A friend suggested I participate in the Medium Writer’s Challenge, with 4 prompts throughout August. This is the first, with the theme of Reentry. This essay was first published on Medium. 

An early alarm chimed, a clear signal of COVID ending, because it was time to get up, go out, do things. Today I was going to see actual people at an in-person worship service. The first in what felt like a decade. It was something that used to be such a normal, regular part of my routine, yet another thing ripped away by a pandemic. I loved my church and worship—a true pillar in the structure of my life. I yearned for this return and the comfort it would surely bring. 

Instead of reaching for my trustworthy leggings, oversized Star Wars tee, and shoestring makeup routine of moisturizer and mascara, today called for a return to a former life. I slid my favorite dress from the rack, a poster girl for Marie Kondo, enveloping it in my arms. 

In this dress, I will feel beautiful and normal. In the pew, I’ll feel comfortable and happy. Everything is fresh and COVID is over and today I’ll be surrounded by friends and my faith support system while wearing a real bra. 

And the fabric bunched around my pandemic hips. The zipper strained around what the quarantine quarts of ice cream had left behind. Fear not, body positivity on Instagram has prepared me for this, I thought. I don’t need a flat stomach, and I love this dress. I’m just happy to be dressed up and going somewhere. 

I gathered scriptures and the high hopes floating from strings above me, a whole bouquet of balloons labeled “connection,” “kinship,” “affirmation,” “friendship,” and “feeling God.” Stumbling slightly in my out-of-practice heels, I walked in with a broad smile hidden below my mask. The excitement was palpable and the familiarity just felt so GOOD. 

When I finally settled into a pew, I noticed. Stomach muscles quickly fatigued from trying to suck in. Underwire jabbing my ribcage. The weak sleeve elastic circling each arm, biting and grinding when I moved. It’s ok, I thought, It’s just for half an hour. And isn’t it just so good to be here and feel the warmth and Spirit? Yes, I said, refusing to notice my rapidly deflating balloons. 

A balloon descending when I felt nothing as an invocation was spoken. A balloon descending when the messages weren’t meaningful to me, or about Jesus at all. A balloon dipping when someone asked why my whole family wasn’t there… hers was! Balloons guiltily drifting when I wished I was still home. A balloon popping when I heard derisive political jokes from the pulpit. Another when someone mentioned defending traditional marriage. 

They drooped around my head, clouding my vision, confusing my focus. Clutter where it was supposed to be clear. 

It was me, it had to be. Pandemic Danica was lazy and self-indulgent in her worship. I didn’t feel God, or comfortable in His house, because… I hadn’t been doing it right. Right? It wasn’t like this before. I’m just out of shape. 

I peeled off my mask and dress at home, easing into the kindness of soft leggings and acceptance of a metal-free top. I curled up with my family on the couch to do my beloved, but clearly inadequate, pandemic routine of scripture study and gospel teaching. 

“How was it?” my husband asked, as he’d stayed home with the infant we weren’t ready to take into the COVID world yet. 

“It was amazing to be back. So glad things are finally going back to normal.”