“It’s just weird,” Amy said. “Weird” was a word she repeated half a dozen times during our conversation yesterday. While I agreed, I didn’t think of my new normal as weird–just different. Then, this morning happened. I sat through an online remembrance for the man who hired me at the University of Northwestern. A kind, funny, and giving man who was my biggest advocate for my work on campus. Now that was weird. I have never grieved for someone virtually. Historically, it had been in-person with hugs, church basement food, and black attire. And yet, here I was in a black shirt on the top and sweatpants on the bottom, staring at a computer screen. No hugs. No continuous noise of stories, laughter, and tears. No macaroni salad and finger sandwiches. No church basement. Weird.

Years ago, my oldest son came home and made mention that he was “weird.” I told him that being weird was awesome, unique, and different–something to value versus something to disesteem. Today, when I look outside and see empty roads and only hear the chirping of the birds, I know something is different. I can acknowledge we are in a unique time of our lives that won’t last forever. And I hope that something awesome, big or small, will come out of the weirdness.

For now, though, I think I’ll make myself a finger sandwich and eat it in my basement.

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