In her science fiction novel The Left Hand of Darkness Ursula K. Le Guin writes, 

            “To learn which questions are unanswerable and not to answer them: this skill is most needful in times of stress and darkness.” (emphasis mine).

But that is oh, so difficult for us human creatures to do. Even if we’re not scientists, therapists, reporters, or engineers, there is hardwired into our DNA the propensity to ask questions. As the tag line for the famous – and infamous – National Enquirer magazine says, “enquiring minds want to know.”  We want to know who and what and how and why and when and where and what if and why not and who says and a thousand other things. It’s one of the ways our minds make sense of our circumstances and find ways to cope.

We all want answers.

Especially now.

We’re learning more about the covid-19 virus and its effects – physical, emotional, spiritual, social, economic – every day, yet there are still So. Many. Questions. About everything. And answers are in as short supply as toilet paper and personal protective equipment.

These are strange and difficult times for all of us, filled with all manner of griefs and losses, but there is an additional layer of sorrow for me.  All the feelings and questions these life-and-death days evoke are the very same ones I wrestled with during my husband Bill’s unexpected illness and death. I relive those days again and again these days, as the pandemic plays out over the very same timeline.

As soon as his symptoms appeared, decline was rapid. My thoughts went quickly from denial – “this can’t be happening!” – to agonizing over every detail and scenario of our lives in search of answers to all those “how?” and “why?” questions.

In our case, there were none.

Asking seemed so important then, but I’ve learned since most of those questions were – and still are – unanswerable and all my dogged pursuit of them did was suck precious time and emotional energy away from the one thing that mattered most: being fully present during the few fleeting days we had left where Bill was cognizant and responsive.

Knowing that now, I’m trying to let the unanswerable questions go and simply be present to what is there, whatever it might be.

Sometimes it’s fear. Sometimes it’s anger. Sometimes it’s grief and sorrow and weeping and lament. Sometimes it’s gratitude: for my family; for all those working so hard to care for the sick, keep the rest of us well, and re-stock the shelves with food and supplies. Sometimes it’s rejoicing in simple pleasures: loaves of bread from generous neighbors; a long walk; a beautiful day; a favorite meal; a good book; a text email, card, or call from a friend; a good night’s sleep.

Allowing myself to acknowledge and experience whatever I’m feeling without (too much) judgement – especially the uncertainty, fear, anger, worry and grief – makes it easier to let those things go and move on.

It’s still hard.

I found hope and a kindred spirit this week in Exodus. Chapters three and four recount Moses’ call story. The path ahead of him is complicated. Scary. Risky. A matter of life and death for him and for his people. Moses is understandably concerned and asks a long list of detailed, specific questions – “Who are you? Exactly how is this going to work? Why me?” – for which he wants equally detailed and specific answers.

That’s not what he gets.

I Am, the Holy One responds.

I am here.

I will be with you.

Many of the questions we’re facing are – at least at the moment – unanswerable. Let them go, Dear Reader, and be present to what is.

“Be still and know that I am God.”

Psalm 46:10

“I am. I am here. I will be with you.”

Exodus 3:7,12, 14