A lifetime has passed since Gerry, Makiya, and I sat in our car in the park eating burgers and fries and looking at this sculpture. It was the first of April and we three had been hunkered down at home for weeks, finding lots to keep us occupied, but needing to get out of the house for a break.

The park was all but empty, as most places were at the time. Shops and schools were shut down. Those who could work from home, were. There was a shortage of toilet paper and hand sanitizer and flour and yeast. Jigsaw puzzles were out of stock online. It had only been a few weeks but we were already feeling a little punch drunk. Surely this couldn’t go on much longer.

We three were grateful for the respite of time in the car in the park. Despite it all, it was spring. The season of hope. We felt it in the warming sun.

Now we’re barreling toward the cold and dark months. The news does nothing to ease the tension so we vacillate between turning it off and being obsessed by it. We stock up on (without hoarding) dry goods, laying in supplies for a winter of unknown.

Yesterday I took Murphy for a walk in that same park and looked at that same hope-ful sculpture. An older couple sat in their car right in front of it, in the place where we parked to eat out lunch back in April, so my view of it was slightly skewed from what it had been before.

As is my hope?

I could get all theological and Pollyanna-ish and paste that fake mask back on my face but the truth is that I don’t have the stomach for any of that. This is hard. Damn hard. It’s wearing. And it’s not likely to get better anytime soon.

So I wake with that now-familiar burn in the pit of my stomach, another day begins, and I wonder what to do about this heaviness. I no longer try to muster hope but trust that it will find me. Sometimes we need to let go in order to be caught.


I’m a writer, reader, and creative. I thought by now I’d have things figured out, but I keep coming up with more questions. I think that’s okay. I’m here most mornings pondering ordinary things and the thin places where faith intersects.
  1. The heaviness has been with me for what seems an eternity. I empathize with you, Linda, and pray every day for those of us who deal with these feelings.

    1. Lament. This too is a gift in this season, however uncomfortable it may be. I believe we are kindreds in this, Sherrey.

  2. Oh Linda, my feelings exactly. My hope waxes and wanes and I keep telling myself if I can just keep hanging on, things will get better. But it’s the present moment that feels so heavy and wears on me. I love ..”sometimes we have to let go to be caught”. That’s perfect. We are all on this together and together we will get through to the other side of this. Thank you for sharing this heartfelt, genuine reflection. Sending blessings and hugs.?

    1. That we are not alone and walk with other kindreds is a great gift in this season, Kathy. I count you among mine.

  3. PS Disregard the ? at the end. Sorties my fingers get ahead of my thoughts!

  4. Oh, I feel the same way. I try to be positive and to trust, but in the middle of this mess, it’s just hard. So many emotions every day!

    1. It is hard. Like a roller coaster some days, isn’t it?

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