Tag: connie schultz
A man receiving the Covid-19 vaccine

Get Thee Vaccinated, Evangelical Friends

Sometimes, I wonder if I'm ever going to get over how some humans have behaved during this pandemic.

First, the good news: As of this week, more than 65 million people in the U.S. have been fully vaccinated against COVID-19. Millions more are well on their way.

Now, the pull-out-your-hair news: A Pew Research study reports that, of the 41 million white evangelical adults in the U.S., a whopping 45 percent of them said in late February they don't plan to get vaccinated.

From The New York Times: "'If we can't get a significant number of white evangelicals to come around on this, the pandemic is going to last much longer than it needs to,' said Jamie Aten, founder and executive director of the Humanitarian Disaster Institute at Wheaton College, an evangelical institution in Illinois."

See what I mean?

Humans.

Also from that Times story: "Lauri Armstrong, a Bible-believing nutritionist outside of Dallas, said she did not need the vaccine because God designed the body to heal itself, if given the right nutrients. More than that, she said, 'It would be God's will if I am here or if I am not here.'"

See, this is where I stop and say out loud to our dogs, "I did not just read that."

I read it again to make sure I understand Lauri. She did not improve upon closer acquaintance.

I'm related to many evangelicals, and some of them I love, but we are at an impasse here. Listing all the reasons to get vaccinated is like reading a restaurant menu to a giraffe. They are smart and attentive, but we're not speaking the same language. If I hear one more person tell me, "It's in God's hands ... "

When did white preachers stop telling the helicopter story?

I grew up with various versions of this story, in our family and at church. Whenever our pastor was winding up to tell it, Mom would shoot that look at me from the choir that meant this was exactly the story I needed to be hearing, young lady.

My mom's version, sort of:

A town's river has overflowed. Floodwaters are headed for the home of a woman — let's call her Laurie, with an "e" — whose faith in God is unflappable, she'll have you know.

A police officer knocks on Laurie's door. "Ma'am," she says, "Your house will soon be underwater. Come with us, please."

"Oh, no, thank you," Laurie says. "God will save me."

An hour later, water is starting to seep into Laurie's second-floor hallway. Emergency workers paddle a boat up to her bedroom window and yell, "Ma'am, you're going to drown. Get in the boat, please."

Not our Laurie. "God will save me," she tells them, waving goodbye.

An hour later, Laurie is sitting on her roof. A helicopter hovers overhead, dangling a rope ladder within her reach. "Ma'am!" a man yells over the chuff-chuff-chuff of the helicopter blades. "This is your last chance! Climb. Up. The rope!"

Laurie cups her hands around her mouth and yells, "God. Will. Save. Me!"

Minutes later, our Laurie drowns.

She arrives at heaven's gate, and she is in a mood. "Why?" she yells at God. "Why did you let me drown?"

God looks as Laurie always thought he would look, with adjustments. Think Santa if he were on a whole-foods, plant-based diet. Lean and bright-eyed, with great skin.

God pulls his hand out of the pocket of his robe and starts counting on his fingers as he answers Laurie. "I sent you a police car. I sent you a boat. I sent you a hel-i-cop-ter."

I learned about God from my mother, a devout Christian who insisted that we're called to love everybody because that's what God does, no exceptions. I once told Mom I was pretty sure God didn't expect me to love — and here I made air quotes with my fingers — "everybody."

"Think again," she said, marching me up to my bedroom to spend the next hour doing just that. God's soldier, that woman.

I've been trying to figure out how Mom, a nurse's aide and thus a believer in science, might have convinced the beloved evangelicals in her life to get this vaccine. She was so patient and kind — and always at the ready with examples from Jesus, her favorite activist.

Then again, even Mom had her limits. More than once, I heard her say, "If you want to die stupid, God will let you." (I may be paraphrasing.)

Get in that boat, my evangelical friends. Grab that rope ladder, and get yourselves vaccinated so that we can keep disagreeing for years to come.

