Monday, April 5, 2020 

We are beginning Week Four at home as a result of the Corona Virus pandemic, and I am only just now reaching a place where I can stop and reflect. I have been trying to walk outside every day for exercise and for mental peace, but the pace has been more than hectic than one would imagine, especially when confined to the house, but yesterday’s walk in the sunshine of Palm Sunday provided me with the first moments to think about what I have been seeing, and to cry for the first time.  

The time for reflection has led me to a few lessons learned in this pandemic, so I thought I would start blogging about them, trying to record some of what I have observed and felt. Some may say that I am starting this a bit late, but I think I needed to just experience first and then reflect. Now maybe I can make some sense of it.  

I questioned why the tears were beginning to flow just now, and I think the answer is that after the hustle of adjustment, when I began something of a routine, I also began to mourn what we have lost as a result of this virus, so I will start there. My first blog will be about acknowledging the grief I feel because I believe I need to deal with the grief first.

Then, in the blogs that follow, I will look at different lessons that have blossomed from this experience, this moment in time that we keep reminding ourselves is unprecedented.  

Lesson #1 – I Need to Connect with Other Humans

But first, I have to acknowledge what this quarantine has cost us. I know I am writing from a position of privilege: I am able to work from home, I still receive a regular paycheck, my sons are safe at home with me, and I have a safe neighborhood in which to take peaceful walks. So, when I discuss the grief I feel, I do not discuss it without knowing that there are others who have sacrificed so much more than I can imagine. I honor those people, and I freely admit my loss resembles nothing of the tragedy of death, hunger, fear, and illness. 

But that doesn’t make Joel feel any better as he looks at his baseball schedule, commenting on which team they were supposed to play today. How he spends hours throwing a baseball against the side of our house and then asks his dad to throw long toss with him because he doesn’t want to get out of playing shape, so that the minute they say he can return to the field, he will be ready to throw the first game. He and his teammates text each other, looking for opportunities where two or three of them can meet up in a field somewhere, off away from others, where they can pitch to each other, take batting practice, and make plans for when they can all play ball together again.  

I miss the chance to talk.

I know we have social media and telephones, but those devices cannot take the place of hanging out in the lounge room, sharing stories while we make coffee before school starts, or bringing a surprise dessert to share with each other as we banter during our lunch time every day. Those baseball games that disappeared took with them hours of bench talk where moms and dads share stories of missed homework assignments or dirty baseball pants and mud-clogged cleats followed by late-night suppers at Waffle House after the game. We used to arrive at Sunday School a few minutes early and then gather at the House of Pizza for Sunday lunch after church just to hang out and talk, to “fellowship” as we call it in the Baptist Church. All those moments of seemingly meaningless conversation gone, and when they disappeared, their meaning became clear.  

I miss our local businesses.

I love my gym mates, and our trainers are doing an amazing job keeping us working out together in virtual land through the magic of Zoom, but while I appreciate the work out and sweat no matter where it is, it can never replace the jokes exchanged as we wrapped our wrists and put on heartbeat monitors. The well-meaning comments about muscle aches don’t translate well over the web, and clicking on LEAVE MEETING isn’t the same as walking out to our cars together, chugging our water bottles and commiserating about how we can’t lift our arms after all those push-ups.  

And then, after our workouts on Saturday morning, how we would gather at the Corner Café and spend over an hour sipping coffee, savoring scrambled eggs and pancakes, and talking to everyone there – the waitstaff, the owner, the patrons. Like our very own Cheers, but just with breakfast foods instead of beers.  

And my friends at the tanning bed, who always greeted me with a smile and a short conversation about how busy life seemed to be but how good that warm, buzzing 20 minutes of Zen would feel.  

Or to spend the morning strolling through the flea market, looking for deals on petunias or tomatoes or homemade hair accessories and wind chimes.  

And festivals. It is spring time now. We should have Music on Main and Easter egg hunts and spring flings. I want to dance with Marc to the tunes of a local band as the sun sets over downtown.  

So I guess what I am missing is human connection, what I mourn is the meaningful interactions with others living life as I do, sharing the experiences of our daily existence – the struggles, the triumphs, the silliness. All of it has meaning, all of it valuable in its commonness, in its universality. 

The sharing. 

And not the kind of sharing that requires a click of a mouse.