62 Sundays

Sunday morning has dawned and here we are, 62 Sunday later, and Sunday morning means – instead of hustling to get to church on time for the morning services – I am still in my pyjamas and contemplating a second cup of coffee.

62 Sundays where, apart from a short window of opportunity that came in the fall to hold in-person services (with very limited numbers in attendance), my Sunday morning rhythm, that has been my rhythm all my life, has been completely halted by Covid 19. Now I find Sunday morning the quietest time at the grocery store and so I hustle up and down the aisles and buy what I need to get me through the week. Then I spend the morning watching church services from across the country, worshipping – well, yes, in part, but also picking up ideas and seeing how they do things. It is nothing like being in the sanctuary with my people.

62 Sundays and our second Pentecost Sunday of being at home. The celebration of the gift of the Spirit is not the same when done in solitude. Sure, I am wearing red and thinking about the ethereal nature of God but it is not like standing before a congregation that is dressed in yellow and red and orange and hear them singing about the fire of God.

All this has led me to think about the marking of time. We have years. We have seasons. We have months. We have weeks. We have days. We have hours. We have minutes. We have seconds. We have the year that someone was born and the year that someone died. We have the year that someone got married and the year that someone moved here or moved away.

Many of us have spent a lot of time trying to predict what this time, this year, this pandemic, will mean in terms of how we do things. How will we remember and mark this time of separation, illness and fear? And, what will be the long term effects of this rupture in social interaction? Only time will tell and with every passing week the feeling of being apart grows deeper and the loneliness of worshipping in front on my computer screen grows heavier.

The counterbalance to lift my spirits on this 62nd Sunday will be a little garden therapy. I will scratch the dirt and pull some weeds. I will celebrate the tight buds of the peony bush and the cheerful blossoms of the primula. I will pause to admire the waving columbine that grows unexpectedly beside the garden wall and take in the scent of the lily of the valley. Even the pandemic cannot stop the seasons of nature and the burgeoning gift of nature. Thank God for that.