I grew up in the eastern suburbs of Cleveland, Ohio, in a place called Willowick. We lived on the banks of Lake Erie, less than a mile from the shore. In fact, the church my dad pastored was called Erieside Church, and it was on Lakeshore Boulevard.
On summer days, we would pack up peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and bags of apples, along with our beach towels and sunscreen, and would head over to the beach near our house. For a youngster like me, the worst part was crossing the wide expanse of sharp rocks before the sandy beach opened up before us. We would unfurl a blanket on the sand, placing our shoes at the corners to make sure it didn't blow away, and then I would run out into the water.
Lake Erie is not known for its crystal blue water. But I loved it nonetheless, especially jumping in the waves. On windy days or when big tankers headed toward the docks in Cleveland would pass, waves would form and eventually crash on the beach. I would always try to position myself to jump over them right at the highest point of the swell. Often, I would mistime my jump, and the wave would crash on my head, sending my arms and legs flailing until I came to rest on the sand. Undeterred, back out into the water I would go to bob in the waves for as long as I could.
When the sun finally set and we headed home, I would often lay in my bed and feel the sensation of still being in the waves. Even though I was dry and under my covers, it felt like I was still out in the water, bobbing away. My muscles held the memory. I remember not particularly enjoying that sensation, but it didn't stop me from heading back to the beach the next day to do it all again.
The metaphor of waves is an apt one right now. In the midst of the covid-19 pandemic, we have heard endlessly of the first wave of cases along with the inevitable second wave. Pundits ask incessantly, "Are we still in the first wave?" and "Will the second wave be even worse than the first?"
It also seems like police shootings of Black men and women come in waves as well. It seems like the waters have calmed since the killings of Breonna Taylor, George Floyd and Ahmaud Arbery. But we all know that it's just a matter of time before another waves crashes down on us.
Even when I put my phone down and turn off the news, I still lay in bed and feel the sensation of the waves crashing. I can't escape the anxiety, outrage and concern. I feel it, even when I'm not in it all the time.
I don't suppose we can escape the waves right now. They are inevitable. All we can do is catch our breath when we can and hold our breath when we have to. Most of all, lest the waves take us under, we need to remind ourselves to continue to breathe.
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Robb Ryerse is one of the pastors of Vintage Fellowship in Fayetteville. He is the author of "Running For Our Lives: A Story of Faith, Politics, and the Common Good." You can reach him at robb@vintagefellowship.org.