Author: Sharron Burnett

I think that we too often forget that our place here on earth is communal. There are too many of us to simply ignore our impact on each other and on nature. As the world’s population grows it becomes more and more apparent that each of our individual actions have a multiplying effect on the general condition of the environment in which we live. While there may have been a time in the long ago when the rugged individualist did not have to worry about how his/her actions created change, it is rare for anyone to be so isolated now that actions do not produce a ripple effect. How we act and react brings about inevitably influences the general welfare of our planet and its people and living creatures. The butterfly flapping its wings in our backyard ultimately has far reaching implications. 

Today marks the two year anniversary of the moment when I became fully aware of the worldwide Covid pandemic. The day before I had joyfully spent the afternoon with my brothers and sister-in-laws enjoying a delightful lunch and a competitive game of strategy. During our sojourn we spoke of upcoming adventures to Turkey, Greece and Scotland that we had planned. We laughed unaware of how much our world would soon change while munching on a delightful dessert that my sister-in-law had baked for us. 

Later that evening my husband and I attended the Houston Rodeo Barbecue competition that is a raucous affair of locals vying for recognition as the best roasters of all forms of meat. A dear friend and her family have been staples of the affair for decades and she always invites us to join in the festivities that launch the huge rodeo extravaganza that is the highlight of the Houston entertainment scene. 

As usual there were thousands of people flocking to tents filled with the aroma of brisket, sausage, chicken, potato salad, beans and lots of alcoholic beverages. Music blared from every corner of the vast landscape and everyone was in a jovial mood. We met up with old friends and enjoyed a sojourn filled with delightful food and lots of laughter. The future seemed bright and filled with so many possibilities for all of us. 

The very next day my sister-in-law sent me a text to inform me that some people that she knew had returned from a trip to China feeling sick. They had one by one come down with some disturbing symptoms and were worried about what they might have caught during their travels. She suggested that I be alert to any news about a virus with the potential to invade our city. 

I immediately began researching the topic and learned that indeed there was a strange illness that was slowly moving into different countries by way of people who had recently travelled. I found out that nursing homes and cruise ships in the western United States were reporting outbreaks of a new kind of virus that seemed to be highly contagious and often quite lethal. Heeding advice from the information I had gathered I invested in a few N-95 face masks and stocked up on supplies in case my husband and I got sick. Then there were announcements on the local news about the people that my sister-in-law had described. They were very sick with a novel coronavirus and some had been hospitalized.

As a mathematics teacher I know the dramatic effects of exponential growth. Within days after the first cases were found in Houston the numbers of people getting sick had grown to alarming numbers. Soon the whole country was reporting signs of being affected by the virus that we would come to know as Covid-19. It was brutally attacking older people and those with weak immune systems. In Italy the stories of the sick and dying were grim. Hospitals began to be overwhelmed and the cases and deaths mounted as I checked the Johns Hopkins website that was tracking the spread of the virus. 

My husband and I went into a kind of self imposed lockdown because we are older and he has heart disease. We lived inside the cocoon of our homes for weeks and then months. We took rides in our car and planned trips that allowed us to keep our distance from potential infection by using our trailer. It was a sad time but we made the best of it, adapting with each new turn of the disease. We met outside and from a distance with members of our family and held frequent Zoom meetings to stay in touch with one another. We managed to have an outdoor Thanksgiving with two of our grandsons and celebrated Christmas around a campfire at my youngest daughter’s house. We stayed well but another daughter’s family came down with Covid and my daughter became particularly and frighteningly ill. Her son would appear to have a mild case but the long term lingering effects would haunt him for well over a year. Still we felt proud that we had done our part not just to keep each other well, but also those around us. We agreed that it was wonderful to see all of the people on earth seeming to sacrifice for the welfare of everyone else. 

When the vaccines became available I fought hard to get me and my husband inoculated as soon as possible. I cried tears of joy on the February day when we both had our second dose of the Moderna shot. It had been almost exactly one year since that lovely day when we had been with our family and friends. Somehow we thought that everyone would volunteer to take the jab just as they had done back in the fifties when society waged a war on polio. That’s when the fissures between us began to become more and more dramatic. 

