[This post originally appeared as a column for the Center for Healthy Churches.]
Who knew it was such an exhausting commute from the coffee pot in the kitchen to my office in the upstairs bonus room? Just 16 steps. Each way. I counted. It’s one of the quirky things you do on Day 89 of quarantine.
It’s got to be the commute. How else can I account for feeling so drained at the end of each day?
“It’s a pandemic!” I remind myself, because no one else is the office to give me perspective, except the cat, who refuses to social distance. “Of course, you’re tired.”
We’re three months into this season of COVID-19 and too often we underestimate the mental and spiritual toll it is taking. Particularly if we haven’t been hard hit personally by economic losses or the illness or death of loved ones, it is easy to question ourselves and our lack of energy or creativity or joy, wondering what we’ve done all day that could possibly bring on this consistent sense of fatigue, with an underlying hint of despair.
A wise minister once told me that grief is cumulative. When one loss or crisis follows another, the grief of the first one doesn’t end and the next one begin. They layer on top of one another. They are heavier, together. More…