Scarcity and Abundance in the Midst of Fear

I strolled out of bed at a leisurely 7:45AM on Tuesday, March 3rd. I had the cognitive thought as I drifted in and out of sleep, lazily avoiding the early morning hours, that the storms they had predicted for the area the night before must not have been as bad as they originally thought they would be. I hadn’t heard the hail or the thunder or the sirens. I hadn’t slept with my phone in my room. As I stood in the kitchen grinding coffee beans, I made a half-hearted comment about The Bachelor to my roommate who was camped out on the living room couch. She looked up at me with concern in her eyes. Had I not seen the news? Had I not heard what happened? A tornado ripped through downtown Nashville in the middle of the night. The death toll was at nine and counting. Businesses and houses torn apart limb from limb in Germantown and East Nashville. Fear like electricity shot through my body. 

I ran to my phone that was left charging on an end table. Forty unread text messages; fourteen missed calls. All of my people who live in affected areas had checked in and were okay. I would spend the rest of the morning scrolling through picture after picture, surveying the piles of brick and debris where beloved neighborhood restaurants and bars once stood, unable to comprehend that things like this don’t just happen in movies or in distant news headlines, but in real life to real people in real cities like my own. Over the next couple days, I would spend time walking through North Nashville, handing out water bottles and clearing away chunks of trees from yards. I would not, and still do not, have the words or feelings to process the destruction that laid so casually in front of me at every turn.

Less than two weeks later, in the midst of rebuilding and pulling our community back together, it would come to our attention that we are standing face to face with another threat—COVID-19. While at first I did not take this threat seriously, I would quickly become acutely aware of the impacts that this outbreak would have on me personally. Two weeks ago I worked a normal schedule at my restaurant job, pulling in standard hours and tips that make it possible for me to eat and drive and have a roof over my head. Over the course of the following weekend, however, I watched my tips and number of patrons visiting the restaurant drop lower and lower until they reached an all time low on Sunday night, me pulling in 4 tables and a whopping $11 in credit card tips. By Monday all restaurants were required to only operate at 50% capacity and by Friday, three days ago, I was facing my last day of work indefinitely. There are no tangible solutions in place right now to aid a population of service industry workers, local businesses, and others who will suffer financially in the presence of a pandemic (never mind those who are still living in the aftermath of a tornado), and while that is a hard reality, the postponing of these services is absolutely necessary. What a time to be afraid, am I right?

Last Monday morning I woke up with a really heavy heart. There are so many questions and so few (if any) answers. I don’t know what work is going to look like; I don’t know how many people I will watch suffer from this virus; I don’t know how long we will all be without each other in a physical, hug-you-without-fear kind of way. All I know, and all I can control right now, is my response to the uncertainty. We are at a crossroads right now—we get to choose what we will do in the midst of very real, very global fear. 

I’ve noticed something come up in me as I’ve walked through this unprecedented week: In the face of fear, I operate from a place of scarcity. I live like a kid who has to collect the unwanted scraps after a dinner party; a kid who was not even invited to begin with. Scarcity is the thing that rears its envious head and says, “but what about me?” when I hear a story about other people getting their bills paid or talk to people who have the option to work from home or hear any story about God providing in a big way. The fear that breeds scarcity whispers in my ear that I will be forgotten, that if somebody takes a piece of bread from the table I will inevitably go hungry. 

Scarcity is the thing that we see hoarding ten packages of toilet paper for a two person household. It is the fists that have been thrown in a grocery store over milk and eggs. It is people stealing essential medical supplies (like gloves and masks) from hospitals. Scarcity locks our neighbors out and tells us to only fend for ourselves—there is not enough [fill in the blank] to go around. At its ugly core the message that scarcity is really communicating is that my needs are more important than your needs. It is all a big ploy put into place to convince us that we are alone and that we will not be taken care of. 

Here’s the thing: fear is not a bad thing. Fear is so normal and human and if you were not feeling it right now I would assume you’ve been hiding out underneath some sort of rock for the entirety of 2020. The truth about fear is that it has a tendency to lead us to two places: isolation or community. Fear that leads to isolation is full of disconnection and is the thought process that has us subscribing to scarcity. It’s what happens when we stay trapped in our thoughts, deadbolting every door in our mind so that truth is unable to get in. We spend all of our time hiding out in the dark, swimming in “what if” scenarios instead of bringing our fear out into the light.

But when fear is instead paired with truth, it leads to connection, hope, and community. It’s only from this place that we can begin to feel safe enough to unsubscribe from scarcity and instead hold onto abundance—the belief that there is enough for everyone. Walking fear to truth looks like having a fear (i.e. I am afraid I will not be taken care of) and, instead of accepting that as reality, giving it a different narrative. I’m afraid I won’t be taken care of, but I know that I have a community around me and they see my needs. While this is a pretty black and white example, and not every fear has a pretty truth bow that can be tied around it, every fear can be brought to the light by letting the people around us in. By vocalizing our fears and not just letting them fester in our brains, we allow others to sit with us and help us carry the burden. Most of the fears that we are currently facing are completely justified, but that does not change the simple, important, profound truth in all of it—we are not alone.

I have never felt more proud of Nashville than I did on March 3rd. We woke up a city full of fear, loss and grief. While everyone’s experiences and pain were different, we refused to camp out in a space of isolation and scarcity. Neighbors showed up with fresh coffee and work gloves and chainsaws to pull trees out of yards. Local non-profits organized and unleashed thousands of volunteers to clean up neighborhoods. Businesses were offering products and services to aid tornado victims in whatever ways they could. Everywhere I turned the question seemed to be, “what do I have that you need? How can we pull together all of our resources so that everyone gets taken care of?” We dug our heels deep into community.

I don’t know what you’re experiencing right now or how you’re being affected. It seems like every day I am learning fifty new avenues of grief that people are wandering down. Maybe, like me, you’ve lost your job. Maybe you are exceptionally lonely. Maybe you have roommates that make your house feel more like a jail cell than a home. Maybe you’ve cancelled your wedding. Maybe you’re worried sick about your loved ones. Maybe you have an essential job and are so worn down by the demand. No matter how coronavirus is currently kicking your ass, I wonder how we, as a community of human beings, can live like my neighbors did on March 3rd. How can we both accept our needs in the midst of uncertainty and ask ourselves what we have that we can give away so that everyone gets taken care of? Maybe then we will begin to move away from scarcity and into abundance—everyone has a seat at the table; everyone will be seen and heard in the midst of uncertainty; everyone’s needs are just as important as mine.

I wrote in my journal on Monday that, between the tornadoes and the pandemic, let this be a lesson for my heart that everything can change on a dime. Nothing is certain or unmovable or secure except for Hope itself. While we may not have answers, we can choose to have each other in a time where it would be really easy to only fend for ourselves. Listen to the needs of your roommates; give if you can to local businesses; and maybe, just maybe, only take one package of toilet paper on your next trip to the grocery store.