It was the spring of 2020.

My college senior had moved back home to finish his undergraduate career online. My high school senior spent his days in the basement, hiding from the Zoom camera. My sophomore spent more time FaceTiming with friends than talking to me. And I sat at a table and stared at a screen all day, trying to reach through space and time to connect with the students I missed so much.

Outside our home, grocery stores shelves sat empty, headlines became more and more apocalyptic, and only essential workers left their homes on a daily basis.

Miles away, my mom suffered a stroke on the first weekend of California’s shutdown. My dad could not join her at the hospital. I could not travel to be with them.

One night, a spring evening, it began to rain. It was the soft rain that lulls one to sleep at night, the kind of rain that reminds you of God’s provision. And although most were already in bed, Cara and I snuck outside to sit on the patio. 

The light on the garage cast shadows, illuminating the rain drops that hung like ornaments on freshly-sprouted leaves on the peach tree. The soft drumbeat of the rain, melodic and gentle, calmed us.  

Something caught Cara’s eye–and she sat down, crisscross applesauce–on the cement, pointing to the garden bed. I followed suit and we sat in silence and awe as we watched an unexpected dance unfold.  

Within the decaying mulch, worms moved. The light caught their slim bodies, turning them silver and sinuous as they reached for the safety of concrete. The underbelly of my garden–which had just started to show signs of life –shifted, creating air bubbles and creases of dirt. The rain kept falling and we sat, strangely moved by the scene.

I don’t know how long we remained there, entranced by nature’s show.  

But the moment holds a certain reverence to it now. The world was on fire, metaphorically speaking, and yet life unspooled quietly before us. 

Would we have paused to notice if the world hadn’t been paused itself? 

I would never go back to that spring and the anxieties that buried us in our homes. But if I could, I would relive that tiny moment. It reminds me of God’s presence in unexpected places. 

Header photo by Parmanand Jagnandan on Unsplash
Worm photo by Julian Zwengel on Unsplash