One Year of Covid

Last year, on the second Tuesday of March, I gathered with the worship circle for what would be the last time in the beloved meeting space at the Quaker meeting house. We kept our distance, giving elbow bumps instead of embraces for the passing of the peace. We talked about and prayed with our fear and anxiety about this new corona virus that was beginning to make the rounds.

We. Had. No. Idea.

We had no idea that we would not see each other again in person. That our "circle" would become a "grid." That we would soon be wearing masks anywhere and everywhere. That we would learn a whole new lexicon, like "social distancing" and "flattening the curve" and "virtual schooling." That we would feel simultaneously isolated and globally connected in unprecedented ways. That we would see both such heroic public service and wanton disregard for human life. That the pandemic would reveal both our fragility and resiliency, the interconnected fabric of our nation and the places unraveling at the seams. That we would both celebrate and grieve the slowing down, the interruption of life as we knew it. That the time would be "apocalyptic" in the sense of revealing what really matters, and how we fail to honor that in a myriad of ways. That two weeks would stretch into the rest of the school year would stretch into Summer . . . Fall . . . Winter (brutal) . . .a year and counting, of so much change, uncertainty, giving up control, loss.

That we would lose over 500,000 beloved lives. I think about times in worship we've rung a bell, lit candles and read the names for saints lost in the previous year, or for the lives lost in a mass shooting - Sandy Hook, Orlando, or others. If we kept vigil 24 hours a day, it would take us over two whole months to read their names and ring the bell for every American life lost in the pandemic. It's beyond comprehension.

There have been a million other losses and hardships, both big and small. Each person, each family, each community has struggled in profound and unique ways. We cannot begin to get our heads and hearts around all the pain and suffering. And it has been a cruel irony that many of the things we typically offer to comfort and heal one another - our smiles, our hugs, our close company--are the very things we’ve needed to withhold to protect each other's lives. I may very well have advanced aging around my eyes trying to smile so hard it shows up above my mask.

It's been one year. One long, extraordinary year. With exquisite pain and grace. I believe it is important to honor anniversaries--to be tender with ourselves and one another, to grieve what has been lost and celebrate the gifts, and to share our stories. I hope we might each and all find ways to mark this time, whatever it has held for us.

If you would like to do that with other humans in a warm, welcoming community, I invite you to join this evening’s worship circle; you can read more details below or email me for the Zoom link.

Wherever you are, whatever this year has held for you, I pray peace and hope and comfort for you, as we all find our different ways through.