The First Semester of Seminary During Covid 2020

Moving to Austin, Texas occurs without crescendo. 

There is no fanfare, no building up of energy, angst or excitement.

Due to the contagion, I say silo’ed goodbyes to the people who I love, unsure if I will ever see them again. My grandparents are not in great shape, and we eat one last dinner, enjoying one another’s company, and when we say farewell, it is under a rainbow in the My Father’s Parking lot.

I drive cross country with my dog, and a 12 foot trailer. The roads are empty, and symptomatic of the fear in our country. Masks litter empty sidewalks, and it feels as if the entire world has disappeared, except for Oakley and I. We are travelers, in a world without people. Storefronts are boarded up, drug needles litter the ground near gas station dumpsters. Homeless men sleeping in their cars at truck stops offer advice to me on how to properly load my trailer. 

 I pull over and reload the trailer, after driving away from them. My glasses fall and break. 

Along the road, I listen to soft music, and fuel up on gas station sodas. I am not nostalgic during my drive, no emotions creep up, I refuse myself the opportunity to look in the review mirror, at South Carolina, Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana until finally, I cross over into Texas.

I spend the next two weeks, organizing my on campus apartment, and finishing up working remotely for the technology company in Greenville. I move myself in, I sweat in the 105 degree heat day in and day out. 

Once again, I search for a new rhythm, but I miss Montreat with fierce monstrosity. 

The city is empty, more empty than any city I’ve ever seen. It reminds me of Havana or Matanzas- the tangible feeling of grave concern. Except in Havana and Matanzas, there were people milling about.  

There is a man who lives on the path behind the housing in a blue and grey tent. He packs it up during the day, but returns each evening. He is there, every night. Another young man lives in the doorstep of the Lutheran Church across the street from my building and the fire department.

 I see him every time I walk Oakley, and I wonder about him. There are tent cities expanding rapidly under bridges and underpasses here. The tent cities have couches, chairs, storage plastic bins, rolling chairs, clothing items, salvaged teddy bears, etc. I have been many places, but I have never seen homelessness like here in Austin. 

After leaving my solitude-bubble in Montreat, it is confronting to see how the world and society has changed. There is little hope, and great animosity in air. Misinformation flows through the news channels, and is dispersed into bubbles of like-minded people on social media.

There is privilege, rioters, picketers, protesters, fury, murder, sickness and evictions stirring up the proverbial pot. The inequity between the haves and have nots concerns me more than anything else, especially seeing the faces of the homeless here. They look like me. They are my age.

What is the difference between me and them? Probably only one or two paychecks. 

Those who “have” do not understand the “have-nots”,  and feel the things they have are God-bestowed. The “have-nots”, I respect more. 

I would rather spend time with them, verses the rich. 

I wonder what it felt like during the 1920’s, when the suffrage was fierce, and the Spanish Influenza had killed over 50 million people. Did people feel the same concern? Or is this something new?

When imagining hopelessness, I always see pouring rain. But I know that hopelessness is the opposite. It is sunshine, and beauty and seasons changing, and a complete absence of God. Depression is different, because with depression, there is the medication. But for hopelessness, the only lifting antidote is leadership.

I sign up to take in a foster dog, from Galveston Texas. He is an evacuee from Hurricane Laura. I make a critical mistake, and do not check the dog to see if he has been neutered. I am handed a 90 pound dane feral mix dog named French Fry.

Immediately Oakley and him are at odds. I wake up to them fighting over my body. The next day I am told the feral dog has been adopted. 

I rush him back to the Humane Society and vow to focus my future ministry efforts only on humans. The final total of lost items from the feral dog include- 1 leash, 2 large area rugs completely ruined, 2 car floor mats, and several toys gone, as well as the inside dog hammock for my car. There is so much urine, vomit and diarrhea in the car that I myself get sick and am turned away at a car cleaning service- can’t blame them though. 

It takes 2 days before finally finding a cleaning product that works to remove the smell.

Never again, French Fry.

 School begins. 

It’s a death march of Calvin, Barth, Coogan and Justo. My brain turns inside out with Hebrew translations and sentence structure. 

The city is partially locked down, but there is more life here as the temperature cools down to a chilly 85 degrees.

I sell my beloved Jeep compass, and buy a bike. Oakley and I visit the park each morning and he frolics in the tall grass, chasing grasshoppers and birds happily for hours.

I am the recipient of  scholarships to pay for my housing, scholarships to assist with my food, and am abundantly blessed.

I draw a mental line in the sand, separating myself from the memories I left behind, and the new life I am shaping. I change my number and delete my social media. I decide to box everything up, and return to the old emotions/memories/broken family dynamic later. Now, this is my time. 

The semester is a slow march, and I embed myself among the theology. In theology, I am safe, in reality I am simply biding my time. 

I cannot mesh into Austin, no matter how I try. Friends are fluid, moving in and out, leaving for months at a time. I have no interest in dating, to the chagrin of the men who try.

The mask mandate continues, and we sit in our apartments breathing fresh air only in through windows. Our noses covered everytime we dare to venture outside.

My thirtieth birthday is celebrated in solitude. 

Thanksgiving, and Christmas, both, in solitude.

I do not allow myself the luxury of thinking about Montreat and the mountains. I am here, I insist. But maybe I could transfer?

As the season of Christmas begins, I take a chance and go on a date in Austin, using dating apps. Each date is high stakes with covid. “Have you been isolating?” “Do you wear masks?”

I match with someone, we go out. He treats me with respect. We eat a nice lunch and enjoy the warmth. 

The date extends, we hike. We walk my dogs. We enjoy one another’s company.

We go back to let his dogs out.

We kiss, and the mood completely changes and I begin to feel uncomfortable..  I ask him to stop. We argue.

He drops me back off angrily.

He says  women over thirty have baggage, and he’s not looking for a project right now.

I cry.

I call my mom. 

She tells me to come home, they have a room in the house for me.

If I leave Seminary, I won’t return. 

I say no.

I go home, run a bubble bath and stay until the water turns cold.

And experience Christmas alone.