Two years ago today the pandemic stopped us from gathering for Sunday worship in our sanctuary. What a journey we have been on since then! I woke this morning feeling tired and sad, for all that we’ve been through, for all that has been lost. It’s been harder for some than for others, but it’s been a lot for everyone, hasn’t it? We all have missed opportunities to gather for celebration and for grieving, we all have had to give up things we love and enjoy in order to keep ourselves and others safe.. We have learned to avoid crowds of people, even to see them as dangerous, and it’s going to take some time for us to let down our guard and move back into embracing the world again.
We need ways to mourn all those who have died, and all that’s been lost, and our church is certainly a good place for that. It’s also a good place for us to practice reentering the world. Even though mask mandates are falling away, the virus hasn’t magically disappeared. The infection rates are much lower, thankfully, but there are still about 1,400 people dying in the US each day from Covid. Each of us has to decide how we are going to manage the risks, and what we are comfortable doing in these days. For now, we are asking you to wear a mask in the building when we gather for worship. Folks in smaller groups and meetings can decide for themselves what is appropriate.
These days my heart is telling me that I have work to do in order to move out of this pandemic wariness and weariness and back into embracing life with a hopeful and joyful spirit. I’m pretty sure that I still have some mourning to do, and who knows how long that will take? But just as the spring slowly begins to unfold at this time of year, in the coming days and weeks I hope that we will be able to start learning again how to open up to the world around us. That we will dare to embrace and love the world once again. In a poem about doing the hard work of grief, and eventually coming back to embracing life, Ellen Bass concludes with these lines:
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.
Life is all around us, in its blessed simplicity, plainness, and subtle beauty. Just waiting for us, when we’re ready. To let down our guard, slowly at first. To breathe in the air, “the Spirit overseeing all,” as Whittier wrote. To open our hearts to life and to love, again.
We have been on a long journey together, dear ones. I am ever grateful for your company and your courage, for your faith and for your love. Thank you, and God bless you.
