Can I make a confession? This social distancing because of the Coronavirus is making me lonely—Really. Oh-so. Lonely.

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Sure, I’m with my kids all day—every day—and my husband each evening.

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But—I still miss my parents’ faces. I miss holding my grandparents’ hands. I miss tight hugs from friends. I miss worshipping at church. I miss cookouts and laughing on the back porch. I miss my kids’ giggles while they play with neighbors. I miss date nights with my husband. I miss blue plate lunches at my favorite restaurants. I miss dressing up in nice clothes because I have someplace to go. I miss going out in public without wearing a mask. I miss the freedom of leaving my house and not worrying about bringing the virus home to my family.

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I miss . . .

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I miss—normalcy.

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The simple, daily, mundane tasks that once seemed insignificant have taken on a whole new meaning. I realize how much I took for granted. And how, in an instant, everything in life can change.

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It has changed, and I find myself spending each day learning how to navigate through this hazy unknown.

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And at times, life feels too quiet, and then a moment later, all too loud. Almost like I’m living on a pendulum, swinging back and forth from one extreme to the other. Extremely quiet to extremely loud. Then back again. Over and over.

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But then. Somewhere in the midst of the all-too-quiet and all-too-crazy—I hear a still, small voice whispering in my ear. Telling me, He’s near. Patiently waiting for me to stop and recognize His presence. Inviting me to come and sit awhile.

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He’s ready. Ready to fill my cup of loneliness with His peace and offer me rest.

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He brings the words of Psalm 23 to my heart, and I quickly open my Bible to read them. The ancient words penned by King David himself and meant for me today. Right now, at this moment.

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He tells me, “He is my shepherd; I shall not want.”

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Images of my refrigerator and pantry full of food flood my mind. Then, images of my home, my cozy bed, clean clothes, electricity.

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Humbly, I realize I lack nothing.

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He tells me, “I make you lie down in green pastures and lead you beside the still waters. I will restore your soul.”

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I walk outside and realize how cool the green grass feels on my bare feet. I go down to the lake and sit awhile, watching the stillness of the water. The light dances off the tiny waves made by the wind. Instantly, my soul begins to settle and feel restored.

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He tells me, “I will lead you in the paths of righteousness for My name’s sake.”

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Ahhh, now I’m beginning to see what He’s doing. He’s forcing me to be quiet. And Still. Two things I struggle with. He’s growing me in my stillness. He wants me to be righteous.

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Sometimes growing pains hurt, though. But I understand. Yes, He’s growing me.

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He tells me, “I will be with you, even when facing the valleys and shadows of death. Viruses. Sicknesses. Uncertainties. Worries.” He tells me, “You will not fear. I will comfort you.”

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Suddenly, I don’t feel so lonely. His presence is comforting me.

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He says, “I will prepare a table for you in the presence of enemies. I will anoint your head with oil, and your cup will run over.”

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My enemies. Who are my enemies? Right now, they’re Loneliness and Fear. He’s inviting me to sit down and talk to them for a while. He’s telling me I need to make my peace. While making my peace, He’s slowly anointing my head and filling my empty cup with Himself. I watch my cup as His oil begins spilling over its rim.

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He says, “Goodness and mercy shall follow you all the days of your life. And you will dwell in My house, forever.”

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“All the days of my life?” I realize that all days also mean today. Today, right now, He will show me goodness and mercy. And then he will show me goodness and mercy again tomorrow. And tomorrow’s tomorrow.

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Until all those tomorrrows lead me step-by-step to the doorstep of His house. He tells me it’s okay to simply take life one day at a time. I don’t have to worry about tomorrow. He will be there too.

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He is enough for my today. And then, I realize, He’s enough for my tomorrow. And if this whole mess of life never changes, He’s enough to fill my cup each day.

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When life returns back to normal, and the bustle and busy begin to take over once again, I pray that I don’t forget the lessons I’ve learned in isolation.

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And I take time to stop, feel the cool, green grass on my bare feet, sit a spell by the still waters to watch the light dance off its tiny ripples, and allow the Lord to anoint my head with the oil of His presence as He simultaneously fills my cup up. All the way up. Until it spills over.

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Love, Macki