Nothing is normal. Lots of things are normal.

That’s the weirdness of our current situation, isn’t it?

I just told Livia that she could do school in bed. I percolated a giant pot of coffee, made her an iced coffee, and hand-delivered it to her bedside. Certain she was taking longer to wake up because today is a school day, I decided to sweeten the deal. You want to do school in bed? She was down for that, and is now tucked away into what seems like a claustrophobic situation to me: pink curtains pulled closed, dark room cluttered with, well, all her belongings scattered on the floor, shelves, and closet floor, with her Chromebook on her lap.

It seems to me that such concessions are exactly the way I want to be treated at this time. A drink made with love, an understanding of the way I feel joy, and goals padded with grace.

Earlier I sat on the back deck, cool breezes crossing my face, and I listened to birds singing. It’s been a struggle for me to open my bible right now, but today I had it open to Hebrews 11. I’d read a little about faith, then look up and watch the newly-sprouting leaves sway in the wind, watch robins hop around the yard, smile at preschoolers following their moms on the bike path. Has there ever been a time like this? The slow pace? The worry? The future spreading before us that seems confusing?

My pre-corona life was a tidier mix of goals + freedom and I liked it that way. It was like a well-made bed—something I love to study and re-create in my own life. I like tidy hospital corners (thanks to my nurse parents). I like a soft and fluffy comforter on top. I like neatly stacked pillows—with matching pillowcases—tucked against the headboard. And if a chunky hand-knit blanket lands on top of the whole thing, all the better. Purposeful. Welcoming. I like a well-made bed.

To carry on with the metaphor, coronavirus came on in and royally effed up my bed.

It’s like COVID-19 decided I could still have the bed frame, but the headboard would be replaced by the scratchy wall, stucco. And sure, the mattress is present but it’s haphazardly thrown onto the frame, and oh, here, you can use the old sheets, you know the ones used for drop cloths for painting, as your bedding. We’ll top it off with the picnic blanket from the trunk of the car—complete with some dog hair, grass from the last outing, and perhaps a tick or two for companionship. And here’s the flattest and most stained pillow you’ve forgotten in the back of your closet. No pillowcase. Now, get comfy and sleep!

That’s what coronavirus feels like to me. A scratchy, paint-marked, glass-clipping, slightly smelly bed. I can still lay down and I’m more than welcomed to sleep, but it’s not right, not normal.

The weird thing is that I really like listening to the birds. I’ve had time to watch clouds float past and to really cherish this season of winter changing to spring. With one kid almost 16, I’ve had some freedom to slow down and for that I’m grateful.

But I don’t like the bed I’ve been given.

Not one bit.