Last March 11, I stopped by our school's extended day program to pick up my daughter. It was one of those afternoons where the first hints of spring were in the air. She was giggling on the playground with a friend, their coats tossed aside, their hair cascading to the ground as they hung upside down together on the monkey bars. When she spotted me, my daughter immediately erupted in protest. "Awww, Mommy! We're having so much fun! Why do we have to go now?" I looked around the playground at the happy, laughing children. I checked my watch. There was time. And I remember a singular, crystal-clear thought:
"Let her play a little longer."
So I told her she could have a few more minutes, and I drove to a nearby coffee shop. Listening to the radio on the way, I heard the announcement that our governor was declaring a state of emergency. I pulled into the parking lot back at school, taking a moment to sip my coffee and read the news. Through the open windows of my car, I saw a whole row of parents doing the same thing, furrowed brows hunched over tiny screens. The sense of dread was palpable.
I drained the cup of coffee, took a breath, and plastered a smile on my face. "Time to say goodbye!" I cheerfully called to my daughter.
"Let her play a little longer."
So I told her she could have a few more minutes, and I drove to a nearby coffee shop. Listening to the radio on the way, I heard the announcement that our governor was declaring a state of emergency. I pulled into the parking lot back at school, taking a moment to sip my coffee and read the news. Through the open windows of my car, I saw a whole row of parents doing the same thing, furrowed brows hunched over tiny screens. The sense of dread was palpable.
I drained the cup of coffee, took a breath, and plastered a smile on my face. "Time to say goodbye!" I cheerfully called to my daughter.
When I reflect on the year that's passed since that warm afternoon, I am overwhelmed by emotion. I think of the fear, the grief, the anger, the courage, the joy, the hope. I think of the ways that humanity - my own and others' - has been brought into focus, how the pandemic has distilled each of us down to our most essential truths. And how surprising an experience that can be.
Mostly, I think of love. I think of how this year has taught me to see love in new ways, and how, because of that, I see it all around me now.
Love is family
Fresh air with my kids, another scooter ride, another hike
A midday lunch break together around the kitchen table
Answering questions, welcoming tears, affirming feelings
The simplest date nights at home, holding hands and watching the news
Love is community
Cars decorated with balloons and streamers, honking in celebratory parades
The sweet surprise left on a doorstep
Zoom happy hours, game nights, and watch parties
Volunteers loading boxes of food into car trunks
Love is patience
Waiting for guidance
Waiting for decisions to be made
Waiting in long lines for testing
Waiting for the vaccine appointment
Love is sacrifice
Quiet holidays
Birthdays with Netflix
Daydreamed vacations
A wave through a window
But most of all, love is action.
Love shows up.
It shows up messy, in pajamas and hair unbrushed
It shows up tired and confused and angry
It shows up hopeful but scared, worried but committed
Love shows up when we try our best, even when we're not sure what that is.
I've learned that love will always find a way to show up.
Always.
