Wednesday, September 13, 2017

Crisis Fatigue and the Bread We Have


Friday night my family drove to Indianapolis to visit Cory's brother and his family. We always stay up way too late when we're with them because there's so much to cram into so few hours. Somewhere around 9 pm, when we were just warming up, my sister-in-law Lori mentioned Charlottesville in conversation. For the next thirty seconds I sat, half-listening and half-peering into my brain in a mad scramble to fit the pieces together. I was completely confused, "Wait. What happened in Charlottesville?"

(I am well aware that my privilege is showing here. You might be aghast at what I just admitted. I'm just here to tell the truth.)

I knew the incident was recent. I knew it was horrific. I knew it was related to white supremacy and racism. I just couldn't, for half a minute, pin down the specific details in a sea of similar injustices. They had all sort of muddied together.

The next day, we drove from Indy to Ohio to visit my parents. My parents and several of my extended family have been plagued with serious medical emergencies recently. Surgery after surgery, hospital stay after hospital stay. Calvin, my own guy, is right there in the middle of it with his own health-related instability. All of it has weighed heavily on us, in the unique way things can be felt from such a distance. The journey from the mind to the heart can be a winding road. We can see the flames and appreciate their power, but unless we're within its reach, it's almost impossible to feel the heat.


We arrived late Saturday night and my mom began filling me in on the latest family health crisis, this time with my oldest nephew. My dad sat just through my line of vision, behind my mom in the next room. Listening to her but watching him I was overcome again by a strange, vague feeling, "Wait a minute, didn't he just have a scare? Isn't he the one we've been worried about?"

Twice in two days, the details of a significant event were momentarily out of reach. They filtered back fairly quickly, but the fact that it wasn't instantaneous freaked me out both times. I imagined vines of early-onset memory loss infiltrating my gray matter. I blamed myself for not being present enough, emotionally or physically. I decided I'm too selfish. I'm not a good listener. I'm not well-qualified at caring.

The truth is, I am a human. The onslaught of drama, crisis, sadness, and disaster is seemingly endless these days. We can care about something - deeply, even, but the very next day, fresh outrage takes center stage. It's a lot to hold and too much to carry.

I spent Sunday watching Irma's destruction from the sunny comfort of my childhood home. I took a nap in a hammock. I ate a steak from the grill.  I sat near an opened window and paged through three magazines. I played with the kids. I listened to the news and thought of friends running from Irma's wake and the multitudes stuck in shelters (or worse) because they don't have the means to leave.

I also spent part of the day worried about Texas, wondering how it feels to suffer such loss while most of the country has already turned its attention elsewhere.

The cognitive whiplash is real.



What's the answer?

That's what I keep asking myself. I've visited a few stores in the last week and most of them ask if I'd like to donate money to Harvey victims. Tomorrow, they'll probably change the script to Irma. Monday we remembered 9/11. Last week my neighbors braced themselves against more discouraging immigration news. This morning I drove a friend to court and waited with her on the cliff-edge of yet another technicality.

Filtering down into the cracks we have all our regular turmoil. The splits and breaks of everyday life. Illness, fractured relationships, financial burden, bullies at school, addiction, and a house that can't stay clean.

People talk about compassion fatigue and I'll be honest, it bugs me. We are not allowed to grow weary of helping. True compassion is conditioned to go the distance. But I understand that the world is throwing a lot at us. We are crisis fatigued, with good reason. We have to find a way to hold these continual opportunities to care for each other more meaningfully.

I'm discovering that for me, outrage or even empathy is not enough. Clicking and swiping online isn't, either. I have to have skin in the game. When trouble isn't close enough to see or smell or touch, when it's not possible to heave a portion of the burden onto my own shoulder, I have to find a different way to sacrifice. When "helping" doesn't cost me something, my commitment usually doesn't endure.


For the past week as I've thought and prayed and wrung my hands, God repeatedly brought one of my favorite Bible stories to mind.

In the book of John, Jesus is surrounded by hordes of hungry people. His disciples, with their inborn mentalities of scarcity and panic fully intact, start freaking out. "Do something!"

Jesus looks back and them and says, with what I imagine would be the sort of cool nonchalance that grates us when we're trying to communicate alarm, "How much bread do you have?"

He could have solved the problem in infinite ways. He could have invented Little Caesars $5 Hot 'n Ready on the spot. But he loved his disciples enough to encourage their investment. He knew if the miracle was going to stick, it had to cost them something.

God looked at me and asked the same. "How much bread do you have, Shannan?"

I was like, "Um...not much, if I'm being honest."

He asked again, "Look harder. Think outside the bank account. How much bread do you have?"

And that's when I remembered the plates.


Listen, I have not been able to stop buying plates for theoretical plate walls. I look for them constantly. I keep finding beautiful ones. I bring them home. It is but one of my ministries and the many stacks throughout my basement are the fruit it bears. I don't know what to do or how to stop. I've let myself think it's a problem, but last week, it started to seem like a solution.

Thursday, September 14 at 9pm Eastern time, I'm opening up an auction for plate collections over on my Facebook page. All proceeds (minus shipping costs) will go directly to Legacy Collective, an organization Cory and I wholeheartedly support each month. (The earnings from the auction will be in addition to our regular contribution.) They are doing everything they can to ease the burden of their Texan neighbors and have also opened up donations for those affected by Irma.

If you want to bid, you'll need to follow me here and check back this Thursday night. (Auctions will only be available to bidders within the continental US and you must have a PayPal account. I'm so sorry, International homies!)

This is a pretty small thing, but me + the post office = certain doom. Organization and the packaging of breakables is not squarely in my skill set. This will cost me a little something. But I believe in colorful, quirky plate walls for all. (Better Homes and Gardens and Country Living both just featured them. They are timelessly classic and look cool without even trying!)


Whether you join me or not, I'm calling all of us to take a look around every day, all the time. When we find pain, sorrow, or brokenness, let's make it our problem.

Let's inject beauty and hope and watch the world mend.

Your neighbor,
Shannan/FPFG ;)



::  Check out these fun plate wall images!


5 comments:

  1. Love this idea! Good listening to God! I don't, however, have a Paypal account. sigh. Carry on!

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  2. This is so cool! I'm not a plate collector, but I will be watching how this goes. I think your choice of The Legacy Collective for the proceeds is spot-on too. Their model for the non-profit "business" is so good. They are worthy of everyone's support.

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  3. Thanks for the encouragement to do something. Now to listen and see what I can do.

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  4. you have an uncanny knack for speaking to the heart of where i'm at. i've wrestled made-up dragons over the past few weeks because: a) i am shredded & stir-crazy about the zemio situation; added to b) though everyone's too polite to say it, i sense/imagine they're tired of hearing about the zemio situation. but then God nudged me over the cliff with this mlk jr quote: 'our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.' okay, then.

    their problem is my problem. that's the best part of humanity, and i'm not giving that up. i love you and your plate-collecting ways forever. ps let's say i live in another country but i'm bidding for a gift for a person in the continental states...ees okay?

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  5. YESSSSS!!!! I've always admired your wall plate collection. I'm in!! I love you Shannan and I love your heart. I love your ability to go deep and find a beautiful entourage of words to express what many of us are feeling. I got super excited to hop on here this morning and see a new blog post from you. Thank you for encouraging compassion and thank you for being honest about everything.

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