The other day, I went out for a walk around my neighborhood to enjoy the nice weather and get some exercise. Like many of us, my daily walk is one thing keeping me sane and bringing me joy. It’s also been a really good opportunity to meet the neighbors that I always intended on knowing but never “had time” to meet.
On one walk, I met Joyce, a lovely elderly woman who was on her porch contemplating a trip to the mailbox. I brought her her mail and we chatted a bit about the crazy times we’re living in. It seems that quarantine life is the great equalizer. Another time, I walked past a neighbor who was letting his pet turtle out — I regrettably didn’t stop to ask more questions — and later on I said hello to a lovely caregiver as she was finishing her shift taking care of an elderly woman.
These walks reconnect me to the world, remind me that I’m not alone in this weird time of isolation, and show me that there is so much beauty to behold. Despite the lockdowns, the season of spring isn’t holding back. Everything is growing and blooming. We’ve been forced to sit back, slow down, and watch the world grow and remember that it keeps growing even when we aren’t doing anything.
On one particular walk, I stopped in the front yard of a friend who lives nearby to catch up and chat. We work together and we were talking about the challenges of working from home, and all the changes that would certainly be coming in the future for our organization. I stood in the sun until I began to burn, and then moved to the shade of their dogwood tree to continue the conversation, unaware as time passed.
There is something so sweet about not being rushed through an interaction because there is really no other place to be at that moment. I watched as their children played, and enjoyed a few laughs from an acceptable social distance. As we chatted, I looked down at my watch and realized it was 5:15. Without thinking, I said, “I’m sorry, I have to go! I have to be home for dinner!”
I live in a house with two friends, who moved in at the end of last year. We get along well but we’ve admittedly spent a lot more time together than we originally bargained for. When the shelter-in-place orders were instated, we agreed as a house to hunker down and stay at home to do our part to slow the spread which meant our social interactions were suddenly limited to the only two other humans we lived with. In an effort to save some money and avoid the “kitchen choreography” of three different people cooking three different meals in the kitchen at the same time, we decided to have house meals together a few days a week. We began planning out our weeks and settled on making tacos on Tuesday (with margaritas).
And that was the Tuesday I was out for a walk. At 5:15, I began walking briskly back to my house to get there in time for dinner at 5:30. As I walked, I realized that it had been years, maybe a decade, since I’d said, “I have to be home for dinner!” Coming out of my mouth, it tasted nostalgic — like late summer evenings playing tag with the neighbor kids until the sun started to go down. The world has slowed down, and it’s even brought me back to my childhood – where time goes fast and slow all at the same time, where the only concerns you have are playing and eating.
I have to be home for dinner. I hadn’t said that phrase since I lived with my parents, when my schedule was still dictated by family gatherings around the table. We’d wait for my dad to get home from work so we could escape from our homework or come inside to wash our hands and settle at the table, give thanks, and break bread together.
But I moved away to college, and got used to living my own life on my own schedule. And then I moved to Georgia for my first job and bought a home. I cook all my own meals and I can eat whatever I want, whenever I want. I can have leftovers at 9pm or pick up Chinese takeout on the way home from work. I could eat popcorn for dinner (guilty!) or ice cream for lunch (also guilty!). But that Tuesday, I had to be home for dinner. Someone was waiting for me, to share a meal with me, to linger at the table with me, to wash the dishes with me at the end of the night. There were people preparing a meal for me, and waiting to start until I had arrived. That was a really sweet feeling.
It reminds me of a story Jesus told about a huge banquet in Luke 14. In the story, a king throws a huge feast for his son, and sends out his servants to bring all the guests to the table. I can imagine the table laid out, bursting with delicious foods, empty plates ready to be filled. But the guests wouldn’t come! Most of them were making excuses — chores they had to do, or things they had to take care of. The table was set, the food was ready, but they wouldn’t come in time for dinner. And they were missing out on the feast of a lifetime.
I think the feast is less about the meal (though our tacos were pretty amazing) and a lot more about the company. I had to be home for dinner, not to be fed, but to be with. In a way, the feast we’re invited to is a lot like the moments under the dogwood tree, chatting with my neighbor, the moments where you don’t pay attention to the time and just enjoy the company. In this lockdown, I’ve had a lot of those moments, and they remind me of being a kid. As a kid, I didn’t care what time it was. I just played, and laughed. And I knew I had to be home for dinner. I think that’s the feast we’re invited into with Jesus: to become like a child, to play in His kingdom, and to come home in time for dinner.
Second Photo by Tamir Kalifa for The New York Times (2020)
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This is so comforting! Thank you, Kate.