A Whisper of COVID-19: How We Stay Alive, and Keep Living

Our current public health crisis has conjured a persistent echo in my thoughts: The message of Mary Fisher, an American patriot.

In 1992, 33,590 Americans died from HIV/AIDS: Everyone was afraid, and after the introduction of antiretroviral therapies, many who had received a death sentence were shocked to find themselves very much alive.

This elated some, and drowned others in survivor's guilt and confusion. Walking dead, from all walks of life, had prepared themselves and their families for their premature end, only to be invited to prepare for a confusing new beginning.

That year, Mary Fisher took the stage of the Republican National Convention in Houston as a mother, a former Ford Administration official, and as one of these HIV-positive Americans. She had a new lease on life, and a new perspective on our shared calling to heal the sick, and bind up the wounds of a nation.

She's a Mom, and I'm not. She's a Republican, and I'm not. She was branded with the stigma of a then-deadly diagnosis—one which, so far, has not touched me. But today, she is still alive, and I am, too.

In a time of fear, she called us to courage, compassion, and clarity as a colossal public health threat loomed large:

"I want my children to know that their mother was not a victim. She was a messenger. I do not want them to think, as I once did, that courage is the absence of fear; I want them to know that courage is the strength to act wisely when most we are afraid.

I'd like to think Mary Fisher also understands the opportunities for thundering, continuing grace in her own life: A phone call, to a grandma or grandpa who hasn't heard a voice all day that wasn't on the radio or the TV. A text message, to a sister or a brother halfway across the country. A short and reassuring conversation, with the moms and dads just as scared as we are.

Her solemn commitment in 1992 continues today:

"I will seek a place where intimacy is not the prelude to suffering."

"A place where intimacy is not the prelude to suffering" is the place we are still called to make for ourselves and our loved ones in the world. We may not be able to do it with our bodies, but we can give our whole selves to outreach and uplift. We can still shine a bright light of belonging into the darkest, loneliest places—even and especially when our loved ones find themselves there—in this moment of crisis.

We are all afraid, we must be strong, and our strength comes from togetherness.

Never have we had so many tools for togetherness which asked so little of our physical selves. Reach out to someone you love tonight, and again tomorrow morning. And the next day, and the next.

This is how we stay alive, and how we keep living.