In 1971, David Vetter was born with severe immunodeficiency. Known as the Bubble Boy, he lived his entire life of 12 years in a plastic bubble.

Imagine, if you will, the life of David Vetter, Bubble Boy. As I write today, some may argue that it’s all too easy to imagine this under the quarantine conditions of our coronavirus pandemic. It’s like living in a bubble, some say, cut off from life as we’ve known it. No socializing in groups larger than ten, no concerts, sporting events, school, etc. Bubbled in our homes, our worlds are shrinking before our very eyes. Like David Vetter, we’re dependent upon those with whom we live for whatever socializing and human contact we can get. Unlike David Vetter, however, our worlds are not so small that we can’t touch each other–or walk outside to touch a tree or stand, unencumbered, under the sun or stars. Our worlds are small, but not that small.

For his eleventh birthday, David Vetter wanted nothing more than to see the stars. And so his family wheeled his bubble and all its accompanying life-saving equipment into their yard where for twenty minutes, he gazed into the night sky. The following year, he would die at the ripe age of twelve. His world and his lifespan were, indeed, small.

Even before the pandemic and quarantining, I’d been thinking about the size of my own world, how it has shrunken as I’ve retired. Once, I stood in front of as many as 150 students a day and interacted with faculty and staff in my schools. My world seemed relatively large and my influence upon this world equally large. There were more days than I can count after which I worried about my influence on so many people. Was I teaching the right things in the right ways? Had I said anything that wasn’t right, wasn’t true, wasn’t relevant? What legacy–if any–was I leaving my students and colleagues? To be sure, this was heavy baggage, and like Sisyphus, I pushed this boulder up the hill of my days (and nights).

There is something thrilling and daunting about such large worlds. They spread out before us in continents of opportunities. They dazzle treasures yet to be found. They tease and cajole us with pastures that are greener. In these worlds, bubbles have blessedly burst into more glittering panoramas!

And yet, small worlds have much to teach us. Inside our bubbles, we can examine our own pastures with new eyes. Mine is pretty green, I must admit. Give me a good book, a walk in the countryside, a good Netflix series, a pan of cookies in the oven, a phone call with a friend or family member, and an afternoon with my grandchildren (who live 50 yards away!), and I’m happy enough to live bubbled in with these riches.

I’m not, however, diminishing the real seriousness of the pandemic and its implications for those who aren’t as fortunate as I am. And I’m not romanticizing this time. I am, however, taking the time to personally consider my life as it is today and as it may be going forward. Could I really live in a smaller world? And, perhaps, should I live in one?

For years, I’ve read much historical fiction and nonfiction regarding WWII. Clearly, the themes of oppression and genocide drive most of these works. Still, the overwhelming themes of hunger and isolation are right there as well. The lives of many Jews who went into hiding were exceptionally small. They lived in attics, crawl spaces, haylofts, cellars–places so small and so uninhabitable that most of us could never imagine them. They lived on turnips and acorns and scraps we wouldn’t give our animals. And their benefactors, those who risked their lives to hide their Jewish brothers and sisters? Their lives were necessarily small, too. They may have lived in their own homes and had some occasions to leave, but they lived painfully close to home–out of fear and necessity. For both the benefactors and the hidden, their worlds and lives were smaller than they’d ever been before.

As I’ve read about their lives and struggles, I’ve often asked myself if I could have survived under such conditions. Could I live on a half turnip a day? Could I survive lying in a crawl space without the ability to even sit up–for months? Could I handle the isolation of not being able to talk with or be with anyone? Could I handle the fear of putting myself and my family at risk by hiding someone or an entire family? I would like to think that, given these extreme circumstances, I would rise to the occasion and do things that I couldn’t normally do. I would hope that I could be a person who lives small so that others might live at all.

Today, my pantry is full enough, and I’m blessed to have my daughter, son-in-law, grandchildren and a couple neighbors nearby. I don’t have to get in my car to be with them. I can literally walk out my door and within yards, be at their door steps. Ours is a small rural world in southeastern Iowa, but what a wonderful small world it is! And how genuinely grateful I am to live in it.

As our worlds become smaller for the foreseeable future, we might all take the opportunity to think about what this can mean for us personally and for our world collectively. We tend to discount anything small as being less than desireable. But for centuries, the greatest writers, artists, theologians, and leaders have shown us the treasures that await those who embrace the smallest things. For generations, our grandparents and great grandparents have lived much smaller than we have, and their lives continue to bless us in surprising and lasting ways. All of these individuals are far above my pay-grade, so I feel complete assurance in making the claim that small worlds may be paradoxically large, indeed.

I’m hoping that I can be one who lives small, so that others may live at all. Like many, I’m staying home, refusing to hoard groceries and supplies, and praying. And I’m hoping that we can all take solace in the fact that when our worlds become larger again, we will look upon them with fresh eyes, with newfound wonder and gratitude. This alone is no small thing–pun intended.

Bubble Boy
for Griffin

 Decades ago before you were born,
 a boy spent his entire life in a plastic bubble
 because the world threatened to take him out
 with an arsenal of parasites and plagues.
 From his bubble, he could see children, like you, 
 who ran barefoot in the sun, 
 their fingers slicked with dirt,
 their tongues testing the wind. 
  
 Today, you dip your wand into a bucket of solution
 and a bubble big as a porpoise takes the air.
 It floats several exuberant feet off the grass,
 an Aurora borealis here in our own yard.
 You step to meet it, 
 but from the driveway where I stand, 
 it looks as if you’ve stepped into it—
 or perhaps it’s caught you.
 And once inside, your face opens in wonder 
 at a world glazed with color. 
  
 Soon you’ll poke it and it will burst, 
 coating your hair with soapy film.
 And then you’ll come running
 through the grass, you’ll laugh 
 and throw yourself, soapy and sweaty, 
 into your mother’s arms.
  
 At six years, suited up like an astronaut,
 the Bubble Boy stepped out of his plastic world 
 into his mother’s arms for the first time,
 arms that had pined for flesh—skin-to-skin love,
 one eager heart pressed to another.
 On his eleventh birthday, he asked to see the stars
 and they wheeled him into the yard 
 where—for twenty miraculous minutes—he gazed at the sky.
 At twelve, even the bubble couldn’t save him.
  
 Tonight, you’ll sit under the stars
 by the fire where we’ve roasted marshmallows.
 And later when you fall sleep, your sticky face against your mother’s shoulder,
 you’ll dream of all the things you want to see
 and touch.