Suddenly doctors and nurses were no longer being celebrated as heroes. Large numbers of the population shunned the vaccine for various and sundry reasons, some of which were political, religious, or out of fear that the shot might be worse than the virus.  A tension built between those of us who were fully vaccinated, still wearing masks, and taking general precautions by avoiding crowds and distancing ourselves indoors. A kind of battle ensued with one side insisting on personal liberties and another arguing that that we have responsibilities for the health of each other that should eclipse our individual desires. The ire between the two ways of thinking grew and grew as the virus mutated and claimed more and more lives. 

The pull and tug and rancor has only grown with governments and even private businesses losing control over the situation. We have learned that the virus is not willing to defer to our personal wishes and that it is determined to survive. Many question our medical community and the efficacy of the vaccines and the treatments for those who become ill with Covid. The divisions have often times become ugly as we each attempt to survive the moment in our various ways. 

The last many months have been very sad for me. I had always believed that we were a generous and flexible country that would happily join together to fight the pandemic together, and we did for a time. Unfortunately we lost our patience and our will to compromise, be flexible, attempt to understand our various needs, and show compassion for those among us who are the most vulnerable. We have surely lost our way when we cheer efforts to waylay the economy or make demands on our medical communities and schools that are dangerous and unfair. Still I remain the eternal optimist. I want to believe that we will overcome our worldwide tantrums and begin to work together again for the good of all. It is what I pray for on the two year anniversary of my life in a world dominated by Covid 19.  

During my adult working years I was rather busy. I was raising two daughters, caring for my mom when her mental illness flared, teaching thousands of students and maintaining my home along with a loving relationship with my husband. I would arise in the dark to prepare to go to my job and sometimes not arrive back home until the sun had gone down once again. I’d spend time with my family and then grade papers and work on lesson plans after the children were in bed. I enjoyed the usual parental delights of dance recitals, choir performances, swim lessons, church functions, sleepovers, birthday parties and all of those other wonderful things that we take for granted at the time. 

Once my daughters went off to college and then on personal journeys to build their own lives, I accepted more and more responsibilities at work and decided to pursue a graduate degree. All the while my husband was going up in the ranks at his own job as well and we would both arrive home later and later. We were more tired than we thought we were, but we cheered ourselves in knowing that we had invested our earnings in launching our girls into adulthood with college degrees and no debts to pay. It was a worthy cause that made us happy even as we had to pull on every physical reserve in our bodies to keep the work cycle going at full force. 

Our calendars were always so crowded with things to do, places to go, people to meet that it is a wonder that we did not become confused and miss appointments and gatherings. Back then our minds were sharp and clearer and so we were able to keep going at the rapid pace that our society seems to so admire. Get up early! Go, go, go! Work, work, work! Play a little here and there! Keep up traditions! Climb the ladder of success! Drive, drive, drive across the vast landscape of our big city to get from here to there. 

Some might call our adult existence a rat race, but we were happy and energetic and made it all work. We paused each summer to explore the country with our tent, camping in some of the most picturesque spots that the United States has to offer. We hiked to the top of mountains and explored hidden places. Our journeys revitalized us and created memories that are etched in our hearts. We were able to return and begin our routines again. 

My husband and I had so many very close friends back then, people with whom we felt comfortable enough to bare our souls. We shared our stories, our joys, our sorrows. We laughed and cried together. Our daughters and their children grew up together and became lifelong friends. It was glorious, but now the numbers of those dear soulmates have dwindled. Far too many have already died. We miss them more than words are able to describe. 

I am now retired. I awake when I wish, not when an alarm tells me that I must scurry to start the day. My mornings are quiet and measured. I hear the birds and smile at the sounds of children waiting for the school bus in front of my home. I linger over my morning cup of tea and say my prayers with great thought. I read the morning newspapers and write my blog. I calls friends and members of my family. I teach a dozen students on Tuesdays and Wednesdays but I am never rushed, never pushed to be somewhere doing something every minute of every day. I have time to observe and ponder. My days are mostly lovely. 

As each new year comes and goes I have a bit less energy than I once did. I look back now and wonder how I once got by on six hours of sleep each night and went through each day like a firecracker. I’m proud of my legacy as a mom and wife and daughter and friend and teacher but I wonder how much of the world I missed while I was so busy. Now I feel as though scales have been lifted from my eyes. I see so much more clearly, and not because I now wear spectacles. My sight comes from within. I realize that I had been blind to both the glories and the ugliness that has always been around me, simply because I was too busy to notice what was happening beyond the narrow confines of my own little world. 

