I want to remember these days - these days walking around (and around) the block with Jack, playing in the yard, building forts in the garage. Ben working from home, happy hour rose on the patio, and frequently doing a "knock knock" on his door to deliver coffee.

There have been stages in this process. I fought it in the beginning - I didn't want to accept a reality I knew I eventually would have to face. Prior to quarantine, I could count on one hand the amount of days we stayed at home in the totality of Jack's life. I love home, but I am not a homebody (or at least not with a toddler!). I thrive on being out with him, exploring the world, hanging with friends, and experiencing new places through his eyes. Home feels monotonous and less exciting.

But last week, I had a perspective change. It's not what we do or the adventures that we create that make our identity - it's what I choose to see in each moment and how I remain present with it. I have become so in tune with Jack - the language he is constructing, the connections happening in his brain, the sense he is drawing from life. Because the backdrop of our life seems mostly the same, my focus has shifted to who he is growing into, and I love who he is becoming. He is filled with a contagious joy, a sensitive spirit, and a desire to receive affirmation. Lately, he loves to dance and see trucks of any sort, and make "cack-ee" (coffee) in the morning with us. These are such sweet moments to soak in - the innocence of our little Jack, the wonder and anticipation of "baby Foop" on the way, and this new identity we are finding as a family.

"The crucible of our formation is in the monotony of our daily routines." 

(Liturgy of the Ordinary, 34)

If I cannot live my daily routines with intention and care, then I will miss it. I will miss what the majority of life consists of - these small acts of worship throughout the day, these daily habits that feel meaningless, yet become the liturgy of our life.

So, here we are... still at home. Still unable to go anywhere. Still unsure how long this will last. But still living fully (or at least trying)... and still in awe of how much Jack has changed in the last few weeks and how independent he is becoming. Soon to be a Big Bro - but in a way, always my baby.

"Daily life, dishes in the sink, children that ask the same questions and want the same stories again and again and again, the doldrums of the afternoon - these things are filled with repitions. And much of the Christian life is returning over and over to the same work and same habits of worship, We must content with the same spiritual struggles again and again. The work of repentance and faith is daily and repetitive. Again and again, we repent and believe."

(Liturgy of the Ordinary, 35)

Such a Time As This

It is in these moments that the tension of life is lived and the collective experience of being human is seen. We are surrounded by both beauty and challenge; grief and joy. The dance of this tension is being lived and we are tasked with the figuring out how to live into this reality on a global level. The soul of humanity comes out in a shared union of sadness in the unknown and creativity in the hardship.

Being quarantined at home with a 20 month old is an experience unique to this time. In the past, if Jack and I had spent a day fully at home it was enough to drive me wild. It has been 17 days now that we have been self-isolating; 17 days in which I have ridden the wave of high's and low's, breakdowns and triumphs.

One thing I am learning: our life is already so full without the things we usually fill our lives with... (except the people, of course. We need them!). In the process of being stripped of freedoms I have previously taken for granted, I am noticing a joy for life that nothing can steal away. An acknowledgment in this tough time that God is still Sovereign, He Reigns, and He is Good. Though social gatherings feels like an immense privilege and gathering at beaches to celebrate with friends seems like a distant dream, I am tuning into this present moment choosing to be thankful.

I am hopeful, I am sorrowful, I am finding the beautiful, I am seeing the ugly. There's no way around it - this.is.hard.

And yet, I enter into times of the day when I feel exhausted from the enormous burden of "trying." Trying to make each day purposeful, striving to see the beauty in the mundane, and forcing myself to enjoy these simple moments is tiring. In the past, the discipline to enjoy the simple routines of life felt more spread out, it seemed manageable. It felt like a reality I could handle on a sporadic basis. But the day-to-day mystery in the future Unknown and the sense that there are an infinite number of days left in which I am battling toddler manipulations and forcing Jack to stay in our driveway, is upending. Let's be honest, it could make even the most normal human slightly crazy. It is here I find myself, it is here I wonder how to not just "make it through the day" but seek out what the day has to offer in its ways of wonderful.

Practically speaking, it means lots of driving, stroller-walking (around the block), and slowing down. It means we stop at every flower, branch, twig, bug, fence, truck, trash can, tree, bird... Jack inspects it and tries to pronounce it and then asks for more snacks. It means being present and attentive to how he is learning, instead of staring at the soul-draining scrolls of the phone. It means I learn about Jack at a whole new level because I choose to study how he works and understand what makes him come alive. It means lots of oat milk lattes, carbs, and ice-cream. Because it's the little delights of life that bring meaning to our days, right?!

On a deeper level, it means gratitude. It means a perspective shift. A thankful heart. We are so lucky to have our space - our home, our garage, our backyard, our driveway - thank you Jesus for this space that we really love to be in together. I know that my reality is my reality, so I can't compare to others - but I also know it could be so much worse. Choosing this day to have a thankful heart.

I'm not sure what I will say when I look back on this time. I wonder about the long-term changes that will press upon our society - in education, in the workforce, in the daily functions of our existence. I wonder how God will use something so terrible for good, as He always does. I wonder what our future will bring after a unified experience of grief, and how we will transform and change because of it. Will we move on from this and fall back into the regularity of our own habits? Or will these new ways of living actually change the way we live?

The one thing I know is that the day we can come together with our friends and family with shared hugs and high-fives without thinking about sanitizing our hands every 10 minutes or wearing germ-containing masks will be a day to rejoice. And one I pray we forever hold close to our hearts as a true privilege and joy that brings real purpose to our lives.

As I read in Henri Nouwen, Life of the Beloved, yesterday: "As I grow older, I discover more and more that the greatest gift I have to offer is my own joy of living, my own inner peace, my own silence and solitude, my own sense of well-being. When I ask myself, "Who helps me most?" I must answer, "The one who is willing to share his or her life with me."

In all, this is my prayer.