I scoured the handwritten census records from 1940 in New York City, looking for clues about my long lost family. Fancy cursive, in worn-out sepia toned ink and faded paper claimed roughly scratched names, including family members and their ages as a timestamp, a mark of being in the great American passport of belonging.
I submitted our 2020 Census electronically. The form was short and clarifyingly complex.
Three questions, “Who is in your house?” “How old is everybody?” and, “How are you related? We are a family of six, two parents, four kids, all originally belonging to each other. Isn’t it beautiful that there are all sorts of families out there, some who are under the same roof, but offer a more complex story of being connected. As I hit return on my keyboard, I imagine generations forward that may be interested in the living arrangements of their ancestors (me), looking for a clue of their belonging to us.
I didn’t get a chance to report that in my Census but wanted to.
The census reporting of 2020 came in the midst of a global pandemic, sprinkled here in Salt Lake City with a bout of earthquake. Followed by a spring snowstorm, and the unknowing daffodils making their vibrant show, just on time anyway.
- More than just a place holder for my people, I wanted to record the triumph of living through the massive upset of shutting down the globe in isolation to help stop the spread of the COVID-19 virus.
- I wanted to make sure the record told about the healthcare workers, the doctors, administration in our national and local governments who are making strides in keeping us safe.
- I wanted to record the history of my high school friend Derek, suiting up to work daily in a New York City hospital as a speech pathologist, describing the surreal surroundings of a fully-fledged workforce donning masks, gowns, gloves and eyewear – doing the ordinary grind – in the midst of panic and fear – and an explosion of hard to breathe.
- I wanted to permanently applaud our kid’s teachers who have adapted lesson plans to meet an online curriculum. And the ladies at the school making lunches and breakfasts – one less thing I need to do in the middle of my work day. After receving 8 brown bags of food, lovingly placed by gloved hands in the passanger window, I started crying tears of gratitude for so much support in this difficult time.
- I wanted to record the primal fear that I experienced while the ground beneath me shook.
- Also, Angel Moroni dropped his trumpet in the great shake out. On top of the Salt Lake City Temple for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, a gold leafed statue of Angel Moroni has been using his trumpet to herald a great call to Saints for centuries to share the good word of the gospel. Is it any wonder that all non-native missionaries around the world have been called back to their homeland and quarantined for 14-days?
The census didn’t ask me, but for the record, we still have toilet paper.
Regardless of the fact that a nationwide run on toilet paper is different than actually having the runs. We don’t have the later, eventually we will have to find more. We have experienced a new normal of waiting in a six-foot apart line to get into a nearly empty Costco. I learned you can freeze milk for later, and that it is a good idea to update your 72 kits more often than every 4 years. (The snack pack mandarine oranges from our Relief Society activity in 2016 were brown, but the cases they were in held strong, so that was a plus in “rotating” our mini-food storage sacks.)
Also, the memes are really good.
For the first time in forever…
My blanket closet and my large hall closet are organized. (Thank you Saturday.) My flower bed has finally been cleared out for spring, and despite the tumult in my heart and in the community, the flowers are growing with ease in their delivery of vibrant yellow and purple blossoms. Our freezer is full, our pantry is well stocked. My laundry baskets are empty, for five minutes, as long as no one changes from their dirty jammies into clean jammies for bed. (That’s a thing nowadays, changing from a day set to a night set, and sometimes a couple of days in between.) Work meetings are online. And I am grateful we have a job that is conducive to social isolation. We miss our cousins and grandparents. I miss my friends.
So 2020 Census. Did you get that? Did you record the history of my people?
It’s not all hard. We have had moments of belly-aching laughter as a family. Anna and I have caught up on the newest episodes of our favorite K-Drama. (You’re crying, I’m not crying!) Ally (10 YO) baked oatmeal chocolate chip cookies solo and loved the hint of cinnamon in her recipe, and has been learning the formulas of the Rubix cube. And Brennan, at 14, knows now how to make homemade bread and discovered his first book that sucked him into reading more than was required. I have finished another set of books, and Jonny is exercising every day. Plus, we have spent time everyday as a family in the scriptures, feasting on the good word as we have each taken a turn to do a devotional. I have loved that.
At our digital book club this week, we talked as girlfriends about missionaries coming home early, missionaries staying put, and the overwhelming feeling of not knowing what to expect when a country’s borders closed down too fast to get their missionary home. We talked about anxiety, and fear that some of us experienced in the earthquake, and what we are doing to deal with the unknown. I wasn’t alone in grief – for me grief came quickly. I slid down the wall of my bathroom and sat on the cold tile sobbing after weeks of uncertainty, and waking up in terrors about feeling another earthquake – others are feeling it too in their own way. The moments of tumult are like a spring rainstorm. It comes on fast and hard. The tears cleanse my soul of fear and empty the reservoir of grief. With a fresh start, I am now more open to feel the whispers of my ancestors. I can cling to the spirit of hope, of faith and trust in my Heavenly Father, with a calm reassurance that regardless of what happens, He knows me. At this moment I am okay.
When Faith Becomes Substance
2 Timonthy 1:7-8.
“For God hath not given us the spirit of fear, but of power, and of love and of a sound mind. Therefore, be thou not ashamed of the testimony of our Lord.”
I have been exponentially blessed with good friends and support. This week I am exceptionally grateful for the tools in the arsenal of deep breathing, grounding and the tangible gift of faith. I can feel heaven whisper strength and light, despite it all.
Faith has become more tangible, as a substance in our unknowns. I can feel God at the helm. He knows. I know that he knows. He knows of our fears, he knows the outcomes. Like the master in the allegory of the Olive Trees, his motives are all emcompassed with nourishing his grove to produce good fruit. We are his fruit. His longed for, worked for and toiled for fruit. All he does is for that end. We can manage a little bit of pruning and digging and dunging for that outcome, right? Right.
So Census, what you do with this record is up to you.
Okay, okay, I know the census can’t actually hear me, and doesn’t know the answer to more than the three questions. But can we as a people remember to share the lessons we learned at this time? Yes!
If there were ever a time to remember to breathe, help your neighbor and be resourceful, nows the time. I don’t have a magic wand or a crystal ball, but I’m betting our kids will look back on these days with fondsness for the close quarters, the healing balm and time to connect. And that as a country, the best will shine brightly despite the darkness that surrounds as we support each other and rise up to the challenges ahead.
