The impact of Governor Tim Walz's decisions during the 2020 lockdowns has left a lasting impression on the mental health of Minnesotans—men, women, and children alike. The closure of in-person state services created a vacuum where essential support systems once thrived. Individuals who relied on face-to-face interactions for mental health services found themselves isolated, exacerbating feelings of anxiety and depression at a time when support was needed most.
Furthermore, the state’s response to the unrest following the death of George Floyd raised serious concerns about leadership. Governor Walz faced criticism for delaying the call for the National Guard to assist Minneapolis, despite Mayor Jacob Frey's urgent requests just hours prior. This hesitation contributed to the chaos that enveloped the city, leaving residents to grapple not only with the physical consequences of the riots but also with the emotional toll taken by witnessing their communities unravel.
As the pandemic progressed, the State Health Department’s shifting metrics added another layer of confusion and frustration. When the original figures didn’t align with expectations, alterations in reporting strategies raised skepticism among the public. This led many to question the validity of the data being shared, which was vital for navigating the ongoing crisis.
In nursing homes, the policy to place active COVID-19 patients in facilities with vulnerable populations has been particularly devastating. This decision led to a tragic loss of life, with many older adults succumbing to the virus, further straining the mental and emotional wellbeing of families who felt that their loved ones were not adequately protected.
The trial of former officer Derek Chauvin has also stirred deep divisions. Many viewed the resulting guilty verdict as the culmination of a highly charged atmosphere influenced by ongoing protests. Critically, there emerged a refusal to acknowledge the findings of the original medical exam report, which suggested that George Floyd’s death was not solely due to the actions of Chauvin but involved underlying drug use. This selective narrative has fueled further unrest and discontent, leaving many feeling that discussions around justice are overshadowed by broader societal tensions.
As we reflect on these events, it becomes clear that the intersection of public health, governance, and social justice during a crisis has profound implications for the mental health of our communities. The choices made during this tumultuous period will reverberate for years to come.
The silence in the Miller home was a heavy, suffocating thing. It had settled in the week after Lily’s funeral, an unwelcome guest who refused to leave. Before, the house had thrummed with life: Lily’s giggles, the clang of pots as Sarah, the mother, cooked, the rumble of Mark, the father, working on his latest woodworking project in the garage, and the energetic chatter of their son, eight-year-old Noah.
Now, the silence echoed, punctuated only by the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway, each tick a mournful reminder of time moving on without their precious Lily. Lily had been a spark, a whirlwind of blonde curls and infectious joy. At five years old, she’d illuminated every room she entered. A sudden, aggressive illness had stolen her, swift and brutal, leaving a chasm in their lives that felt insurmountable.
Sarah, a woman usually grounded in faith and a calming presence, found herself adrift. The prayers that had once soothed her now felt like hollow words. She’d stand in Lily’s pink-draped room, tracing the patterns on the little quilt her daughter had loved, and whisper, “Why, God? Why?”
The answer never came, or if it did, it was lost in the deafening roar of her grief. She’d stare at the Bible on her nightstand, its pages usually dog-eared and marked with encouraging verses, but now it seemed to mock her with its promises of comfort she couldn’t find. Mark, a man of quiet strength, tried to hold them together. He’d hug Sarah tightly, murmuring words of love and reassurance, but his own heart was fractured. He found himself struggling with the same questions, his faith tested like never before.
He’d see other children playing in the park, their laughter sharp and piercing, and his chest would ache with a pain that felt physical. He’d retreat to his workshop, the scent of sawdust and wood shavings usually a balm, but now the tools felt foreign in his hands, the unfinished projects a stark reminder of Lily’s unfinished life.
Noah, the youngest, bore his grief in silence. He’d become withdrawn, his bright eyes now shadowed and distant.
He’d hug his stuffed animals tighter at night, whispering stories to them that were meant for Lily. He’d ask questions that Sarah and Mark struggled to answer. “Is Lily in heaven with Jesus, Mommy?” he’d ask, his voice small. Sarah would nod, tears welling, and try to explain about eternal peace, but the words felt inadequate, thin shields against the sharp edges of his pain.
He missed her stories, her silly songs, the way she’d always share her cookies with him. The church community rallied around them, offering casseroles, prayers, and quiet support.
Pastor Davies, a kind man with a weary wisdom, would visit regularly, his gentle sermons a constant reminder of God’s love, even when it felt out of reach. He’d share stories of his own loss, his voice thick with emotion, and while it didn’t erase their pain, it made them feel less alone in their struggle.
One Sunday, during the offertory, the sanctuary choir sang a hymn Sarah had always loved, a hymn about God’s unwavering presence.
Tears streamed down her face, but this time, they weren’t solely of sorrow. Amidst the crushing weight of their loss, a tiny flicker of something else began to stir. It was the memory of Lily’s own unwavering faith, her simple, unquestioning belief that God loved her. She remembered how Lily would pray before bed, her tiny hands clasped, a smile on her face.
That evening, Sarah found Noah sitting on the rug in Lily’s room, carefully arranging Lily’s doll collection. He looked up, his eyes meeting hers. “Mommy,” he said, his voice soft, “Lily would want us to be happy.” Sarah’s breath hitched. It was so simple, so profoundly true.
Lily, even in her absence, was offering them a path forward. Slowly, tentatively, the Millers began to navigate their new reality. The silence still lingered, but it was no longer absolute. They started talking, really talking, about Lily, sharing memories, both joyful and heartbreaking.
Sarah began to read the Bible again, not searching for answers, but for comfort, for reminders of the love that transcended even death. She found solace in verses that spoke of hope and redemption, even if the full understanding felt distant.
Mark started to tinker in his workshop again, not rushing, but allowing himself the quiet focus it provided.
He began to carve a small wooden angel, a gift for Lily’s grave, pouring his grief and his love into each careful stroke of the chisel.
Noah, seeing his parents begin to heal, started to unfurl. He’d tell them stories about Lily, his imagination bringing her back to life in their shared memories. He started to draw pictures again, vibrant colors filling the pages, his own way of holding onto Lily’s light.
There were still days when the grief would hit them like a tidal wave, days when the silence felt as deafening as ever.
But now, amidst the pain, there were also moments of shared smiles, of quiet comfort, of rediscovered hope.
Their faith, once a source of questioning and doubt, was slowly becoming a beacon, a gentle reminder that even in the darkest valleys, God’s love was a constant, unwavering presence.
They knew the scars of Lily’s loss would never fully disappear, but they were learning to carry them, not as a burden of despair, but as a testament to the profound love they had shared, a love that, they believed, would one day be reunited in the eternal embrace of their Heavenly Father.
