Covid Fatigue? “Please, Help!”

2020 is almost over, but our exhaustion is not. 

I’m tired and weary. How about you? 

Unfortunately, there is no quick fix to the pandemic mayhem on the horizon. Most of us are crawling along—might I say dragging ourselves—in the December cold, toward a different kind of New Year.

We are all trying to stay “positive”—and at the same time, quite “negative” in terms of the virus testing. How do we battle this fatigue? Anne Lamott, in her book Traveling Mercies, shares two simple ways to pray; one is about our need, and the second is about gratitude.

We cannot bypass this time, we have to go through it—together. 

What if we listened closely to the human hearts all around us? These prayers are genuine cries for help. (Some of these lines are personal, and some represent statements I’ve heard from others in my office). Where are we asking for help?

1. “Help! Help! Help!” 

Help. I am just so, so, so tired of all this s**t! When will it all be normal again?!
Help. I feel weary of hoping for this nightmare to end—but I give up.
Help. I’m grieving the death of a loved one.
Help. I lost my job.

Help. I’m exhausted from the political debate. 
Help. I’m tired of being marginalized, overlooked, misunderstood, and unheard.
Help. I feel isolated and lonely. I miss my friends and family.
Help. My addiction is flaring up again, but I’m trying my best. I’m worn out from trying.

Help. My relationships are strained and I’m out of fuel to engage with them.
Help. I’m exhausted from Zoom meetings.
Help. I’ve got continual cravings for snacks and cookies—and I’m overweight.
Help. I’ve lost my sex drive. I’m ashamed.

Help. I can’t quit looking at porn.
Help. I’m in quarantine, again. I can’t see my best friend.
Help. I’m bored. I’m drowning in liquor.
Help. I’m stir crazy and burnt-out working from home.

Help. I’m more depressed, more drained, more down than ever.
Help. I’m panicked. I’m more anxious, stressed, and losing sleep—every night.
Help. I’m dealing with suicidal thoughts. I need a hug, but I can’t touch you.
Help. My marriage is failing. My family is crumbling under the pressure.

Help. I have immune deficiencies and I’m afraid of getting sick.
Help. I just can’t do virtual school any more.
Help. My face keeps breaking out with these damn masks!
Help. I can’t ask for help—because I don’t really trust anyone.

How can we be thankful with such dread all around us? 

There is a deep tension between the pain we feel and the peace we crave. Our need is great and yet, gratitude is an enduring gift in midst of suffering. During this season of persistent uncertainty, what if we spoke short fire-bursts of thankfulness for what we already have?

2. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Thank you for a warm house.
Thank you for my pillow.
Thank you for FaceTime, so I can talk to my family.
Thank you for a microwaveable meal, and making breakfast for my kids, again.

Thank you for Smartwool socks, for beer.
Thank you for my raw emotions, that tell me something about myself and my relationships.
Thank you for the groaning tears of weeping, and for deep hope found in the morning.
Thank you for coffee. Lots of coffee.

Thank you for the sunshine that warms up a cold day.
Thank you for my friend who texted me.
Thank you for laughter and music. (Especially for Taylor Swift’s new album).
Thank you for smiles, warm fires outside, and longing for Newness beyond this life.

Thank you for sleep—even when it’s only a few hours.
Thank you, Jesus, for soul-level, heart-deep transformation when I yield to You.
Thank you, in advance, for authentic change, for maturity, and seasoned wisdom.
Thank you for peace. Thank you that I’ll see my friend again, someday.

Thank you for church, online.
Thank you for church, in-person. 
Thank you for the gathering of friends—it makes me alive.
Thank you for nurses, doctors, pastors, counselors, social-workers, and first responders.

Thank you for Christmas lights and funny Christmas movies.
Thank you for clean water to drink and tea. 
Thank you for teachers and books. (Especially Brennan Manning’s book Abba’s Child).
Thank you for my health. For eyes to see, hands to hold, and for Your warm, Everlasting Love.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Most weeks I run along the river. Sometimes I can barely whisper the word “help” under my breath. Even if we’re limping along, we are resilient with these kinds of petitions— our weariness is real, but it won’t always be this way.

Help, help, help.