I'm not going to lie.
It feels like Death.
In a streaming service from our home church, a staunch pastor and organist preside in an empty church where photos of church members had been pasted onto pews where they used to sit. The scent from potted lilies on the altar smells like Death.
On TV, Andrea Bocelli raises his voice to the mother of Jesus, but in vain. Even she couldn't cause a resurrection. The tune of Amazing Grace resonates in a city that looks like a catacomb of Death.
I miss wearing my yellow Swiss-lace dress. I miss the taste of marshmallow Peeps and chocolate-covered eggs. I miss hearing the Hallelujah chorus. I miss hugs from family and friends.
I miss Life.
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