Don’t tell anyone, but a key advantage of Mass attendance is white space in the margins of life for the mind to wander and multitask. What other better use is there for the weekly bulletin than a grocery list?

When I was bored inside churchly walls – I suffer from contemporary ADHD, brought on by too many short Facebook posts – I’d sneak my pen out of my purse and scribble Must-Do’s while the priest intoned something probably of great relevance. I’d write words that resonated in a hymn onto the insides between the ads. Just like my own life where moments of meaning get squeezed within columns of work-lists, I’d exhale, and what I was really feeling would emerge. I’d be grateful in that moment – for that moment.

Today, as we gathered around the electronic hearth, especially given related to our parish priest “live” on our big screen TV – I felt a rush of the same ease at being able to sit in my PJs, and run back and forth to the kitchen, to my notepad – to relaxing in the way I do here.

This Sunday in particular, the ease was welcome. Given I was cleaning out two closets, we said the Gloria and Apostles Creed surrounding by stacks of old IEPs and receipts. No offense to Palm Sunday, but I was secretly over the moon that I had time to fill out reimbursement forms for the boys’ care during the homily. I sorted old MassHealth forms into Keep and Discard piles. Will moved seamlessly from bathroom to La-Z-Boy, Jeff sang ditties to himself based on words from the mass, and Paul – well, he slept. I kept rising and dusting flour onto my evolving Sourdough Fig and Walnut loaf, whiffs of its musty wonderfulness reminding that old doughy bits can elevate simple bread to something heavenly.

At last week’s church service, Will seemed indifferent at first, until it was time for the Eucharistic player. Suddenly a bolt of recognition veered his eyes to the screen, and he had rapt attention for the entire rest of the Mass, even singing “Jerusalem, Our Destiny” for the next hour and a half. It was genuinely moving. Yet another example that he knows more than I give credit. Maybe that easy comfy chair was his best multi-tasking worship seat, too, as he sat stretching orphaned socks on one hand, and sorting his beloved word cards as he watched, while Jeff chanted ditties he made up to a word in the sermon.

I often wonder what my guys think of their changed world in these bizarre times, where we’re locked out of the church a mile away and have to watch it on TV. We’ve read their Coronavirus social story so often they know it by heart. When I begin with “it’s a coronavirus time. A coronavirus is a _______________________,” leading with the expectant pause, in nanoseconds they fill in the black with “a germ.” When I say, “Germs make us___________” – “Sick.” “We dont’ want to get sick so right now, there’s no Opportunity Works. We have to _______________” “Stay home.”

Of course rote repetition is not the same as understanding, or acceptance. I’m not sure I’ve achieved either, nor will I.

So on Sunday mornings when who we are and who we want to be comes into focus perhaps a little more, we grasp our pre-Rona routine however we can. Morning writing and breadmaking, for me. Church, with its calming repetition of prayers and ritual the same in our family rooms as near the altar. Baking cookies for treats after the day’s Chores and Fun list is done. Reading books in bed with the parents at night, with two overgrown five-year olds squishing two parents in a queen size bed – as doe eyes hand me a book, and trust I can unpack more than words.

Maybe that’s the lesson of these days anyway. Being. Being together. A bond that doesn’t need a building, or an activity. A hug that wraps the soul.