The past week has been a full one for many parishioners at the Congregational Church of Boothbay Harbor.
We’ve had more people in the hospital, in rehab, taking falls, recovering from falls, facing surgery, recovering from surgery than we’ve had at any one time in the past 18 months.
Perhaps it’s a coincidence. Or perhaps pivoting to a new season is like getting up from a chair and moving across the room — a bit trickier sometimes than we thought.
The past week has brought pivoting to a host of other activities we haven’t seen the likes of in well over a year.
The first Children’s Ministry social event.
The first Rotary dinner.
First in-person worship services and planning for the first in-person memorial service at church next week.
First July 4th Parade in two years.
First time going to church in-person with my family . Seeing old friends for the first time.
And yes, the first hospital visit.
Last Tuesday at a dinner at a table of eight in a crowded room I looked around at the wonder and weirdness of it all. Still trying to remember how to do what I used to do all the time. Remember, that its not the same. It’s different. I’m different. We all are.
Today my family is going out on the mailboat run in Lake Winnipesauke. Front row seats in the bow on a gorgeous day. As I look out at the mountain ranges ringing the lake I bask in the beauty, the wonder and beyond words gratitude of just being here together.
It’s been a year and a half of anxiety and uncertainty. For some of us, a time of deep grief, the death of loved ones. The loss for others of the particular plans we’d made, the hopes we held.
But today, just this. This moment of grace. This here and now.
The smile of relief as family members sprint on board with two minutes to spare.
The other day I was challenged in this my own season of pivoting to take it all in. To feel all the feelings – grief and anger, anxiety and expectancy. Everything. All of it.
To open the vast room of emotion inside, as wide as this open lake. Opening from all that keep us shut down, closed off, stuck in our small rooms and spin of anger, grief or despair. Opening, opening to the wonder and the weirdness, the beauty and grace, the tears of love and loss of all that is here.
A duck flies off. A great splash below. A lone figure paddle boarding. The mountains clear through the morning mist.
Perhaps, I don’t want to miss any of it.