I have learned patience in my silver years. I do not mind waiting anymore. In fact I find the slower times to be refreshing opportunities for taking note of what is challenges not just where I am, but all across the globe. I have broadened my horizons and my views. I have learned to appreciate each tiny moment. I savor all that life sends my way without grand expectations. I am kinder and more understanding. I value what is important knowing that life is uncertain for each of us. I embrace each day, even the ones where nothing new or exciting happens. 

There are things that I do not understand, but I have learned not to be too quick to judge. I suppose that I have become more liberal in my thinking, more willing to share my good fortune even with people that I do not know. If I have become quicker about anything, it is to forgive. I dream a great deal these days, but not at night. My hopes come from my thoughts of a time when we stop the bickering and find ways to suspend our preconceived notions and take time to really know one another. 

There is still so much to be done but all good things take sacrifice. When I was young I built a good life on a willingness to be my best wherever I was. Somehow I found the inner strength to use all of my talents. I now realize that not everyone has the good fortune in health or opportunity or time or place to live as I did. I have come to believe that the essence of a life well-lived is in sharing each of the gifts that we have been given. In my waning years I hope to work toward making that belief become more real. 

My mother was a teacher for a time. In many ways her sojourn in a fifth grade classroom was one of the happiest aspects of her life. The monetary pay was minimal, but the joy of working with children was more than enough compensation for her. She delighted in having a meaningful career. 

She never said much about particular students, but there was one young man named Danny who seemed to capture her heart. She often told us that the boy had an extraordinary artistic talent. She boasted that with his sweet nature and his skill in rendering scenes and human figures on paper he was bound to have a wonderful future creating visual art. Her face always lit up with a grin whenever she spoke of Danny, so I suspected that he was quite special to her. 

One day my mom came home with a drawing of Jesus that Danny had given to her. She proudly showed it to us, remarking that she had never before seen such creative genius in any of her students. She was certain that Danny was destined to go far in his pursuit of artistic excellence. 

My mother’s life took many sad turns after that. Perhaps the worst of them all was her realization that the bipolar disorder that cyclicly overcame her did not work well with teaching. She reluctantly changed careers in a moment of wise understanding of the limitations that her mental illness had placed on her. From time to time, however, she wistfully harked back to her teaching days and how wonderful they had been for her. In those moments she always mentioned Danny along with another favorite student, David. Remarkably she would show us two treasures that she had kept from the boys. One was a school photo of David and the other was the portrait of Jesus that Danny had given her. 

Mama moved forward in her life as best she could given the sometimes debilitating circumstances of her illness. She found a job that she enjoyed and was surrounded by incredibly compassionate people at work. She wavered between being highly productive and spending days at home coping with dark depression or uncontrolled mania. When she was well she always seemed to pleasantly speak of how proud she was to have been a teacher. She would tell us once again how Danny had touched her heart with the gift of his art. 

My mother never knew what had become of Danny. She would ask us if we knew anyone in the old neighborhood who had kept in touch with him. She hoped that he was doing well. She’d trot out his art work which over the years had become yellowed and rather fragile. Because I too had become a teacher I understood how certain students find their way into our hearts. I have many Dannys and Davids of my own in my heart. I think of them long after they have left my classroom and hope that they are enjoying good lives. 

I happened to be very good friends with the other boy’s sister. Mama always asked about David and seemed pleased to know that he was mostly leading a good life. One day when she was nearing the end of her days she asked me to give the school photo of David to his sister. Then she somewhat sadly said that she wished that she knew how Danny was doing. Not long after that she died.

As fate with have it, I reunited with long lost friends after a high school reunion. Among them was Danny’s sister and a woman who had lived next door to Danny when she was growing up. Through conversations I learned that Danny had lived a good life using his creative talents just as my mother had predicted. Sadly by that time Danny was afflicted with a number of health problems but he was mostly doing well. I knew that Mama would have been happy to hear about his good fortune. 

