On a typical Sunday morning for the past three years, my day at Columbia Lutheran Home started with me wheeling the portable altar into Luther Hall and preparing for Sunday worship. For the next few hours each week, I gathered residents, led worship, and wheeled residents back to their rooms. Our Sunday morning ritual was solid and well-loved.

Then the virus hit, and our predictable Sunday morning routine suddenly disappeared. Not only was Sunday morning worship missing, but Monday afternoon sing-along, Tuesday morning bowling,  and Thursday afternoon bingo went on hiatus to keep people safe. Luther Hall echoed with loneliness during the past few months. Our hearts have grown heavy for the loss of each other’s company in community. And our sadness echoed the sadness of residents’ families, longing to see their loved ones’ faces.

A few times I’ve just let the weight of all this sink in. and allowed myself to have a good cry.

We waited awhile, sort of holding our breath and thinking we could just pick up eventually and go on. But apparently a pandemic doesn’t work like that.  Yes, we hope and dream of days when we gather again and lift the residents’ spirits as they lift ours. In the meantime, though, we have to somehow turn a corner from what was to what is. There’s plenty of “what is” around here. Always more people who want to talk, hear a good word of hope, and share a prayer. Always new opportunities for us to wheel someone into the center courtyard and get some fresh air.

Out in the courtyard, we see the dogwood tree bloom and hear the fountain continue to flow. And we get a glimpse of the new life our founders must have clung to 100 years ago when they started Columbia Lutheran Home.  We look around out in a larger sanctuary. We appreciate and imagine. Somehow a new season will push up through that soil under the tree, watered by our tears, warmed by abundant sunshine, grounded in resilience.