You do not have to be good

On a rare snow day in Tennessee, thoughts of the apocalypse loom

The truth is
when the sky is purple
or the moon is red
sometimes I still think I’ll see

Jesus

For a second
my breath catches in my chest
and I wonder if
everything I was told as a child
might just be true

-Excerpt from an original poem

Hello.

The warm smell of cinnamon and cool sensation of bare feet on hardwood. Out our window, the world’s turned white, heavy snowflakes falling gently, a magical scene of wonder.

Noah’s first official snow day ❄️

The thick smell of smoke and an eerie orange glare from a burning city. Out the window, the world is on fire.

Photo credit: Unsplash. Taken from a California wildfire in September, 2024

How can these two worlds co-exist?

Last night, before bed, my husband and I made an emergency preparation list: water purification tablets and a propane cooking stove, an emergency blanket, and satellite phone. A book with a list of names and phone numbers (since who has these things memorized anymore?), a first aid kit and some cash in a grab bag.

Is this it? I wondered, thinking of my grandmother who built a three-story house and stashed it with enough provisions to shelter a small army. Pantries overflowing with canned goods and wheat flour. Gas masks and well water. Extra clothes and lamps and rooms waiting to be filled, waiting for the end.

I grew up believing in an impending apocalypse. My family was part of a religious movement in the 80’s and 90’s, convinced the second coming of Jesus would take place in Independence, Missouri. It would be the only safe place to live when the world fell to pieces, we were told. But before that triumphant return, we’d have to endure seven years of tribulation—when all the disasters and pestilence from the book of Revelation would rain down on earth in one traumatic event after another.

My grandmother passed away last year, her cluttered, three-story house emptied of its stockpiles. Thankfully, we never had to use the gas masks. Though you better believe when the Pandemic began her house was the designated place to meet when we were scared and full of uncertainty. Twelve miles from my house in Kansas City, I could walk there in half a day, if needed.

Now, I have a family of my own. Both of my grandparents’ homes, previous places of refuge and gathering belong to strangers, and the generation that waited patiently for the apocalypse is gone. All of our relatives gradually left Missouri. No longer within a 10-mile radius of each other, we’re scattered across the country, connected through texts and Facetime and far too infrequent visits. One of my cousins now lives in L.A.

I finish adding more items to our emergency list, thinking about his evacuation warning and the hurricane that devastated Appalachia just a few hours’ drive from our new home. I think about the resignation of Justin Trudeau, the flailing government in South Korea, and the terrorist attack in New Orleans on New Year’s Day.

I think of our little one, asleep in the other room. Of the newly installed smoke alarms, and our neighbors who lost their house last week in a fire, a few blocks away. It doesn’t always take the Santa Anna winds.

I think of the hot cocoa and cinnamon rolls I bought for a rare snow day. Of how someone told me to put coconut oil on a sheet pan for an improvised sled. How grateful I am that we can stay home, that we know our neighbors, that we’re healthy and safe.

How long will it stay that way?

Perhaps all parents have thought these thoughts. Worried about the unrest in the world. About their young boys being drafted into killing armies. About rulers leading us deeper into chaos, or our own bodies turning against us.

And yet, life goes on. Our spirits persist. We keep living.

What’s the balance between preparing for impending disaster and embodying tenacious hope?

We are lucky, for now. Others are not.

One thing is clear, no matter the language we use (climate disaster, tribulation, end times, etc.) or where we place our faith. Our survival is interdependent. We need each other.

When I think of the future, the only way I know how to create true safety is through connection. Building relationships in our community, investing in friendships, near and far, being the helper when I can because someday I will need the help.

It’s an awkward time to be alive. Vulnerable, volatile, precarious. Maybe it’s always been this way. But the sun keeps rising, through the clouds and the smoke. The ocean eventually calms, its waves gently lapping at toes buried in wet sand.

Watching the sunrise at Cocoa Beach, FL 2025

There is magic here, too. And love.

“It’s healing,” Noah tells me confidently, whenever he receives another bump or scrape or bruise (which is often). Life injures him repeatedly but he remains steadfast in the belief that it can also heal.

Noah playing in the sand, watching the sunrise. Cocoa Beach, FL 2025

I am worried and scared, knowing in my heart that no amount of preparation can predict or control what the future might bring. But for now, there’s a fresh blanket of snow to explore with a wide-eyed toddler whose vocabulary is still full of wonder and light. ❄️✨

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

-Mary Oliver

All my love,
Mariah

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From the Archive

Here are some related letters, podcasts, and poetry you might enjoy. (A few posted on my website, TheBarefootBeat).

How can we feel safe in an unsafe world?

Making meaning: We heal in community 🎧💗

How Harry Potter is Teaching Me to Be Brave (For all the millennials who grew up with this story in their hearts).

News Reports from My Grandmother- A poem of resilience and hope.