One of the many strange layers Michael and I find ourselves living into right now is the fact we aren’t in the minority anymore when listening in to CMC services from afar... Even though I’m working from home and we’re trying to stay on our property as much as possible—walking/jogging in the old cemetery across the street, documenting the creatures and plants in our urban woods, listening to peepers in our spring at night. When Sunday rolls around, my spirit’s longing for shared connection and a real-deal Sabbath from news.

I joked with my mom recently that it feels like I’m practicing some version of “Amish church” in this season, because I find myself listening in to 3-4 services throughout my Sunday while making lots of food. “Church” has become an all-day practice of listening, learning, and trying my best to soften whatever anxiety, anger, or fear has built up during the week.

The first weekend houses of worship were asked not to meet across the country, I got up early, checked on the sourdough bread I’d let rise overnight, gazed in wonder again at this tangy, stubborn science experiment, and popped it into the oven, not knowing that the church service in Berkeley CA I would tune into later that day would end by hosting a “do it yourself” communion. I cut into the fresh loaf and quickly found the elderberry extract I’d made from berries bought in Kidron last fall. The congregation practiced an open table, and my spirit felt opened, too.

The bread hadn’t risen; it was still flavorful. The extract likely won’t protect me from illness, yet its ingredients remind me where I come from. What’s reminding you “where you come from” as a child of God right now?