Every day I wake up wondering what day it is. Today I was lying in bed, thinking about the day ahead, when I realized that it’s been six months since our children were last in a school, six months since I went to my office for the workday, and six months since I’ve interacted in a normal way with people outside my immediate household.
Six months. Half a year.
Sometimes I think back to those days right before we began our quarantine. At the time I was filling the cupboard with beans and soup and wondering when school might close—and for how long. There was anxiety about wipes and toilet paper. What I wish I had focused on was being with the people I love.
The weekend before our quarantine began, I wasn’t focused on the pandemic. It was late on that Saturday afternoon in March when John said to me, “I wonder what Treasa and George are doing for dinner. Why don’t we call and see if we could pick up kabobs for all of us?”
I called my sister and brother-in-law, and they had no specific dinner plans. We ordered carry-out and showed up at their house for a spontaneous, casual evening with them and their five children—just the 11 of us hanging out together.
It was a wonderful evening, but we didn’t know how special it was at the time. Just days later we were quarantining in our separate homes. Since then, we’ve only connected through technology or while separated by a storm door. Many times over the past six months, I’ve thought of that sudden, unusual decision to invite ourselves for dinner. The Holy Spirit must have nudged my husband that day.
That was six months and a lifetime ago, back when going to Mass was an ordinary part of our lives, when children regularly went to school, when grocery shopping was mundane, when in-person conversations with colleagues and neighbors and friends and family were welcome but routine.
There’s something about the six-month milestone that gives me pause. When we started down this road, we didn’t know how long this would last. I’m glad I didn’t know. I prefer not to have a timeline. There’s no way for me to pace myself for a certain number of weeks or months or longer.
For now, I am just going to focus on today. Tomorrow I’ll figure out tomorrow.
“Do not look forward to what might happen tomorrow,” said St. Francis de Sales. “The same everlasting Father who cares for you today will take care of you tomorrow and every day. Either he will shield you from suffering, or he will give you unfailing strength to bear it. Be at peace then and put aside all anxious thoughts and imaginations.”
May we feel full of peace and strength as we continue on this journey.
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