Every day when I open the refrigerator, I’m reminded. I see drinks and food I keep stocked for specific people. When I get ingredients from the pantry to cook dinner each night, I am reminded then too. I see my stock of paper plates and plastic cutlery, just waiting to be used. When I walk by my dining room and see the linens folded on the sideboard, cleaned and ready to lay out on the table, I am reminded. I see empty chairs whose seats have not been filled in a year.
These are all small daily reminders of when I used to have people over for a meal—friends, family, small group, parties. I’m reminded of how much has changed over the last year. And how much I miss community.
I miss the spontaneous, “Hey, let’s meet for lunch at that new restaurant down the street.”
I miss potluck meals and the sharing and trying of new recipes with friends.
I miss what the Spanish call “sobremesa" when you sit around at the table talking far long after all the food has been eaten. All of a sudden someone checks the time and you realize you’ve sat in the same spot for hours doing nothing but sharing life with one another.
I miss celebrating special occasions with family and friends where everyone surrounds the person in front of a big cake and we sing “Happy birthday” and laugh as the person blowing out the candles always struggles to blow out that one stubborn flame.
I miss looking at a friend and being able to tell just by the look on her face what she is thinking.
I miss all my church members gathered together, singing and rejoicing together as one Body. While I am thankful that a quarter of us can fit socially distanced in the gym on Sunday mornings, I miss the other three quarters whose faces and voices I’ve not seen in a year.
I miss being with people and not worrying about who might or might not be sick and am I standing too close and wondering is that a frown or a smile under the mask and hating that everything I hear sounds like mumbling but I nod in understanding anyway.
I miss community.
In Psalm 42, the sons of Korah write about being far from the house of God. For some unknown reason, they can’t go to the temple to worship God. They hunger and thirst to be in his presence. They are saddened and grieved by the separation and wonder when they can be with him again. They look back on sweet memories of joining with the throng to gather for worship, singing and rejoicing at their great God. “These things I remember, as I pour out my soul: how I would go with the throng and lead them in procession to the house of God with glad shouts and songs of praise, a multitude keeping festival” (Ps. 42:4).
I feel this longing each Sunday. I also felt it this past weekend— the weekend when our denomination’s yearly women’s ministry leadership conference is held. More than a conference, it is like a homecoming. I love seeing my sisters from all over the world. I love catching up with hugs and stories and fellowship. I love how we pick up right where we left off the last time we met, as though there was only a brief pause to our conversation. I love how we encourage one another on in ministry. I love how we learn from one another. I love how everyone rejoices in the fruit God produces in each other’s ministry. This year’s conference was virtual and oh how we longed to be with one another in person!
We used the technology available to us to connect, encourage, and equip each other in the work of ministry and I’m grateful for that. I’m grateful for platforms that allow us to have Bible studies virtually. I’m grateful for church leadership which labors to provide worship that is safe for everyone. I’m grateful for all the ways we’ve learned to navigate our new reality.
But I still miss community.
That’s because we weren’t made for filtered connection. We weren’t made to be satisfied with friendship mediated through a screen. We weren’t made for six feet of separation. We were made to do life together. To sit at the dinner table for hours. To laugh and hug and tell stories. To gather with the throng and rejoice at the goodness of God.
I don’t want to grow used to how things are. I want to continue to long for in person fellowship. I want it to nag at me and remind me of how things are supposed to be. So I’ll leave those drinks my friends like in the fridge and continue to keep my paper plate supply ready and waiting.
And I will continue to miss community.
