A mixture of snow and rain was falling this morning as I watched my children walk down our front steps. They crossed the street together and stood under an umbrella waiting for their school bus to arrive.
When the bus pulled up, I watched them board.
Every morning, as the bus carries my children away, I send up a prayer. Like the swirling snow and rain, my prayer is always a mixture—there’s gratitude and trust and worry and then just plain wonder. Because I take none of this for granted. Sending my children to school still feels like a miracle.
This week, as we find ourselves marking the second anniversary of the day schools—and the world—shut down, I find my mind wandering back to March 2020. Our world turned upside-down. My personal and professional life shifted to a halt in some ways and hit fast-forward in others.
We didn’t know how long we would be dealing with the situation, and I’m grateful I didn’t know then.
That last day of school in March 2020, I remember telling my children to bring everything in their lockers home. I had a feeling they would be out of school for a bit, but I never expected them to be home and online for more than a year. I never imagined we would go so long without interacting in person with family and friends. I never thought I would have to go so long without the Eucharist. I never could have guessed that a pandemic would derail my life and require so much energy and focus and stress and time over the past two years.
I’m so happy I didn’t know. Life is easier when you can take it day by day, one step at a time.
Today, I look back and know that I am not the same person I was in March 2020. Parts of my life have shattered, and other parts are stronger. In many ways, my purpose in life has never been clearer to me. As a parent, I have had to become firmer about some things and softer about others. I’ve grown closer to some people and been distanced from others. I have lost, and I have gained. Haven’t we all?
I never did start making sourdough or crocheting. Instead, I have participated in thousands of Zoom meetings and written millions of words and cooked hundreds of cans of soup and loaded and unloaded countless dishes from the dishwasher. My children have grown exponentially. They’re taller and more independent. They already understood loss and change better than I did at their age, and now they have a deeper grasp of both.
I watch them standing together under an umbrella in the snowy rain and feel so proud of who they are. I don’t know who they will become, but I trust, I know, that they will be just fine.
Today, I hope we’re on the other side. This anniversary, as I move around the world mostly unmasked, feels like a new beginning. But there’s still a bit of grief to this time, too.
The other day, one of my colleagues spoke about having a double-dip feeling and mentioned a book she’s shared with her children. She explained that it’s OK to feel multiple emotions at once. You can feel sad and happy at the same time.
That’s where I am today, sitting with this double-dip feeling, grateful to see my children closing their umbrella and boarding the bus to school.
Copyright © 2022 Catholic Review Media
English
Spanish