A Plea to Pastors Before the Largest Easter Service Ever

Bring us your heart and your hope.

I’m swaying in a rocking chair in front of my laptop, which rests on a glass-topped side table that has traditionally served as a nightstand but is now serving as my makeshift desk. My husband sits in a neighboring room, preparing to embark on a morning of distance-learning, or crisis-schooling, or whatever we’re calling this season of attempting to educate our typically-schooled boys from home.

If you were to ask me how I’m doing today, “we’re fine” would tumble out of my mouth without much pause. And really, we are. We live with my husband’s parents right now, which renders us in no danger of losing shelter. We have food, necessities, technology that enables us to access online learning and all manner of streaming services, and a collection of books and board games that resembles a Y2K prepper’s den of canned goods.

We’re fine.

We’re also grieving, like everyone else in the United States, if not the world, right now.

Self-isolation began for our family during spring break, which means my children learned part-way through a week that was intended for fun that they didn’t know when, or if, they’d see their classmates or teachers again. Sporting events and trips to visit family members have been cancelled. Instead, we try to get as much connection out of Zoom and FaceTime as we can. Sometimes this works, and other times these digital threads leave us underwhelmed, as though we’re seeing community in a mirror dimly and it’s almost more painful than not seeing it at all.

I have a hunch that “attending” our church’s online Easter service will feel very much the same—like it’s beautiful, and like technology is a gift, ...