I was stunned by the rush of strong feelings that swept over me in that twinkling of a moment. But this was not the first surprise of the day.

It'd been three months since I last made the short drive from my townhouse to church on a Sunday morning. The sun shone, the birds chirped, and the traffic lights cooperated. Yet there was a sense of adventure to the trip, as if I were heading to an exotic destination with iffy directions in hand—no longer on autopilot for a formerly familiar ritual.

Getting ready, I felt out of step, too. No choir or bible study plus a new, staggered-services schedule meant a later departure. Too much time to dither over what to wear or get lost in a crossword puzzle. A second cup of coffee, maybe. Even time for butterflies to breed in my stomach. Strange, having something so basic feel so . . . strange.

Then there was that final weirdness as I rounded the corner and nosed my van toward a spot in the church parking lot, which was mostly empty at this early stage of reopening. As small, socially distanced outdoor clusters of my fellow congregants came into view, the emotions hit. Hard. Like a startling blast from the dashboard A/C. A lump hardened in my throat. Tears misted my vision.

Fascinating how the human psyche works. During the severe restrictions of the past 90 days, I've experienced mini panic attacks, lapses into bad habits, and urges to scream from my second floor window. I've talked about these in previous cathartic posts. Sharing as therapy; guilty as charged.

By Shut Down Week Nine or so, I was thinking I'd gotten accustomed to the randomness of my pandemic mood swings. I remembered from Psych 101 how prolonged isolation modifies behavior and distorts thinking. What I didn't have a clue about was recovery, stuff like how long it might take to return to "normal" status. Not "new normal," which seems to be political code for, we gotcha half-way to where we want ya', now just follow along, troops. Just normal. Pews won't be at one-quarter capacity forever.

It turns out that easing from virtual reality (a contradiction in terms) back into actual reality (a redundancy) is precisely the first step I needed to find my way to healing. Online worship is fine; God will replenish my soul regardless of where I am when I seek Him. But gathering in-person with fellow Christ-believers extends to fill the unique human need for connection—a fact brought home to me as I turned that final corner last Sunday. Thus, the strong emotions; thus the inner sigh of relief.

Nope, a video chat will never fully replace making eye contact, watching someone's face light up as they greet you, or hearing a strong, clear voice directly from the pulpit. Awakened appreciation is a noteworthy benefit to no longer being on autopilot. I'll take it—limits and all.

1 Thessalonians 5:11 - Wherefore comfort yourselves together, and edify one another, even as also ye do.