I got through yesterday. All day I felt as if I would burst into tears, on the verge of spilling drops of salty wetness down my face. My colleague with whom I'd worked for eight years was moving to another state. How would I carry the load without her? Could I carry it? 

I got in my car and drove to work, validating myself that I'd managed to groom my overgrown hair into some semblance of style, chosen some clothes that looked professional. Donned my COVID mask. When I made my way across the bridge to the office, clouds stacked in gray mounds greeted me, speared through with early light. I heard myself sigh, as if the sadness finally had an exit. The sky acted as a faithful companion in its splendor, assuaging my grief and lament--a friend who could sit with me in silence, acknowledging my authentic feelings of loss and loneliness. Not judging, but rather enfolding me in its understanding. And I, too, could offer the sky my unconditional positive regard, not requiring its expanse to be filled with light or reflect purest blue. Whether the heavens were streaked with orange at sunset or displayed the color of steel, or wept with rain, the sky was there. Always.

It seems as if it may be time to leave some of the grief and loss of COVID behind. That feels wrong, though. My mother-in-law, Emma, developed concerning COVID symptoms after two weeks of being asymptomatic. We still worry about and pray for her. We can only see her through a window. Over 100,000 people are dead in the United States. My mind cannot truly comprehend this staggering reality. Yet I realize that life still pulses. A friend of mine is buying a car. Another friend has been asked to be part of a television show to share her expertise. A loved one is moving to another state to start a degree program in the fall. My nephew in Italy sent me a video of his little girl learning to swim, and his baby cooing and trying to say "mamma." Just yesterday our bougainvillea bloomed.

There is a future. I think it may be possible to embrace what is next with deep curiousity, while simultaneously honoring and holding the pain and sorrow of our collective grief. It is both. And like the sky, God sits with us always, acknowledging our authentic feelings of loss and loneliness. Loving us.