A couple of days ago I got the news that Danny had died. I thought about how much my mother had loved him and I wondered where the picture of Jesus that she had so treasured had gone. I never found it when I was helping to go through her belongings after she died. There were several of us doing that work and perhaps the faded and creased portrait may have been unknowingly tossed by someone else. I can still see that image nonetheless and the look of unmitigated joy on my mother’s face every single time she showed it to me again. 

It’s funny how certain students can carve out a space in our hearts. For unexpected reasons we form almost eternal bonds with some of them. We think of them long after they have left our care. Somehow Danny really touched my mother’s heart. Perhaps it had been his simple gift to her or maybe it was only because he was as sweet as she always described him. He and she are both in heaven now. I hope they get to see each other. Maybe Jesus will arrange that. I think it would please them both. 

Sometimes I think that our days are filled with miracles that we don’t even notice. Waking up each morning is amazing in itself. If we’re lucky we doze off each night into an almost coma like slumber. The world is still happening as we sleep, but we are unaware of its beating heart until the sun peeks in our windows and we come back to life. That is an incredible process and one for which we are often not nearly as grateful as we should be.

The cycle of nature is a miracle as well. Right now my yard is brown and bare. The leaves have fallen from trees. The flowers have curled into brown patches from exposure to the cold. The grass is not growing and only sports little green sprigs here and there. In Texas we can expect big changes by the middle of March. Azaleas and roses will bloom in profusion. The grass will turn a lovely shade of green. Sings of spring and life will be everywhere. 

It’s difficult not to believe in miracles because we are constantly treated to them, even if we don’t happen to notice. The birth of a child is the most incredible miracle of all. A new life coming into the world is deeply spiritual. Every little one is important and bears the potential of creating miracles of his or her own. 

Doctors and nurses perform miracles every single day. They save lives that might otherwise have been lost without their knowledge and compassion. Sometimes they even develop new procedures, medicines, vaccines that miraculously keep us healthier and living longer. While many have grumbled and complained during the Covid pandemic, doctors and nurses have been our miracle workers over and over again, sometimes at the risk of their own lives. 

I have often pondered the process of learning and how miraculous it is. We humans are able to start as illiterate babes and eventually advance to readers, writers, calculators, critical thinkers. The working of our brains and our senses are marvels in their own rights. The process of becoming that is guided by our parents and our teachers is stunning.

People ask me if I believe in miracles and my answer is always a resounding “yes.” The only caveat that I provide is that miracles do not have to be of the parting of waters variety. I think that they are often quieter and more common than we think. I believe that they usually happen in the most unexpected ways. I also know that someone does not have to fit certain characteristics to be touched by a miracle. They can happen to any of us at any time, and they in fact come at us many times during a day. 

Friendship is a kind of miracle. Passing through life is an adventure. Finding people to love who are willing to return that love is a gift that should be treasured. Love itself is a miracle because none of us is perfect. We will mess up in our relationships, if we haven’t already. Someone who loves us in spite of our flaws is a wonder and we never quite know where we will find such people, but we do. 

We have all had a rough couple of years, some more so than others. We’ve lost some good people and virtually everyone has experience tense moments when someone we loved was very sick or dealing with great difficulties or even died. It’s been difficult to understand why we are reacting so differently to our challenges and why there is so much quibbling and even violence across the globe. I suspect that fear of the unknown future is partly to blame, but also an unwillingness to be more understanding of each other. In many ways it is a miracle that we are still moving forward even though we sometimes insist that nothing good has come from our pandemic woes. 

Instead I see the miracle of our children continuing to learn albeit in different circumstances than they would ordinarily experience. The miracle of their resilience and flexibility is carrying them through the challenges. So too have most people been able to continue working in some capacity and we’ve even managed to help those less fortunate a bit more than usual. The generosity of so many people around the world is yet another miraculous characteristic of our human spirits. We have adapted and invented and found ways to muddle through the twenty four months that have sent us up and down and all around. I see that drive of ours as a miracle of its own. As usual we have also seen many heroes emerge who gave us the gifts of their talents. They’ve healed us, made us laugh, inspired us, worked doggedly to keep us and our families safe. Ours is not a dog eat dog world, but one of great compassion for the most part. We would do well not to ignore all the goodness that surrounds us because it is a miracle too.

