By Alexandra Ghoman, Boston, Massachusetts, USA

It’s hard to believe it’s been a year.

A year since we all scrambled to keep life going while we stayed still. A year since we began to recognize life for what it always, always was — fragile, fleeting, and sacred.

A year since we got emails from every company we never subscribed to with the title, “our covid-19 plan.” Our own jobs shifted and swayed and we finally learned which meetings, in fact, could have been emails.

As our jobs shifted, some of us lost them temporarily and some of us said goodbye for good. Others of us, equipped with reused masks and insufficient protective equipment, donned them anyway. These tireless men and women became our heroes — the health care workers who held up iPads to sick patients as their loved ones said tearful goodbyes, the nurses who saved lives and bent rules just to hold the hand of the dying in their last moments. Alone. These workers, these heroes, who put their lives at risk to save someone else’s.

It’s been a year since simple trips to the grocery store began to feel risky. Some of us discovered the art of grocery delivery and kept our local restaurants in business through endless take out (hey, just doing our part). Others of us drove to the grocery store on a Tuesday — an errand ordinarily fraught with traffic and lines, but this time, the drive led you through a silent city. A city with shuttered businesses and virtually zero passerby. A year since you cried as you drove on empty streets. Wondering how this could happen. In this country. In this era. In this place.

It’s been a year since we downloaded zoom and got excited for our first virtual game night. A year since we realized just how many things could become virtual — even big moments like baby showers and wedding showers and birthday parties and gift exchanges and conferences and weekly church services. And little things like meetings and family dinners and date nights. And while we loved these connections, we still missed the real thing. The real hugs. The real conversations. The real real.

One year ago, we didn’t know phrases like “social distance” or “flatten the curve” or acronyms like “WFH.” We didn’t listen for death totals or infection rates. We didn’t know the difference between a surgical mask or an N-95. We never talked about being “unmuted” or worried about zoom bombing or got overwhelmed by “doom scrolling”. We didn’t know about “remote learning” or consider “hybrid schooling.” We didn’t think about covid-bubbles and rapid-testing and mask-ne and contact-tracing.

A year ago, we began to wear more hats than ever before — caregivers, teachers, playmates and career-people all-in-one. But somehow, even with all of this uncertainty, many of us found new hobbies, new outlets. We adapted. We made closets into offices and turned boxes into desks. Some of us tried our hand at sourdough starters and others of us were just thankful for pants that stretched. Some of us finally turned our houses to homes, investing in outdoor spaces and projects and gardens. And still others dug into their faith, admitting a need for a higher power, finding time to seek God for the first time or all over again.

While some of us dug deep in our faith, others of us found ourselves somehow more distracted, trying to have “quiet” times while being our cooped-up kids’ jungle gyms. Connecting with the body of Christ virtually felt....different, awkward, and not quite the same. But even so, we got creative as Christians, and many in our number got familiar with social media and zoom for the first time as the need for spiritual connection outweighed our fear of new technology. We learned how to reach out to friends online and embraced being a light on social media at a time with so much darkness.

Even so, while we struggled, we also persevered. Remembering that our walk with God and our connection with His Church transcended walls and in-person services. We stopped “going to church” physically, and rather -- we became the church. We gave back to our communities however we could. We prayed with and for our neighbors. We broke bread in our homes with roommates and our spouses, and partook in sacred, simple communion. We missed the fellowship, but these slower Sundays opened our eyes to a different type of connection we might have missed before. 

But even with all of this “slowing down” and “making space,” it would be inaccurate to say that life stopped. Many, many of us had our lives flipped upside down during this pandemic. Plans changed, vacations canceled, weddings turned into elopements, babies were born, people fell in love, birthdays came and went, the seasons passed, students graduated, people moved far away, relationships fractured, relationships reconciled.

And still, we kept going. Through the loss of what would-have-been, could-have-been, and what we think should-have-been. We mourned the loss, we searched for silver linings and purpose and truth. Some days we found them in the beauty of less plans and slower days, the solace of less pressure and lounge wear. But other days, and even these days, we let the sadness drive us to our knees and stay awhile. Because after all, grief is biblical too. 

And our sadness and heartache and hope deferred feels a little better in this cultural moment because at least we aren’t alone in it. This experience of isolation, for once, is nearly completely and totally shared. Completely apart. And totally together. 

A year ago, we wouldn’t have believed we would still be here. We wouldn’t believe what we couldn’t know.

A year ago, we thought a pandemic was the worst thing that could happen to us. We didn’t yet realize the conversations we were about to have in the United States — conversations we weren’t ready for that needed to happen anyways. While we battled a pandemic, we eventually would confront racial injustice, we endured a contentious election, we watched the events at the US capital, we mourned with and for one another, we came together when we were torn apart.

And to top it all off, we even faced... murder hornets.

“I remember my affliction and my wandering,

    the bitterness and the gall.

 I well remember them,

    and my soul is downcast within me.

Yet this I call to mind

    and therefore I have hope:

 Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed,

    for his compassions never fail.

They are new every morning;

    great is your faithfulness.

I say to myself, “The Lord is my portion;

    therefore I will wait for him.” Lamentations 3:22-24

It’s good to remember. It’s painful to remember. It’s important to remember. And right now, is a time to remember. A year ago, the World Health Organization declared Covid-19 a global pandemic. And our lives changed forever. As we reflect on a year unlike any other, may we take the time to consider how we can still see God’s fingerprints over our lives. Whether it’s ways he protected us, showed us things about ourselves, or ways that we simply learned to need him more deeply than ever before. 

It’s been a year. 

And what a year it has been.