The last few days, praying the chapel, I’ve had the overwhelming urge to lay on the floor prostrate in front of the altar.

There has been so much death. The last four months I’ve prayed the Office of the Dead more than in the last few years. A friend in Sierra Leone, a friend’s relatives that died one after the other, the anniversary of one of my godmother’s death.

I come home from work and rest my head on the altar, so happy to be back in the presence of the Blessed Sacrament; its as if I’ve been away from home for weeks, and suddenly I find myself able to rest on the doorstep of my home.

Saying Mass is a relieving moment–I’ve never felt liturgical time take control more than since Christmas Eve moving forward.

But I am aware of pain around me, within me.

I am aware of those who reach out in suffering, in sadness, in grief, in confusion.

Throwing the pandemic on top of it makes it simply more complicated. It’s low grade exhaustion (or just exhaustion).

In the mix of all this, getting a guest list ready for the upcoming wedding, the potential of spring and new plans for the yard, the beauty of a chapel–being lucky enough to have a chapel, a dedicated space for the Blessed Sacrament–and the very near reality of regular broadcasts of Mass from this space.

In the midst of the suffering, that blessing has helped to carry me through. Having a sacred hour at the end of each day, being able to say Mass free of interruptions, to have silence.

Quiet.

Peace.