Chronicling COVID-19
As I went through old posts and updated this space, I came across this letter I wrote to my littles April of 2020. At the time, we’re simply hoping to hold sacred the care and keeping of our tiny humans, nurturing their affection for this old earth while trying to navigate uncertainty and anchoring ourselves in faith.
thought I’d share an excerpt from that letter of what I hope our kids remember of pandemic times.
Dear ones,
A hush fell over our busy Chicago street this March. Our city, like many others across the globe, was seized by a fear of a seemingly invisible virus. I’m certain you’ll remember the surreal silence that settled over our corner of the city and the stillness that presided on our street. However, I hope you’ll remember how we huddled close in the face of uncertainty, the comfort we found all nestled together on those early spring mornings, the mid-April snow, and the refuge we found in nature.
Nature was a luxury on frigid spring mornings, affording us the grace to see wonderment at every turn, the green shoots pushing through the dirt, songs of birds settling in for spring. We watched birds build their nest with finds from nature and built our own each more while we gathered close for stories. At best, this was the only peaceful moment of the day, but even in the mess and ugliness that springs forth we grew in our compassion for each other. Most importantly, we grew and continue to grow.
At first, we welcomed the time at home, cherished the togetherness, squabbles and sweetness sandwiched in between. Our morning ritual of lightning a candle, warm oats, a nature walk, followed by lavish brunches of crepes, or soft-boiled eggs and toast, or the crumpets made by dad’s' endless sourdough. , How we laughed together, squabbled over things big and small but made room for sweetness to reveal itself. How we laced every recipe and every activity with learning moments, seeing the collective tapestry of numbers woven into the everyday. How it was drudgery at first but came to be something you cherished looking back, like journaling. I’d like for you to remember how you saw both your father and I falter and fall, yet rising up again in love and tenderness toward ourselves and toward you. I’d cherished our time huddled around a story, letting our (but mostly, Dillon’s) vocabulary burst with nonsensical phrases, the hilarity and belly laughter that ensued, the wrestling matches on the our wooly rug. . How we cherish seeing old friends at the field in front of the Senn. How we learned the unique songs of each little bird that came our way. How we planted tiny sunflower seeds that sprouted and towered over us all summer long as we tended to the tiny bit of earth entrusted to our care. How we refuse to grow discontent by limited possessions and confined spaces. So grateful were we for a landlord who extend the tenure of that garden, our one small joy. How we hoped the sunflower would smile upon our neighbor who was locked inside for the bulk of this time. How we noticed every beetle, bug, or slug that sojourned here. I’ll never forget standing with Dillon to thank essential workers from the alley, who hauled off our garbage and recycling. The needle felted messes made, the sparks that chased away the storms. I’ll never forget the tender moments that sprang from the chaos.
