The days are slipping past. How can it be July? There is no holiday on the horizon, booked at the end of last year, to be enticing me into August or September. How can it be summer?
The long, golden days are no more. There is still sun, but it is now mixed with showers, but where is the rainbow that offers hope to the weary world? It is not in my sky at the moment.
How can so many days have passed since we last visited with our kids and listened to wedding plans?
The sun hasn’t slipped out of the sky, nor have the days markedly shortened. I know it is still summer, but my usual markers are not in my life. Now each day is marked by virtual meetings. It is Tuesday, it must be Bible Study. If it is Friday, it must be Coffee Morning. It’s a bit like those European trips, if it’s Monday, it must be Paris. The days slip past so quickly, yet they hold so little to set them apart, so few of the events that mark the life of a minister. There are no weddings, a few funerals, but no endless line of regional meetings, no thinking about worship in the context of different churches, no visits to hospitals, no coffee mornings where I turn down cups of tea.
The days slip past—I know I will not come out of this with a new skill. I wonder what I will say about this time in years to come? There is beauty in the noticing of creation and the simpleness of life. But there is sadness—in hearing people fight with each other, in people hoarding medicines, in our failing to see our neighbours as human, in the continued brokenness of God’s creation.
As I watch the news, I do rejoice with those who have survived the virus. I feel sad about those who haven’t. But the days slip past and I am afraid. I worry. I don’t want to find myself infected with the virus. I want to protect myself and my family. I worry about the economy and the future job market for our children and grandchildren. The pressing wait of climate change has not lessened, just slipped slightly out of view.
I don’t know what lies ahead. Of course, the reality is that we never do, but for most of my life, I have plotted and planned where to go and what to do. And now I wait; I worry; I wonder; I work.
And the days slip by, one very much like the other. The highlight—a trip out in the car for an hour or so, within the radius allowed—until tomorrow, when the trips become longer but the risk becomes more. The days slip past, and I wonder what tomorrow holds.
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