Maybe we’ll remember walks in the forest. The way the breeze felt against our cheeks. How the birds sang when we opened our windows first thing in the morning. The sunset on a wide open plain, a lingering snap of winter before the spring.
Maybe we’ll remember how it felt to be alone but still together. When strangers waved from one side of the street to the other, a kind and slow “hello!” to someone they’d never seen before. The way the voice on the speaker at the Starbucks drive-through sounded, like she was happy to speak to us.
And maybe we’ll remember the time we all had — to wake up early, to pray, to sing in the shower, to dance in the kitchen, to bike around a neighbourhood. To listen and pay attention to the sky and the clouds and the breeze.
Maybe we’ll remember all the times people checked in on us, over text or phone or email, just to ask so sincerely, “how are you?”
Maybe we’ll remember how important we realized people were, and how short we realized life was, and how mortal we realized we are.
Maybe we’ll remember the way God came near to us, as close as our hearts within our chest.
Maybe we’ll remember the way we relaxed into his goodness — even in the midst of a pandemic. Yes, even in the midst of it.