closed for inventory: the gift of coronavirus

Our one grocery store in the province does this curious thing where every so often it closes for inventory. In the middle of the day. During peak shopping hours. 

In times past when we’ve made a special trip to town, all excited for meat and cheese, and have been greeted by the rejection sign on ShopRight’s door, I’ve observed that it’s impossible in that moment to NOT become “exclusively American” and question why the store doesn’t do this at night and why is there no concern for the inconvenience to customers and who on earth approved this from a profit and loss standpoint? 

Alas. There are no answers. 

Drama aside, the sign telling us to come buy cheese another day is a minor annoyance… but it’s a major reminder. 

Here in Zambia, we finally joined our friends around the globe in “shut down mode.” Your jobs, schools, stores, and gatherings have been closed down for a while now, and as of this weekend, ours are too. I keep thinking about the sign on ShopRight’s door: Closed for Inventory, and I find myself transitioning into a familiar practice. 

You see, this Covid-19 crisis isn’t our first rodeo. Going through the files of my memory, I believe this will be our fourth lockdown experience in 13 years. None of the previous threats were, in retrospect, as deadly as Coronavirus, but their features of marshal law, shortage of food and quarantine resonates with what’s happening globally at this time. And while Corona promises to register much higher on the death scale, our other Zambian experiences have, I think, matched Corona’s psychological impact in terms of not knowing how bad things would get or how long the crisis would last. 

Our lock-down experiences have fallen under the categories of political violence, public health crises and good old-fashioned cultural upheaval (aka, witchcraft,) each ranging in duration from three weeks to three months. During these times, the severity of the threat has ranged from mild concern, to actually lying awake at night waiting for someone to come and kill us. 

What I’ve learned over the course of many shut-downs is that these life-interrupting, life-altering events that make us curse and cry and question why elected officials can’t get their act together, are actually prime opportunities to do a special kind of turning inward. “Closed for Inventory” reminds us that when life as we know it closes down, this is our call to take stock of absolutely everything.

When Cholera demanded our work be suspended, I noticed how unnerved I was and started reflecting over my job: What do I love about my work? Why am I anxious right now doing nothing? Who do I really work for? What about my work makes me tired? Where do I feel energized? When things resume, what do I want to be different? I TOOK STOCK. 

When we ended up spending ALL THE HOURS OF ALL THE DAYS together as a family, and that made me feel stir-crazy, it presented more questions: What are our goals as a family? When our kids are old, what do we want them to remember about this time? Do my kids know how much I love them? How would they know that they are important to me? When things resume, what do we want to be different? WE TOOK STOCK. 

When our emergency evacuation insurers told us we were too remote and they couldn’t get us out, even if we were in danger, I felt vulnerable in a totally new way. As I noticed the cortisol flooding my system over the idea of being stranded without a safety net, I began to ask questions: Are we being smart? Which ranks higher: my desire to serve or my desire to be safe?  If I get really sick, am I actually afraid of dying? I wrestled with what my responses exposed in my worldview concerning life, death and purpose and pondered the false security that things like insurance tend to provide. I came to a place of acceptance regarding my own sense of control as well as my mortality. I got real meta, in a way that mattered. I TOOK STOCK. 

When “stuff” was hard to get (INCLUDING TOILET PAPER, YA’LL – WE SEE YOU) and I noticed my heart racing when certain items disappeared from shelves, we evaluated our commitments to minimalism and radical contentment. In times of greatest resource-insecurity, we made conscious decisions to downsize. Yes, downsize. We simplified our meal plans and wardrobes and reduced clutter in every space in the house. This sounds counter-intuitive when most people globally are currently hoarding, but we found it incredibly liberating. When stuff was not available in shops, we asked the question, Can we manage if certain items never return? Is this a need, want or addiction? Would changing our expectations actually serve our minimalist goals? When our grocery store burned to the ground (next one being roughly 400 miles away) we said, well then, this will be different. And we pivoted. The loss of material security does not mean the end of life, it means the end of life as we know it. In times of crisis, life is different, but not over and paying attention to what we want/crave/miss when its gone is informative. WE TOOK STOCK. 

I need to confess; this healthy introspection didn’t happen instinctively the first time around. When chaos erupted and big men with big guns started patrolling and everything was canceled, oh we freaked out – like normal people. The default reaction in human beings when faced with danger and insecurity is that our limbic-brain engages and we go into fight or flight response. “Panic mode” is the factory setting, despite not being very productive. I think for Jeremy and me, we were able to shift from panic to productivity simply because, even though we were wrapped up in our first crisis, it wasn’t the first crisis for the people around us. Instead of panic and worry, our neighbors immediately launched into story mode, and it was fascinating. They told us about Independence in ‘64 and whatever outbreak in ‘80 something and the riots in the early 2000's. They told us about how they learned to greet each other by tapping feet and bumping elbows. They told us about changes in local economy and food and what they did and how they felt about it then and now. They narrated from the past what we were seeing in the present and then declared like bosses, Twalikwanisha. We managed. 

