This week, both my wife and I each had two trips on an airplane scheduled. At the last minute, my conference in Minnesota and my meeting in the Washington, D.C., area were cancelled. Then, cutting it even closer, my wife’s trips to Montana and Wyoming were cancelled.
I was relieved. Not that I feared us getting the coronavirus, which is still a matter of small numbers. I dreaded going out into the fear of the coronavirus, which is a reality no one can dispute. I dreaded traveling in this climate. Would my flights get canceled? Would my allergies kick in, leading a TSA worker to shunt me into a quarantine, just in case? I dreaded coming back to our small rural community–whose isolation naturally creates a state of protective quarantine–from the outside world. Would people worry that I might be bringing back infection from our nation’s capital? Might I actually bring back the infection, one that in its special danger to the elderly could wipe out much of the membership of our church?