For the first time in a year, since before my 2019 spine surgery, I pass by the small, manageable shopping carts and wrangle a full-sized version that can hold plenty of provisions for the three of us. My grocery store visits have been few, challenging while I was using a cane, exhausting as I regained strength. Dave and Kyle have spared me during my recovery, but I’m stronger now and my husband and son are at work. The storm that is coming calls for more than milk and bread. There are ridiculous whispers of toilet paper shortages and possible store closings. COVID-19 has arrived in Ohio.
I’ve finished selecting fresh produce and am considering the distance between where I stand and the dairy coolers in the opposite corner of the store, planning to traverse every aisle, loading the cart with canned goods, cereal, laundry soap, pasta and sauce, a variety of meats, and a package of toilet paper just in case. I hope I have enough energy to complete this task, to unload the cart at the register and to get the bags into the house. A reminder comes of God’s faithfulness in meeting my every need so far; and with a prayer of thanksgiving on my breath, I look up to see a friend whose daughter has been struggling with health issues. “Hi, Kara. How is your daughter doing?” I can’t pretend I don’t see her, to conserve my time and energy for myself. Her news is positive. Our families are busy. We’ll have to get together to play flutes again soon. “So, what do you think about this virus thing?” I venture. We smile, shaking our heads, and she shares things spoken at the school today, “It’s crazy! They’re talking about closing the school! For a virus?” She works at the Christian School where her teens attend, where their friends are, where they participate in sports.
Within 48 hours, on March 12, I prepare my lesson and drive to our public elementary school, ready to encourage first graders to be honest, respectful, hardworking people. Winners. Each time I enter the school, I hope to exhibit joy and love, to inspire them regardless of what life has thrown their way. I buzz in and the door swings open. I put on my hat and enter an atmosphere of tension and urgency, then stop in the office for my visitor’s sticker and carry my bag to the classroom. I’ve been a Winners Walk Tall coach for eight years, entrusted with three teachers’ “kiddos” for the last thirty minutes of the day. When I arrive, the children are behaving, but their teacher is absent, so I turn on the enthusiasm and begin. After the stickers have been passed, I make small talk with the kids until Mrs. M returns, looking a bit shell-shocked, telling me she was in a meeting. “Yes, I understand.” I collect my things, put on my jacket, and tell my little friends that I will let the teacher know when I will visit again. Mrs. M catches my eye from her desk, making a connection over the kids’ heads as she cryptically conveys, “The school is closed tomorrow. I’m not sure when we’ll see you again, Mrs. Frisch. You’ll be hearing things.” Two cases of COVID-19 had been identified in our county.
I still had lessons to share before closing the year with a celebratory graduation from Winners Walk Tall, but school reconvened remotely, ending my volunteering and plunging teachers, parents, and students into an unprecedented challenge. The teachers were now tasked with presenting their lessons via the internet and preparing “blizzard bags” packed with homework for each student, with teaching six- and seven-year-old children to read, write, and do arithmetic without making eye contact. And all three have children of their own who need to finish the school year from home! I met one of these Superheroes in the empty school parking lot on a windy late-spring afternoon, supplying her with 60 copies (one for each take-home bag) of a booklet about how our words can make us Winners. Her preschooler sat in the car, patient for a long while as the two of us stood six feet apart, opening our hearts, encouraging one another in our faith and the future, fanning the flames of a friendship long stifled by the chaos of twenty kids preparing to go home for the day.
As I was arriving at the elementary school that Thursday afternoon, Ohio’s Governor DeWine was holding a press conference, announcing an “extended spring break” for Ohio’s K-12 school students, three weeks off to keep COVID-19 from spreading, a closure of public and private schools that would be extended through the end of the 2019-2020 school year. And for many, well beyond.
The next time I stopped to chat with a friend at the grocery store, I was wearing my home-sewn face mask.