Something about their crisis management plan made us both curious and jealous. Their obvious mastery over that default, limbic, panic-setting was winsome and compelling, and it was probably the thing that made me ask the first of all the introspective questions. Through their measured response, I was confronted with a significant contrast: People are throwing rocks and stuff is literally on fire and I’m terrified of anyone who breathes on me and it’s not like the people around me aren’t living with this chaos too… but I’m watching them gracefully change course… and it’s speaking to me that I’ve got some work to do. 

And I did. And as a family, we did. The key to thorough inventory is to pay attention to the felt emotions in your body and observe them with curiosity. When you feel anxiety, fear, anger, panic – any form of disturbance whatsoever – there is a question begging to be asked. And when a question is asked and answered, new awareness and therefore new emotions may arise that need to be observed and engaged, and that process needs to be repeated until you come to a place of ultimate inquiry: Is the way I’m coping with my situation actually serving me, and if not, what is in my power to change?

Now, as Corona presents yet another forced opportunity to stop and notice what’s bubbling to the surface and make a conscious decision about how to respond, I’m oddly grateful. Just because I’ve done this a few times doesn’t mean I’ve reached some sort of crisis-management nirvana. There’s a lot I’m not worried about because, been there, done that. But I’ve still got my stuff, obviously, and Covid-19 is presenting new circumstances and begging new questions.

I’ll just be transparent and share that I'm leaning in, and it’s already uncomfortable. Unlike previous crises which were isolated to Zambia, the fact that America is struggling at the same time means our funding has taken a significant hit and I’ve been feeling the growing pit in my stomach and a racing mind keeping me awake at 2am. As much as I’d rather mindlessly scroll Instagram right now, I now need to stay present to those feelings and ask, If funds continue to drop, where is the fear in that coming from? What does it mean to “have your needs met?” If you have to pick and choose, what populations or programs matter most? Can Fimpulu live with a Choshen scale-back? Who are you trusting for your provision? I NEED TO TAKE STOCK. 

From lived experience, I know that this is important… and the only way to do crisis well. At least I know that if I press into the discomfort, the fruit of introspection will last long after the crisis is over. This is the gift of Coronavirus.

The sign has been hung. This is our time. All of us. To do our work and take stock. Don’t waste it. 

how to grieve: an African primer

I lost my fourth and final grandparent last week. This is the third family death since I’ve lived abroad, and I haven’t been able to return home for any of them. I’m ok with it, in a resigned way – death is a part of life, and missing out on major family events is an expected consequence of working overseas. It has gotten me thinking though.

You know, we’ve attended maybe 100 or more funerals in our time here. With a life expectancy in the 40s and an environment that is constantly prowling for its next victim, death literally comes with the territory. While there are many cultural things that we haven’t gotten used to – such as eating chicken feet or not looking people in the eyes – grieving in the style of our neighbors is different. We are more than used to it – it has become our way of grieving too. It just feels right.

I remember one of my earliest conversations here, as someone asked me about grief and mourning and funerals in the United States. I explained that usually a service would be scheduled and people would attend, and that close relatives would check in on the bereaved afterwards, and others might bring a meal, but that mostly people preferred to mourn privately. My neighbor looked at me with so much concern as if I had told her that Americans grieve by snorting crack and she just said, “Oh Bethany, that’s not healthy.”

I had no idea what she meant by that, but now, with what feels like a century’s worth of funerals under my hat, I appreciate where she was coming from, and I agree with her. Americans mourn the way they do for cultural reasons, not because a band of emotionally intelligent people came together and said, this is what is best for our hearts. The way grief is handled in our community just feels healthy and I wish that all of my friends could experience it the way I have. 

Most recently I attended the funeral of a young boy who died after the clinic refused to call an ambulance. I’ve written about the local ambulance situation before, and again, this death affected me deeply. For many reasons – it’s not our responsibility, we are busy right now, we’ve already gone to town five times this week ­– I declined to take the child to the hospital myself, and when he died, the weight of that decision absolutely crushed my heart. I knew that I needed to be present at that funeral and took myself there immediately. 

Funerals start the moment a person dies and I arrived to find the bulk of the village already gathered, as was expected. In village life, whether you are intimately acquainted with the deceased or only knew him as that kid down the road, funerals are whole community events. The commitment to mourn together reflects the belief that mourning is not only important but also that we need each other to do it well. 

I entered the funeral house which had already been emptied of furniture to accommodate the masses who would be moving in. The body of the child whose soul was no longer with us was laying in the corner, a woman next to him swatting flies from his face. The mourners had already begun their work of shedding raw and restless tears and I received gladly the permission to begin releasing my own. I beelined it to the mother and kneeling, draped myself over her. Instinctually, I clutched her thin body, her head immediately resting heavy on my shoulder. As her sobs grew louder, I just bellowed over her, “I’m sorry mama, I’m so sorry I didn’t take him, I’m so sorry.” I leaned into the catharsis of confession. My body heaved with each “I’m sorry” and hers did too. We held that posture until the tears slowed and the wails softened and I could feel the tension in both her body and mine relax a little. I let her go and sat back on my feet. She began telling me the story of how her son had been fine and then all of a sudden he wasn’t. She told me it wasn’t my fault and I undeservedly received that grace. We shifted ourselves to lean against the hut wall, gladly letting it bear some weight for us as we settled in for the emotional marathon ahead. 