I am a person who believes that miracles abound. We need only open our eyes and our ears and our hearts to see them. Then we must celebrate them with our gratitude. Never take those blessings for granted. They are far too amazing to so unseen and unappreciated.

Last year I read about hundreds of unmarked graves of indigenous children being found near an old residential school in Canada. I did not think much more about it until I saw a more extended segment about the situation on 60 Minutes. Now I am haunted by the story of cruelty and racism that thousands of young natives of Canada had to endure over the course of time. 

According to the story the Canadian government sponsored a concerted effort to indoctrinate the young children from indigenous families. Thousands of youngsters were taken from their parents by the state and placed in residential schools all across Canada. Once there nuns and priests and members of other Christian churches attempted to strip the little one of all signs of their native cultures, languages, histories and even names. Their long hair was shorn and often they were called by a number rather than having a name to identify them. They lived, learned and worshiped at the school. Any traditions from their families brought into the open were cause for severe punishment. The idea was to extinguish the childrens’ pasts and turn them into dark skinned versions of white Canadians. 

This practice was still being followed as late as the nineteen fifties and sixties. Discipline was swift and harsh. Sadly the abuse sometimes even included sexual acts. Those who endured the humiliations were emotionally and physically scarred. Many died before they were adults and their deaths were mostly hidden away in unmarked graves. Not even their parents knew what had happened to their offspring. It was a horror abetted by the government and aided by religious groups of mostly Catholic nuns and priests along with Presbyterian and Anglican ministers. 

Recently the Canadian government has formally apologized to the people and families affected by this horrific practice. They have created a National Center for Truth and Reconciliation tasked with finding all of the children who appeared to have gone missing over the years. Most of them are no doubt among the hundreds whose graves have been discovered through the efforts of the center and the various tribes whose children were among those taken from families. 

The tragedy has resulted in intergenerational difficulties. Poverty, mental illness, addictions, violence and broken relationships have been the legacy of these almost genocidal policies. Many of the children became so broken that they were unable to live normal lives and in turn their children were also affected. Only now is some progress being made in unearthing the truth and attempting to help the abused rebuild their lives. The Anglican and Presbyterian churches have formally apologized to the families, as has the Canadian government, but the Catholic Church has been slow to admit its part in the travesty. Meanwhile the government has also compensated families for the injustices that they had to endure. 

While those affected welcome the efforts to finally recognize the wrongness of this dark moment of Canada’s history, the damage has already ruined so many lives. Tribes mourn the loss of generations of children. Those who attended the schools complain that of lifelong struggles to develop individual identities. Nightmares from their youth continue to haunt them. 

I’ve shed tears and then felt sad and angry after hearing of the horrific situation. I can’t help but think of my own education during the nineteen fifties and sixties. I had a couple of teachers who were tyrants, but mostly those who taught me were kind. They allowed and even encouraged me to be myself. They would not have dreamed of taking me and my brothers away for our family to brainwash us and force us to forget our culture. I can’t help believing that this only happened because the people in charge viewed the young boys and girls from indigenous tribes as being inferior. In a deeply racists and misguided decision they essentially stole the children from their homes and attempted to excuse their abominable behavior with claims of saving the little ones from horrific lives. Instead those children were mostly deprived of love and forced to deny their heritage as something unfit for society. The psychological and physical damage to them was unbearable.

I suppose that I will never ever understand how anyone is ever able to think that demeaning others is okay, especially those who do them in the guise of Christianity. Somehow we humans are capable of becoming so self centered and blind that we are unable to understand the worth of every person on this earth. We like to rank ourselves according to some presumed code of virtues which inevitably make some appear unworthy of regard. 

I applaud the brave souls in Canada who have bluntly and without excuses admitted to the wrongdoings of the past. I like that they have created a Center of Truth and Reconciliation. Perhaps it will not heal the wounds of those most affected but honesty and apologies are a positive first step in an attempt to ensure that such a thing never happens again. Until we admit that humans have done some very bad things to each other we can’t really move forward. Reconciliation requires truth and in general there are still too many unwilling to face down the mistakes of the past and understand the damage they have done. Canada’s experience and the reaction to it, is a sign that the people there want to bind the wounds of the suffering members of their nation. I wish them well and hope that they never forget to honor differences from here going forward.