My recent blog entry elsewhere on my militant anti-Christianity  draws mixed reviews.  Those who understand its inclusive message praise what I said.  Those who believe that the Bible dictates rightness and wrongness blast me. 

But I’m not here to preach; rather, I’m here to praise.  

As we head into the traditionally celebratory weekend, the need to practice physical distancing demands that Church-goers find other ways to worship.  Those who mark the rebirth of the world with Easter egg hunts and baskets of candy face the same challenge.  Oddly, then, we’re all in this together.  Congregations will yield to nuclear clusters.  Those of us who live alone will drink iced tea on our porches or stroll through  fields with sunshine softly settling on our shoulders.

Stripped of its trappings, Sunday shines into a grim month decorated only by nature’s splendor.  I like that.  I will grasp my walking stick and venture out onto the circuit which surrounds my community.  I will lift my hand in greeting to my neighbors.  I will raise my face to the sweet touch of gentle breezes.

We are only skipping our familiar rituals.   The meaning behind those rituals will endure.  No virus can kill our convictions.  No order of the governor can prohibit joy.

It’s the tenth day of the seventy-sixth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

Posted here for my friend Judy, the poem which my mother had on her refrigerator:

I Didn’t Go To Church Today