What My Children Are Telling Me about Coronavirus

What do you tell little ones about coronavirus? How do you explain the new terminology of our upended lives: pandemic, social distancing, stay-at-home order?

After the closure of my six year-old’s school, my husband and I simply told her that some people were sick, and we all needed to stay home until they got better. She accepted this explanation, and told her younger sisters that she was “on vacation” from school.

Now we are rolling into our fourth week with no kindergarten, play dates, grocery trips, library story time, or, as my four year old told me during a meltdown one Sunday morning, “big church.”

My six year old no longer asks me when she will go back to school or see her friends.

The Zoom calls with her kindergarten class that I thought she would enjoy often leave her near tears. Usually she is sitting on my lap by the end, trying to be brave and not cry.

“Sweetheart, are you feeling sad?” I’ll ask.

She will nod, and say, “I miss ______,” naming a different classmate each time. I then hug her slender frame and say, “I know. I miss friends, too.”

As my oldest experiences the loss of her old routine, activities, and friends, we try to protect her from any stress or worry that she doesn’t need to be carrying. My husband and I refrain from any “virus talk” while little people are in earshot. I had to stop asking him for updates on our skyrocketing case count in southeast Michigan, complaining to him about the persistent grocery shortages (what is everyone doing with all the flour they have hoarded??), or commenting about people being ill.

Yes, we are shielding all three of our girls. They don’t know any of the frightening new words…or so I thought.

I have been saying a prayer each morning with my six and four year old, in part to retain another small tie to my kindergartener’s pre-pandemic routine. Usually this prayer happens while I’m still in bed. My two older girls, who share a room, come bounding into my bedroom after my husband has started his work-from-home day but before I want to start mine. They clamber up onto the bed with as many stuffies and toys as they can carry: Bun-Bun, Squawk-Squawk, Pooh, Sugardust the unicorn, Rexie the dinosaur, and mini plush dolls of Scooby and the gang. After lots of giggling and rearranging of stuffies, I tell them to fold their hands.

One morning, I was finishing my usual prayer asking God to bless Daddy’s work and our school and play time, when my oldest said, “Mom, you forgot to pray for the sick people.”

“The sick people?”

“The people with coronavirus!” Her tone indicated she assumed that was obvious.

“Where did you hear that word?” I asked, startled.

“From Pastor’s sermon. Pastor said to pray for the sick people.” She smiled, proud of herself for remembering.

So we prayed for God to heal the people with coronavirus. Who knew she was listening so intently to our live-streamed service that Sunday? She had seemed totally absorbed in her Frozen coloring book.

Would what she heard make her feel anxious? I wondered. But she showed no signs of any further concern, and went about her day as usual.

Several days later, she had another kindergarten Zoom call. This time, her teacher read a devotion to the class, then told them she was going to try something fun. She moved over to her piano, and led the class in a song they had been learning when school closed. It was the First Song of Isaiah.

My daughter joined in with gusto, her usual apprehension during the Zoom calls completely gone. All of the kids were singing. The platform was not made for eighteen singing children and piano accompaniment. The sound came through wobbly, distorted…but the lyrics were still clear:

Surely it is God who saves me, I will trust in Him and not be afraid. For the Lord is my stronghold and my sure defense, and He will be my Savior.

I was glad that my daughter was perched on my lap, so she couldn’t see the tears coursing down my cheeks.

I, too, will trust in Him and not be afraid.

What I tell–or don’t tell–my little ones about this pandemic is a weighty matter. I’m learning that just as important–and maybe even more– is what they tell me.