Ann Farabee

By Ann Farabee

It was early in my COVID journey. Our family was quarantined. We did not ask for help. But others listened to their hearts, as God placed it in their spirit to help us. They began to emerge in our emergency.

The doorbell rang. Food had been delivered to feed our family of five. The next day the doorbell rang again — food had been delivered. And the next day. It continued for two weeks.

They were my friends, family, church members, coworkers, and sometimes people I barely knew. They had been sending thoughts and prayers our way daily, but decided to physically show up to our door to make sure we had what we needed. The doorbell would ring — and home-cooked food, take out meals, and groceries were waiting for us there — on our porch.

It was a time that I truly experienced the concept of someone being the hands and feet of Jesus, for that is exactly what these doorbell ringers were.

Emerge can mean to come into view. Although they would ring the doorbell and get back in their car, they had chosen to emerge to bless our family at our front door during our time of emergency.

I really did not understand it. I could not explain it. Why would they make that sacrifice of time and money for us? It felt surreal. It felt as if God were right there with us each time the doorbell rang, so that we could know that his presence was not just with us in our home, but surrounding us by those outside our home.

My 13-year-old put it in perspective one day as he said, “It used to be that anytime someone came down our street, we knew they were not coming to our house. Now every car that comes down our street is coming to our house.”

Those words helped me to picture it vividly, for I was still isolated in my room. I only heard the ring of the doorbell daily. I never really saw the people, but I knew they had been sent by the father. It was a beautiful thing for my family to witness.

I have done the same for others at times, but not as often as I should have. Until it was done for me, I am not sure I realized the power of compassion. I am not sure I realized the power of love in action. I am not sure I realized the power of food — or an offer of help, or a flower, or a card, or a prayer, or a phone call, or a message, or the knowledge that anyone I know would have gladly emerged in my emergency to be a help to our family.

Friendships sure do matter. True friends can go for extended lengths of time without talking to or physically seeing one another. But in case of an emergency, you sure can count on them to emerge.

What better way than to emerge with food, right? (I am just kidding. Or am I?) That sure was how we felt every time the doorbell rang.

Love in action.

The hands and feet of Jesus.

Serve him. Serve others.

Ring the doorbell.

Lord, when someone needs us, help us to not just be their friend on social media, in the workplace, in the church, or even at the ballgame, but help us be a friend that will emerge in a time of emergency, bringing help and hope to those around us. May we remember to ring the doorbell. Amen.

Ann Farabee is a teacher, writer and speaker. Contact her at  annfarabee@gmail.com or annfarabee.com .

By Ann Farabee

That word — COVID — still feels like it belongs to someone else — not me.

My writing often is built around the retelling of my personal experiences, but this one….

This one felt different.
This one felt a little too painful.
This one left me feeling like the story would go on forever.

I tried to get control of it and just let it pass. But I knew. It was COVID and it seemed to be doing exactly what it wanted to do when it wanted to do it.

This has been one of the weakest and most vulnerable times of my life — of our lives. Not only was it me that had been sick, but also my husband and my son. God had allowed both of them to recover much more quickly than me, but the lingering symptoms, the quarantine, and my continued sickness — was tough.

Friends and family kept messaging me, “Are you going to write about it?”

My answer was always the same, “No.”
It was too personal.
Most days the description was something to the effect of, “I am sick. I am still sick.”

Not much of a story.

Truth was — I did not want to write about it. Ever. I felt that nothing could come out of this evil virus that would even remotely be something that could give spiritual inspiration to others. I wanted to forget it.

An enemy had attacked our bodies.
I had not been sure we would win this battle.
I had not been sure if we would be around to raise our grandsons to adulthood.
It was scary for our family.

But on this day — day 20 of the virus — I woke up early. I got out of bed, without even giving it a thought.

Everyone was still asleep. I walked downstairs, opened the blinds, took a deep breath and looked outside.

That girl that runs by my house every morning was running by on day 20 at the exact time I opened my blinds.

It made me smile. I wanted to call out to her, “Good morning! I made it! I think I’m going to live! I can keep watching you run by every morning as I drink my coffee! It’s so good to see you!”

We had waved occasionally, but no, I do not know her.
But — on this day — Day 20 — I did know her. I sure was excited to see her.

So maybe everything was normal?
Except my normal no longer felt normal — until I saw her.
Reassurance came.
The girl was still running. Life had been going on. It still was. It was beautiful.
I cried — for it had been a long 20 days.
Perhaps my normal would return one day.

That’s when I knew — I wanted to share my COVID story with you.
For you — are special to me.

I hope my story gave you hope.
I hope my story encouraged you.
I hope if you are sick that you will be made well.
I hope my normal will return to normal.
I hope that I will always love and appreciate normal.

Isaiah 40:31 says that those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength.
That is the promise I held on to.

No, COVID could not and did not control me.
For there is always hope — and hope controls me.

Contact me at annfarabee@gmail.com .

By Ann Farabee

Day 11.  Charles tested for COVID.

Day 12.  Results were positive.

Another 10-day isolation began.

Our 14-day quarantine was extended to 21 days.

Return to school would have to wait.

Return to church would have to wait.

Return to grocery stores would have to wait.

Return to normal was nowhere in sight.

This felt like one of the saddest times of our lives just knowing the seriousness of the virus and how the unknown seemed to overtake our thinking.

The phone calls from the COVID line had restarted. Isolation and quarantine were hard — and difficult to fulfill as a family, but we were determined to do it. We were thinking of you and your loved ones — we would never want to be the cause of someone else having to go through what we had been going through with COVID.

Day 13

9 p.m.

My 16-year-old stepped into my room and said, “Good night.” He hesitated for a second in the dimly lit bedroom, and then softly said, “I always thought you and Papaw would be here with us until we grew up.”

This moment overtook all the other moments of this journey as being the most heartbreaking.

He walked out of the room immediately. I tried to call out to him, “Don’t worry! We will be!” but no words came out of my mouth. There were only tears falling down my cheeks.

Being isolated from our grandsons in our home was hard. We do not think of them as grandsons — we think of them as sons, for they had been with us since they were very young. Sure, it had crossed our minds at times that we may not live to see them grow up, but only for a fleeting second. Never had it truly seemed to be a possibility, but knowing the thought had seeped its way into my 16-year-old son’s mind crushed me.

Three weeks of quarantine and isolation in our home was not only hard on us — but it was hard on them.

Days 14-15. Improvement was beginning to come for me. My taste came back! Mental fog had taken its place, but I thought it was an excellent trade-off. I began to realize there was still a world out there — and not just this evil virus that had robbed us of our normal lives.

Day 16.  I got up. I walked downstairs to get my own coffee for the first time in over two weeks. I noticed the violets in my windowsill that a friend had brought to me right before I was diagnosed with COVID.

I took a closer look. I felt the dirt in the pot. It was as dry as a desert.

I was sure it had not been watered in at least 16 days.

Upon closer inspection, I realized there was minimal browning of the leaves, and the purple flowers were still beautiful.

Not only had the violets survived — but they had thrived!

They had grown and flourished — in spite of me.

As I began to shower them with water — and love — I received reassurance.

I thought of my two teenage boys still sleeping upstairs and how my greatest fear since they were toddlers had been, “What would my family do if something happened to me?”

I had received the answer to that question. Out of our adversity had come stronger young men. They had survived and thrived — in spite of me.

On my first trip downstairs since COVID, the word of God had spoken — through the violets in my windowsill.

Luke 12:28 says, “And if God cares so wonderfully for flowers that are here today and gone tomorrow, won’t He more surely care for you?”

I knew the answer:

Yes.