shelter-in-place

There were no traffic sounds outside our home when we got up Friday morning. The streets were empty. We were in the middle of a neighborhood of commuters with nowhere to commute to. Boston was sheltering-in-place.

For our family this was meant to be a quiet day at home after a very busy week. It was quiet, but when what was intended as cocooning, became sheltering, it was an entirely different quiet day. Home was no longer a choice. Home was where we answered the phone, checked news reports and waited.

Our neighborhood was far enough away from the manhunt that we could safely spend the afternoon outside. Ignoring the raindrops that never quite became a rain shower, we headed out. My thoughts were as scattered as the clouds. I drifted around the yard. I needed to do something. So I did. I planted flower seeds.  I poured myself into the dirt and the hope and promise of planting seeds.
When I was finished I turned around to see what my children had so intently been working on behind me.

They were sheltering.

This was a child's response to the threat of rain. They gathered together the materials available to them and created a shelter. It was a simple place in our backyard where these siblings could retreat when they needed to. Together, they hunkered down; safe and warm and dry.

In another neighborhood, outside Boston, a nineteen year old boy was sheltering. He too was in a backyard in a makeshift shelter but he was not safe or warm or dry. His brother was dead. He was in danger and he was dangerous.

I look into the faces around me and see handfuls of seeds poured into rich soil. This work of growing people is made of promise and hope. Sometimes the watering will be done with tears. Surely there will be times that contain more dirt than blossom. Groundhogs will show up.
And together, we will continue planting.