I scanned the room and looked into familiar faces. Their tear stained cheeks were evidence that they had already completed round one of wailing and were giving each other reprieve before starting again. I respect these women so much for their service – I know they attend far more funerals per year than I do, and their tears accomplish so much. They have mastered the art of facilitating the grieving process – a sort of spiritual midwifery whereby the bereaved may come to access, feel and release every single emotion there is. Emotions must be felt in order to be processed and grief must be experienced in order to be healed. Emotional grief is a full body, sensory event – not something contained in dainty little tear drops. 

After a short while, the mourners began again, first with a quiet cry, and then a crescendo of anguish. Fists pounded the floor. The boy’s mother flung herself across my lap and I began stroking her hair and massaging the small of her back while my tears made a growing wet spot on her shirt. When someone in the room found words, they were yelled heavenward, without filter or judgement: Why God! Why did you take him! We weren’t done with him yet! He didn’t even go to school! Who will take care of me when I am old? I can’t go on! I wish I could die too!

In good wisdom, as great midwives, the mourners worked through pain-filled waves one at a time. Crying and screaming carried on until exhaustion took its turn. When bodies needed a break, we sat quietly or just talked. When eyes were heavy, there was no sacrilege in sleep. But the work of the mourners was always to bring us back to the task at hand – feeling the emotion and setting it free. As such, someone would just sense it – that the rest period had been enough – and that the tears needed to start again, and they would release a mournful wail that called forth what was left inside, awaiting its turn. 

While this funeral was deeply personal to me, I have learned through many other experiences that it doesn’t matter whether the deceased was your best friend or someone you only saw once on the street; when others start crying, you will start crying too. Thanks to healthy mirror neurons, our brains are wired to reflect the pain of one sitting in front of us, and as we do, we share the collective weight of it. The implications of this are profound. In short, we need to mourn with other people so that our brain and body can find the emotional relief we need.

I stayed for a few hours and left knowing that the rest of the group (less concerned than I of sleeping without a mosquito net) would stay all night and into the next day and the next. Our friends are never in a hurry, and particularly when it comes to mourning. They know from lived experience that there is no shortcut to grief. There is no fast-track, and trying to speed up the mourning process – or heaven forbid, cut it short – doesn’t actually hurry healing, it only shifts it to a later, lonelier date. 

I had gone to the funeral house feeling sad and shattered, and I went home still sad, but honestly more whole. This is the gift of riding the undulations of grief until the physical body feels differently. This process is so different from what I grew up with which can be described as emotional “management,” something I see now in such a different light. I think we as westerners cause ourselves so much unnecessary pain by putting ourselves through the actual torture of trying to suppress unwanted emotions instead of simply feeling them. We equate short grief and fast healing with resilience, but truly there is no greater resilience than sticking with the hard task of mourning until it is fully done. The clock does not tell us how to heal.

Before getting in my vehicle, I sought out some of the key the organizers. The men outside were well practiced at taking care of a funeral's logistical needs. The strong, 20-somethings had dug the hole. Others were finding a carpenter and arranging a coffin. I connected with the ones soliciting funds to purchase food and firewood and made my contribution. This mobilization is not the family’s job. Their job is to mourn. It’s the community’s job to provide the care.  

My heart grows three sizes bigger every time I see this kind of togetherness. The safety and compassion and care – it reminds those of us who are privileged to participate that we are wired for struggle and worthy of love and belonging.  I can’t imagine tapping into that comforting truth if I were expected to mourn alone at home or awkwardly in a front row pew while shedding only a few acceptable tears. I just can’t. Not now anyway. Not now that I’ve felt how therapeutic it is to sob and to blow snot into the very chitenge that I am wearing and to feel how feeling-the-feels makes it feel better.

For weeks after, I would see a member of that family and say the thing we all know to say in the wake of a loss. We say, “Mwaculeni” (mwah-choo-lay-nee) which simply means, “You are mourning well.” Note that no one asks, “how’s it going?” as if the mourner should submit a progress report or even be able to articulate the mystery of healing. Just, Mwaculeni: the acknowledgement that you are mourning well – whatever that looks like – whether the tears have dried up or still falling freely. There is a permission granted with that blanket affirmation that that has its own healing effect. To hear the words, “You are doing what you need to do, and you’re doing it well,” might be the kindest thing we could speak to a hurting heart. 

I know my family will gather later this week for a funeral. I don’t know whether they will truly grieve or just have a service. I hope they do both, though I doubt that any women will come into the church and flail themselves onto my mother and aunts and uncles and commence wailing… but I wish they would. For all who mourn, now and in the future, just know that I will always hold (a very African) space for you.