One year ago this weekend, we gathered with our fellow IACers in the freezing cold at a park on the Westside. Used to cramming shoulder to shoulder in the pews, instead we sat spread out on blankets and folding chairs with new words in our vocabulary, like “social distancing,” “flatten the curve,” “masking,” and “pandemic.” We looked at each other with eyes wide, half laughing in unbelief, wondering aloud to each other if this would be over by Easter (ah, weren’t we cute…). Still, we came forward to the table—staggered, but still together—to receive the bread and the wine.  We had no idea it would be months before we would participate in communion in person again.

A few nights ago Sam and I bundled up (one of us using Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer finger puppets as a glove—pick your battles, they tell me), and set out to deliver some Christmas gifts to the houses on our street.

On this Thanksgiving week, there will likely be many messages meant to cheer you, saying “Yes, this year has been hard, but think of all you have to be thankful for!” Some of us will be able to receive that, but if those words just feel like a kick in the ribs in the middle of a hard season, take heart. In the midst of your sorrow, joy is not far from you.

As I ironed shirts at my usual spot by the kitchen window today, Matt came out of our guest-room-turned-office and stopped to chat about our day so far on his way to get something from another room. A quick kiss, and he was off to find whatever it was, and I hit play on my podcast and got back to ironing.

Noah had his yearly visit to the pediatrician last week. Our pediatrician's office requires masks for everyone two years and older, so we put ours on and had fun taking pictures and making secret silly faces under them while we waited.