Writers, it’s only been a week since my last post, but I feel like I’m writing to you from a different planet. Or like I got plopped down in an apocalyptic novel of Jill Williamson’s, and I don’t like it that much in here. (Love you AND your books, Jill!)

I know not all of us feel like our life just got upturned. I was talking to author and friend Roseanna White about how comically normal her day-to-day life feels despite everything going on. She lives in the country in West Virginia where both she and her husband work from home and homeschool their kids. There’s no toilet paper in her grocery store, but otherwise life is pretty normal.

But for those of us who are not sick and just wiped every commitment off our calendar—going to class, seeing a movie with friends, volunteering at church, softball practice, a spring break vacation—we’re all trying to get our bearings. I’m grieving the loss of some things I had anticipated, like my daughter’s elementary school graduation, and I’m trying to navigate my new normal. It hasn’t been a very graceful process.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the incarceration of the Japanese Americans as I wrestle with my feelings of, “But this isn’t how 2020 was supposed to be!” I keep thinking about this story I read in one of the memoirs, Looking Like The Enemy.

I don’t remember exactly how the story goes, and I can’t fact check it right now since the library is closed, so we’ll just have to make due with the essence of the story and forgive some details that might be off.

The author was in high school during the incarceration, and her family was removed from their strawberry farm in Washington and sent to several different camps. Like all the families, they struggled with the injustice, the lack of control, the unknown future, and the longing for their old life.

One night, her mother sat them all down and said words to the effect of, “When we leave this place, what story do we want to tell about it?” They went around the table and shared things like, “I want to be able to say we were brave and we stuck together as a family.” Or, “I want to say we were strong and persevered.”

That conversation guided the decisions they made while in the camps, and twenty years later, when her mother was dying and they were all back on their farm together, the daughter reflected that the stories they’d hoped to tell about their experience in the camps were now true. They had persevered. They had come through as a strong family.

That story kept coming back to me this week as my family grieved and adjusted. I’m sure we’re not done grieving and adjusting, but I’m trying to turn the corner to answer that question, “What story do I want to tell about this time?”

Do I want my story to be that I watched a lot of TV and scrolled a lot of social media? Or that I half-heartedly got my kids through the curriculum the teachers sent home? That I was so mentally stuck on what I lost that I couldn’t enjoy the opportunities handed to me?

Of course I don’t want that to be my story.

I want to tell stories about how much fun we had as a family. How we took advantage of the extra time together by learning new things, working on skills that we usually don’t have time for, and made space for being silly because we weren’t constantly rushing off to work/swimming/violin.

I want to point to a novel and say, “I wrote that during the COVID19 pandemic.” I want my kids to say, “During the pandemic, my mom taught me to cook this.” And maybe our story will be, “We got sick, and we took care of each other.” We don’t know yet.

Because this sentiment is strong in our hearts, we made a list as a family of fun things we want to do, ways we want to grow, restaurants we want to support, and movies we want to watch. We’re thinking about the stories we want to tell after, and we’re doing our best to make decisions now that will create those stories.

Whether you’re deeply affected by the pandemic or not so much, what story do you want to tell about Spring of 2020? What decisions can you make that will help you to tell that story?