Connie Schultz is a Pulitzer Prize-winning columnist and professional in residence at Kent State University's school of journalism. She is the author of two non-fiction books, including "...and His Lovely Wife," which chronicled the successful race of her husband, Sherrod Brown, for the U.S. Senate. She is also the author of The New York Times bestselling novel, The Daughters of Erietown. To find out more about Connie Schultz (schultz.connie@gmail.com) and read her past columns, please visit the Creators Syndicate webpage at www.creators.com

A Moment Of Unexpected Wisdom From Alaska

A Moment Of Unexpected Wisdom From Alaska

This week, I had an email exchange with a person who had every reason to be disappointed in me.

Instead, he insisted his faith in me was steadfast, and I'm not the least bit embarrassed to tell you I wept in the way I've always imagined people do after Superman sweeps down for the rescue. One moment you're staring wide-eyed at the bus about to run you over, and the next you're up in the clouds bracing for a gentle landing.

The morning after our exchange, I woke up still thinking about it and realized I had stumbled upon an essential truth: The people who have been the kindest during this pandemic will be, for the rest of my days, the kindest people I have ever known.

It takes a special brand of spiritual stamina to assume the best in people when you've seen so much of the worst in recent times. I aspire to be that compassionate, and on days I come close, I have to give a lot of credit to our two rescue dogs, Franklin and Walter. There are humans who love me very much, but only our pups repeatedly stop and stare at me during the day with the devotion of a first love. It's hard to overstate the reassurance of that.

I've wanted to write an entire column about how dogs have gotten so many of us through the pandemic, but I'd hear from a lot of unhappy cat people, and I'd feel really bad about that. I've loved my share of cats over the years, I tell you. Especially Winnie and Reggie, who were part of my family's life long before my husband showed up.

Winnie was your classic kitty who had two favorites and stalked everyone else. I felt special every time we crossed paths and she didn't hiss at me. Reggie was like a dog, except more agile. He once managed to climb into the attic and then dropped two stories, landing behind a wall. This was during my single-mother days, and I will never forget our handyman coming to the rescue after I called him and described through tears how Reggie was stuck in a closet wall.

"I'll save the kitty!" he bellowed as he walked through our door wielding a mallet. And he did. By the time Reggie was free, he was covered in plaster dust and mute from yowling and ready to eat dinner.

So, in memory of Reggie, I won't devote this column to dogs. Also, you aquarium people are on your own. I understand fish can be mesmerizing, but where's the adoration?I'm needy right now, one could argue. And one has, but we won't name him.

By the way, I wonder if you've heard that former Republican vice presidential candidate Sarah Palin has COVID-19 and is now encouraging all of us to wear masks.

Bet you didn't see that coming.

And don't send me another round of angry emails about how you're tired of my tricking you into reading my column about something else and then pivoting to the pandemic. This is strategy, my friends.

From Palin's statement to People magazine: "Through it all, I view wearing that cumbersome mask indoors in a crowd as not only allowing the newfound luxury of being incognito, but trust it's better than doing nothing to slow the spread."

COVID-19 can "really knock you down," she added.

As of this week, the virus has killed more than 550,000 people in the U.S. Nevertheless, a recent PBS Newshour/NPR/Marist poll recently reported that 41 percent of Republicans, and 49 percent of Republican men, are not planning to get vaccinated.

And here I am, insisting that I want those Republican men to live.

I am grateful to the former governor of Alaska for speaking out, and I hope her recovery is swift and full. I also hope all those Republican men who admire Sarah Palin will now find the courage to bare their mighty arms for that little needle that is saving lives.

As for the rest of you: Be Sarah, my fellow Americans.

For a little while longer, wear a mask.

Connie Schultz is a Pulitzer Prize-winning columnist and professional in residence at Kent State University's school of journalism. She is the author of two non-fiction books, including "...and His Lovely Wife," which chronicled the successful race of her husband, Sherrod Brown, for the U.S. Senate. She is also the author of the New York Times bestselling novel, The Daughters of Erietown. To find out more about Connie Schultz (schultz.connie@gmail.com) and read her past columns, please visit the Creators Syndicate webpage at www.creators.com.

My Covid-19 Vaccination, Part I

My Covid-19 Vaccination, Part I

There were many times, I'm sure, when my mother was disappointed in me, but one memory is seared into my brain like rice scorched into the bottom of a forgotten pot on the stove. Imagine it's your mom's favorite pot. The one she inherited from the good grandmother.

