by Dr. Kristina “Tina” Campbell
In many recovery communities, you hear the phrase “walk the talk,” illuminating the importance of impersonating, rather than pontificating, the guts of the ethical backbone of the program. In religious circles, the same message is expressed: “Preach the Gospel always. Use words only when necessary.”
In my day-to-day life, there have been many profound preachers during the seemingly endless months of COVID isolation.
Colleen is the woman at Fry’s who stands on her feet for hours on the unforgiving concrete floors to carefully check out our groceries. She never complains when I ask for paper bags, even though it requires her to bend over to fetch them. Colleen is well beyond retirement age and yet continues to be of essential service providing food to the huddled masses, embodying the words, “whoever comes to me will not be hungry.”
A beloved friend goes to a Veterans Lodge where dead deer heads peer blankly from the walls, and she quietly donates blood. She doesn’t have a good word to say about organized religion, but faithfully shows up at the neighborhood Presbyterian Church Tuesdays at ten to silently sort through giant bags of donated clothes that will end up on the backs of frightened refugees stuck at the border. Maybe she somehow heard the communion words of blood being shed and bodies being clothed. She doesn’t say. She just shows up.
Every morning at 5 a.m. someone flings my newspaper to various locations on my driveway and in my plants. During the isolation of the pandemic, the paper became my morning coffee companion. Oddly, I especially enjoy reading the obituaries, because I like to see what brought joy to the life of the dearly departed. Behold, an angel has been sent before me, and she is flinging the news.
The Post Office stayed open during the pandemic, and countless carriers delivered the mail. Sometimes there were cards and letters delivered that offered a sense of connection, encouragement, or support. On Fridays, my postal delivery people allow me to sneak under their chained barrier while they are still stuffing boxes, because they know I am eager to retrieve my People magazine. These faithful workers are kin to the Biblical bearers of glad tidings.
COVID has been a long haul at my hospital. I observe the Starbucks stand where weary parents, paper-gowned medical staff and observant security staff line up to order the outrageously over-priced weirdly named drinks. Throughout COVID, underpaid staff kept this place of rare delight open, offering a small diversion from the intensity of illness and death. They are the magi offering their gifts.
At this time of Thanksgiving, let us lift up these silent preachers who are walking the daily walk. Let us proclaim our gratitude to them for the contribution they make to our lives. A simple “thank you” can mean so much, and its absence can leave a wound.
THANK YOU TO ALL OF THOSE WHO SILENTLY AND FAITHFULLY PROCLAIM THAT, EVEN IN THE MIDST OF A PANDEMIC, THERE IS GOOD NEWS. PLEASE ACCEPT OUR HEARTFELT GRATITUDE. THANK YOU.