I was stunned by the rush of strong feelings that swept over me in that twinkling of a moment. But this was not the first surprise of the day.
It'd been three months since I last made the short drive from my townhouse to church on a Sunday morning. The sun shone, the birds chirped, and the traffic lights cooperated. Yet there was a sense of adventure to the trip, as if I were heading to an exotic destination with iffy directions in hand—no longer on autopilot for a formerly familiar ritual.
Getting ready, I felt out of step, too. No choir or bible study plus a new, staggered-services schedule meant a later departure. Too much time to dither over what to wear or get lost in a crossword puzzle. A second cup of coffee, maybe. Even time for butterflies to breed in my stomach. Strange, having something so basic feel so . . . strange.
Then there was that final weirdness as I rounded the corner and nosed my van toward a spot in the church parking lot, which was mostly empty at this early stage of reopening. As small, socially distanced outdoor clusters of my fellow congregants came into view, the emotions hit. Hard. Like a startling blast from the dashboard A/C. A lump hardened in my throat. Tears misted my vision. Fascinating how the human psyche works.
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