I was 16, and for reasons I can't remember, I had to get a blood test at the hospital where Mom worked as a nurse's aide. This was the age when I was diagnosed with severe asthma, so maybe this was a test to see if I was going to die. I may be exaggerating.

Anyway, this blood test was a very big deal to both of us for different reasons.

For Mom, this was a chance to introduce her oldest daughter to dozens of co-workers before I left for college and immediately forgot the names of the parents who raised me (Mom's fear).

For teenage me, it was the daylight version of a slasher film, in which someone you trust coaxes you down the hallway and into the arms of the guy wielding a pickax. You might call it a needle.

Seventeen years earlier, my mother had to give up her dream of becoming a nurse because she became pregnant with me. She never put it like that. I was a gift from God, she always said, who helped her see that she was destined to be a mother.

Still, wouldn't it be nice, she often added, if her oldest daughter decided it would be her dream come true to become a nurse? Purely coincidentally, of course.

I was all in, until the day we went for that blood test. Again, I don't remember the details, but that never mattered as long as Mom was alive, because she remembered it with the accuracy of that witness to multiple crimes who nails the police lineup every time.

Apparently, it took a lot of negotiating to get me into the one-armed chair. After the needle pierced my skin, I started to hyperventilate. "What a performance," Mom said every single time we talked about this, which was often. For decades.

After the blood test was over, I reportedly stood up and said, ever so softly, "Uh-oh." Down I went, taking Mom with me.

Here comes the part I do remember: We're in the car in our driveway, after a silent trip home. Mom cuts the engine, looks at my bandaged forehead and says, "Maybe Leslie will be the nurse."

And God said, "It is done."

My sister Les became the nurse Mom had always wanted to be.

I still hate needles. Two years ago, a friend started describing over dinner how she loves to watch her blood shoot up the line when she donates it. I ended up with my head between my knees to keep from fainting right there in the restaurant. "Just looking for an earring," I said.

"Where is this going?" you may wonder.

Come with me. I'll drive.

We're sitting in my Jeep, made by union workers in Ohio, as we turn into the county fairgrounds. We are joining dozens of other cars slowly streaming in front of us and behind us. Remember that last scene in "Field of Dreams," when that long line of cars is winding its way to the magical baseball field in the cornfield? It's like that.

Friendly people wearing masks and smiling eyes are welcoming us, nodding hello to you, my passenger, as they check my license. One nice woman directs me to veer right because, being my mother's daughter, I have already printed my medical form and filled it out before leaving the house.

The sun is shining (it really was), and something is happening inside me as I slowly pull into what looks like a 4-H barn at the county fair. It's a feeling I've never had before.

I can't wait to get that shot.

I lower my car window, shove up my sleeve and offer it to the masked man with the needle. "Thank you," I tell him as he injects my first dose of the Moderna vaccine. "Thank you, thank you."

A week from today, I will be 28 hours out from my second dose of this vaccine for COVID-19. I may experience some side effects, but I can't wait to get that next shot. I'll let you know how it goes.

If Mom were here, she'd tell you that if her oldest daughter can get this shot, so can you.

Then she'd tell you a story. You know the one.

Connie Schultz is a Pulitzer Prize-winning columnist and professional in residence at Kent State University's school of journalism. She is the author of two non-fiction books, including "...and His Lovely Wife," which chronicled the successful race of her husband, Sherrod Brown, for the U.S. Senate. She is also the author of The New York Times bestselling novel, The Daughters of Erietown. To find out more about Connie Schultz (schultz.connie@gmail.com) and read her past columns, please visit the Creators Syndicate webpage at www.creators.com

capitol

After A Day Of Terror, Democracy Endured

Like so many of you, I remember what I was doing when I first heard that insurgents had stormed our nation's Capitol.

It was about 2 p.m., and I was on the phone with my son Andy as C-SPAN played in the background. He knew I'd be following along as both houses of Congress prepared to certify Joe Biden's election as our next president, despite efforts by a minority of right-wing Republicans trying to stop it. I was looking forward to bearing witness to this time-honored tradition of our democracy.

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