We Will Celebrate
By Abigail Bezrutczyk
One time, I locked my keys in my trunk. I realized initially that this was bad, but my next thought was that I could get the spare key from my apartment. Then it hit me— my apartment key was also in the trunk. What started out as laughing at myself turned into a more serious situation, and I distinctly remember the feeling of each implication hitting me, one at a time, until a new reality sank in.
I think we've all felt something similar to this recently. Finding out that we had to leave campus in two weeks—no, more like, two days—was challenging news for all of us. Part of processing things like this is realizing the implications of leaving. My first realization was joyous; I would get to be with my family again! However, the following realizations were the things I'd leave behind: my friends, my apartment, and my life as a college student. And, as a senior, it meant leaving even more behind, as one-by-one, anxiously-awaited celebrations were canceled or delayed indefinitely.
But, the implications of COVID-19 are much bigger than just my leaving Ithaca. This strange time means that we cannot go anywhere without thinking about the surfaces we touch, that is, if we can actually go anywhere at all. It also means a rise in the anxiety of becoming sick, or of loved ones becoming sick, or in the anxiety of an economic recession.
What’s the right response to this loss and change?
There’s a time for grief. Just before I heard the news that Cornell would cancel classes up until Spring Break, I went down to Fall Creek. I started singing, surrounded by dog walkers and other hikers– I prayed that life would stop changing, I entreated to not be trapped by fear, I lamented for all the anticipated joys that I had already lost.
And yet, there is also a time for hope. While this time of social distancing may be long—and the exact duration unknown—it will not be forever. We have been promised something that can give us hope beyond all of this fear; looking to this hope doesn’t just remind us of a future joy, it also changes our current mindset for the better.
For one, we’ve been promised a literal celebration:
Martha Pollack told us, "But we will celebrate: we will have a commencement– and it will be a joyous one!"
In addition, the head of my lab said to me, "It is not how we wanted to celebrate, but I promise you we will."
These words touched me more than I expected them to; I hadn't realized just how much I valued celebration. Having these prospective events on my mind makes me believe in something far from what I can see. There will be a time when things are new: when we can close the social distance, when we can be together again, when we can say proper goodbyes after joyful hellos.
For me, however, it goes deeper than that: future events seem remote when the present issues demand all of my attention. The anxiety within me craves safety. The fear of others being sick makes others unsafe to me, and the fear of myself being sick without yet knowing it makes me unsafe to others. Rather than being a refuge from a sea of sickness, isolation can sometimes seem more like fear taking over and making me immobile.
But, when there’s nowhere to turn that feels truly safe, there’s another kind of safety I rely on that transcends physical space, physical touch, and physical isolation.
This feeling of safety comes from remembering that I am not truly alone. I know that my God is present and unchanging. And, I also know that through all things, even in fear, even in death, He gives hope.
As Christians, the core promise that we lean on is the promise of eternal life. To me, eternal life these days resembles images of things being restored, of life itself being made new, and better than new. It’s a life without disease, a life without fear, without death, without loneliness; a life of togetherness with others, and especially togetherness with God himself. It is a place of celebration that surpasses our post-corona-get-togethers. And, it is not just a dream—or an awaited event that might get canceled—but a promised reality.
As I walked back from Fall Creek, making plans to leave Ithaca, I leaned on the promise from the last book of the bible, "behold I am making all things new.”[1] I leaned on the promise that none of this is the end; none of these struggles are so final, fatal, or futile that we can’t lift our eyes in hope.
We will be back in Ithaca to celebrate our accomplishments, and someday we can be in a place that we won't have to leave at all. That promise is something that not even coronavirus can take away.
SOURCES
Revelation 21:5