I was the only person there

I went for a run today, down the trail outside our new house, and over to the park where my kids have played soccer since we moved here.

Eight years ago.

We left Omaha and moved to western Colorado eight years ago. I cannot believe we've been gone that long.

This morning, on my run (let's be honest, it was a walk as much as it was a run. Hey, 40), I ran over to that park.

And I was the only person there.

Just a lady and her dog, both fairly out of shape, breathing in and out, placing one foot in front of the other, in an effort to be here on this planet as long as we can.

The park, though, is usually full of people on a Saturday morning. Kids playing: on the playground, soccer, baseball, softball. The parking lot usually is the kind of full where you let your kid out to run to the field and you call, "I'll be there in a minute! Have fun! Good luck!"while you circle the rows waiting for someone to leave.

Today, though, I saw a lone police car in the parking lot.

What day is it? I thought.

April 4. The first Saturday in April.

The beginning of rec soccer in our little Colorado city. I should have seen kids in different colors of Parks and Rec T-shirts out there on those three soccer fields. I should have heard the clink of bats striking rawhide. I should have smelled the sunshine on skin. I should have not had time this morning to go for a run.

Instead, not another soul was at this giant park/sports complex, which is good because it means people are listening to the governor's orders to stay home to try to slow the spread of this novel corona virus.

But damn.

If my heart hadn't broken already when my daughter's gymnastics season was cancelled and my son's competitive soccer season postponed, it did this morning.

All those kids. At home in their rooms. Or out on their bicycles or walking their own dogs, all by themselves.

No spring sports for anyone. My son is a freshman and he had his high school soccer season this fall; he is missing club this spring, but that loss isn't nearly as big as missing a high school season.

Especially if you are a senior.

If you are a senior and this loss is happening to you, know this: You are not alone.
You are brave. You are unlucky. You will survive this. You will feel this loss for a long time (that's okay; acknowledge it as a loss because it is one). You will be changed from this.

Know this: I am sorry. If there was anything I could do to give you back your high school track season, your spring play, your last edition of your high school newspaper, your final choir performance, etc, etc., etc., I would do so in a heartbeat.

If I could give my son this soccer season and my daughter this gymnastics season and her last few months ever at her elementary school, I would do so this second.

Seniors, if I could give you your graduation...

Your graduation still matters. It matters more than anything else you've probably ever done. And even if you don't get to celebrate it in May in the way seniors before you always have, you celebrate it. You celebrate you. However you can. You matter.

You matter. The lack of a traditional ceremony does not take away from your accomplishment.

This, too, shall pass I told someone recently. Her response: When?

I don't know. But it will, and until then you've got to hang in there.

We've all got to hang in there.