But miracles spilled where water refused to flow - Anheuser Busch canned water instead of beer and freely gave it away. Neighbors helped each other. And the city organized water distribution centers. Bring your own jugs and wait in line and return home with a few gallons of that which only days before we had universally taken for granted.
One of my favorite memories from those difficult days was standing in the water line at midnight in the grocery store parking lot, alongside the richest and poorest - all of us in the same boat, each of us holding our empty and rinsed milk jugs, waiting; equalized by catastrophe; unbathed and thirsty.
Today has been the first day of spring, though nothing about the presenting circumstances bespeaks new life. In central Iowa the clouds have hovered, the rains have fallen, the lightening tonight streaks the sky, and tornado cautions are in effect. All that, and COVID-19. For the most part we are home. Hunkered down; closed in; socially distant and hyper-cautious. Restaurants are closed by gubernatorial decree; employees have been laid off; colleges classes have moved to the internet; grocers are on reduced hours; the stock market is roller-coastering down and then up and then down again; shelves are empty and nerves are taunt. We panic at the sound of a cough.
Last night we compared this crisis to the tremors of 9/11. This is worse, we concluded. When the aircrafts crashed into the World Trade Center towers and the Pentagon, there was a finitude to the crisis. Within days we knew what was what. The fallout continued for years, but at least the numbers affected, the crisis itself, the task ahead were known before very long. It was what it was.
This, on the other hand. We don't yet have a clue what all this means and where it is taking us. We have no way of knowing how long it will be unfolding, how far the ripples will extend, and how many will be claimed. Not limited to a geographic focus, this crisis is seemingly everywhere, enveloping all of us, shoving us onto a fog-drenched road that veils any glimpse of what's around us, let alone what's ahead.
And yet...
...there are candles piercing the opaqueness. Pastors are broadcasting prayers and inviting us to pray along. Musicians are performing free concerts online - Susan Werner, Ken Medema, The Indigo Girls, Paul Simon and Willie Nelson just to name the ones so far of whom I have become aware. Doctors are posting daily updates and offering helpful advice. Fitness practitioners are leading exercise regimens for whoever logs on. Neighbors are checking on each other. Customers are paying it forward - buying gift cards, ordering carry-out, and leaving generous tips.
Yes, we are frightened. Yes, we are anxious. Yes, we are stressed because we don't know where this is going and how long this will last. Yes, we are staying home and getting cabin fever - never mind the coronavirus.
But closed in, we are reaching out.
Doing what we can.
Stacking sandbags against the flood that is this threat.
Lifting each other up.
And claiming larger truths: that in each other's keeping, the tide will not wash us away; that though alone we are scared to death, together...
...together...
And we are, creatively, impulsively and imaginatively weaving a multi-cord strand.
And together we will not be broken.
It is officially springtime even though circumstances defy the designation. It's bad out there.
But strangely, gloriously, it's good. There is life amidst the death.
Green, piercing the winter detritus.
And somehow, amidst the spontaneous music and prayers and phone calls and mutual concern, we are already bearing fruit.
Hang in there. We are in this thing together. And a threefold cord is not quickly broken.
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