As I recently switched the calendar in my school office from February to March, my heart sank. A year ago, I had flipped the same calendar to the same month, only to have it display March 2020 from then until the end of August. Last spring, entering our abandoned school felt almost like an observance of mourning: remembering the way things were, while trying to accept the way things are.
My personal mourning began on Feb. 29, 2020, when I learned that one of my younger cousins had been killed in an accident. In disbelief, I booked a flight to Ontario. The funeral was on March 5, and as is typical for the funeral of a young person, people came in droves to honour Matt. We squeezed into pews in the church for his funeral Mass and gathered for fellowship, tears, and hugs for what no one realized would be the last time in a long time.
I was so grateful to be with my family, in our grief. In what now seems like an ominous foreshadowing of the plot twist about to descend upon the entire world, I stated to another cousin, “It is so good to know that, even though I live far away, I can get here whenever I need to.”
A week later, during what would unknowingly be the last indoor family meal of the year in my in-laws’ home here in B.C., my sister-in-law – a scientist – discussed the increasing urgency of the “coronavirus,” which was seemingly no longer a faraway problem. She mentioned that “social distancing” would be a key strategy in preventing the spread of this virus. Not fully understanding the implications of this term, some people kind of brushed her comment aside. “You laugh now …,” she said with a fearful, yet informed, look.
Fast forward yet another week, and no one was laughing.
No one was gathering, either. Churches were closed. Schools announced extended March breaks.
My nephew’s baptism on March 22 was restricted to 10 people. What a contrast to Matt’s funeral just over two weeks earlier. While I had been able to hop on a plane at a moment’s notice to be with my Ontario family in early March, by month’s end we found ourselves stuck at home and practically yelling to local relatives from our front door to the driveway.
School ended up online. Many worked from home and others lost jobs. Front-line workers went into overdrive. People became afraid of one another as social distancing and mask-wearing became the norm. Hair went grey, “Zoom” became a household verb, and shoppers began to hoard items in apocalyptic-like panic.
News broadcasts began reporting daily COVID diagnoses and deaths. Whatever happened to the big stories earlier in the year, of massive wildfires in different locations? We have been so busy putting out our own “fires” that they have been overlooked by virtually everyone, except those immediately affected.
In-person Holy Week and Easter services were suspended. Then restrictive measures we had assumed were temporary resumed just before Christmas, resulting in another sacred season spent in isolation.
Fortunately, the livestreaming of Masses, weddings, and funerals has become commonplace, allowing people from near and far to gather virtually. Technology is amazing; however, as three of my close friends who have lost parents in the past few months can attest, when the bereaved have needed hugs and fellowship the most, they have been deprived.
COVID bears many stories of darkness and silver linings, of loss, change, and re-prioritization. There may even be some solace in having a reprieve from the busyness and crowds of the past, and we may have found time for projects and new hobbies, but we crave contact.
Life has changed; our needs have not. We are human, and although we all need toilet paper, what we really must stockpile are memories of past connections as we seize every opportunity to unite virtually.
As the world changed in March 2020, part of my heart paused along with my office calendar. One year into this pandemic, I must remain focused on God’s steadfast love. Prayer is our hope: the direct connection and intimate bond with the One who always holds us close.
March 2021 prompts me to unmask the emotions of my mourning, cherishing memories of the way life was, as I continue to flip my calendar and accept the way life is.
