My reg­u­lar rou­tine on a Thurs­day morn­ing involves sub­ways, pod­casts, and scrolling through Twit­ter as I com­mute into Philadel­phia. This morn­ing it was wor­ship­ping at the Pen­dle Hill Barn. Its 8:30 meet­ing for wor­ship on its way to becom­ing a dai­ly spir­i­tu­al prac­tice for me. One of the sur­pris­es of this new enforced lifestyle is more time spent with Friends in worship.

Some­times I switch into gallery mode to scroll through the faces of the oth­er Zoom atten­dees. I give a smile and prayer as I see dear Friends met and befriend­ed over the decades. I’m in wor­ship day after day with peo­ple I haven’t seen in years or only know through email cor­re­spon­dences. Many of course, are peo­ple I’ve nev­er met, giv­ing pre­cious min­istry or pal­pa­bly hold­ing the wor­ship space in love. Friends are sep­a­rat­ed by hun­dreds of miles; some are propped with pil­lows in bed. Yet here we are, together.

Some day our old lives will return. At 8:30 on some future Thurs­day morn­ing, I’ll be swip­ing my tran­sit card, ear­buds tight­ly squeezed in, and feel sad that a ground­ing dai­ly prac­tice has fall­en away.