This morning I sat in my home office and rolled my shoulders back before clicking ‘join’ on yet another Zoom call. My posture seems to be suffering, as does my spirit.
As the conversation with a new colleague unfolded, we both smiled knowingly when I said, “Five months really isn’t that long in the great scheme of things.”
March. April. May. June. July.
This creeping passing of time feels long enough.
I hope this season is but a chapter in our lives.
In my experience, there are some chapters that shape us more than others.
I keep thinking of all the people dying, and all the people grieving, and wonder how this chapter is forever redirecting their trajectories.
I wonder what my small family of two will remember. I wonder how long we’ll be apart from my mom and grandmother and brother. I’m jumping ahead to December and begin drafts of our Christmas letter not yet formed. Wondering what anecdotes we will have to share as most of our time has been spent in our separate home offices.
I wonder about small business owners not sure of what’s next. Of servers and waiters and delivery drivers who are trying to stay afloat. Of the tired doctors and nurses and physicians working long hours all over the world.
Of the thousands of stories and chapters being written right now.
On Tuesday, I found out a relative’s father passed away from Covid. Waves of my own grief washed over me and a deep ache came right to my heart pocket, as I now know another young woman my age has joined the Dead Dad’s Club. Just because this is not affecting you personally, does not mean it’s not impacting others profoundly.
Soon after, I kept scrolling and see glimpses of families at gatherings, on road trips, and outdoor excursions I’m not sure enough to take myself.
Grief and frustration and envy mix into a mingling cloud of letters spelling, as if in sky writing in front of the mist I keep walking through, “I don’t think that’s a great idea.”
Some stories are of fear right now.
Others of realistic truth. Of science. Of bravery. Of just doing the best we can.
Please don’t let your story be of carelessness, of insensitivity, of ‘Oh, I wish I hadn’t.’
This chapter is heavy in my hands and combatting the doom takes extra care — and it’s up to all of us to help shorten it’s length.
This pandemic is nowhere near over.
As always, I’m holding the truth in both hands. The world is dark and heavy. And beautiful and light. We get a say in how we want to interact with what we’re given.
I sigh again and adjust my shoulders once more, relying on a tired neck to lift my eyes up from the what-ifs and re-focus on what is.
Across the street, the neighbor boys set up an obstacle course through the sprinklers. Dylan was outside in the driveway and waved hello.
“Want to join?”the young mother asked him. “You get a popsicle when you reach the end.”
Always something to hope for at the end.
What a beautiful thing.
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