It was the loss of fellowship that set me off.  The instant removal of my customers was a siren blaring in my brain, screaming at me that this thing that I can best describe as a spiritual calling — this tiny red cafe high in the hills and far from prosperity — Was suddenly as treacherous as a toxic waste site.  The actions this cafe condoned were now harbingers of apocalyptic end times— sitting dangerously close, reckless discharging of hugs and handshakes,  unexpected deadly encounters between total strangers-turned-fast-friends, the temerarious serving of home-cooked food that hadn’t first been dipped in bleach. 

The start of this pandemic brought me to my knees in despair.  This slice of heaven and neighborliness and optimism that my family created felt destroyed.  And the last three months have been devoted to visioning a way to restore it while still enabling us all to stay safe and healthy. I concluded that it couldn’t be done.  That it shouldn’t be done.   Bob and I didn’t want to enforce the distancing.  We didn’t want to cook wearing masks.  We didn’t want to disinfect all day.  We didn’t feel the spirit of Sap Bush Cafe could endure the squelching mandates of the CDC.  Better to let it live on in memory than to ruin it, we concluded.  

That was our intellect at work.  But my subconscious made other plans.

I opened my eyes one morning four weeks ago, and the intellectual, fact-based arguments were forgotten.  I leapt from bed and turned over my shoulder before running down the stairs and called to Bob, “We’re opening for take-out on Saturday.”  There are decisions that are made by thought and logic.  This one was entirely made by spirit.

But when we started with take-out, we did it slowly.    It was an opportunity to offer nutrition, if not the full sustenance that social engagement allows.  We limped along cautiously, week by week, setting up safe outside dining, reporting the changes to the liquor authority, studying the new health codes, drafting plans, training, then drafting more plans, then adapting to more new codes.  I ordered special plexiglass dividers for people to have at their tables so they could sit safely with friends.  Bob removed tables and chairs, and we dutifully wore masks and gloves to roll the silverware into napkins.

And then, with 48 hours notice, we learned we could open our doors and allow people inside.  I was confident by then that I knew what I was doing: we’d require reservations; we would accept people in one of five different seatings throughout the day; we’d empty the front of the house and sterilize between each seating.

…Except Saturday came, and only one party made a reservation.  I wondered if they’d be our only guests.  Maybe this pandemic really had killed Sap Bush Cafe.

But I made the croissants and laid out my skillets, and Bob organized the counter for the salad fixings.  Saoirse dialed in the espresso machine, and Ula rolled the silverware.  It would be a good practice run, I concluded, a dress rehearsal for our new disinfection rituals.

But folks came.  And as the tables filled, I was reminded of the independent nature of my customer base.  Of course they wouldn’t reserve ahead.  Asking for this change in behavior will be harder than getting them to wear masks.

And then I got scared.  Because the customers kept coming.  From my place at the cooktop I scrambled eggs and flipped pancakes and fretted about each person who walked in the door.  I worried they were too close, that it was getting too dangerous, that things were getting out of control.

And this was why I didn’t want to open, I reminded myself.  I didn’t want to have to police my community.  I didn’t want to have to order people to stay out of the building, to wear their masks, to keep their distance from each other.  Bob and I wanted this cafe to bring people together, not to force them apart.

“Hey there friend, do you have a mask?”

Tom Edmunds was perched at his seat at the counter, enjoying his breakfast from inside the safety of his new plexiglass barrier.  I didn’t know who he was speaking to.    He picked up his own mask and waved it.  “Mask!”  He raised his voice louder while gazing at the register.  “Do you need us to find you a mask?”

A couple of other voices came from the other tables.  “Masks!  We all have to wear masks if we’re not seated!”  

I went to the window and saw two customers had entered with no masks. And Bob and I weren’t being forced to police the situation.  Our customers were doing it for us.   Ula pulled two from the packages of spares we keep on hand and pushed them across the counter.  

A little while later, the room began to grow full once more.  My heart leapt into my throat as I tried to figure out how to sort and control the situation.  But by the time I got out front, the customers had done it themselves, sorting through spacing, choosing who should stay indoors, and who could wait outside.  I stepped out to the patio and found all three tables were spaced out, but full in the horrific manner that would outrage the public health officials — neighbors were visiting with each other, sharing tables, laughing, swapping stories, just as they have at this cafe for the past five years.  But they’d all found the plexiglass shields.  Each of them was partitioned off from each other as though they were in prison visits. But no one seemed to be noticing the barriers any longer.  They were seeing through to each other, joyous at being together again.

And I keep thinking about how the start of this pandemic had me fearing the fellowship. What brought me to despair was a spiritual crisis:  this belief that I hold most fervently in my heart about the importance of community and togetherness, was suddenly an anathema to survival. But now that we’re rebuilding, my faith in fellowship is deeper than it was before.  Because what I saw this week wasn’t an insistence upon fellowship in favor of public health.  Rather, it was the presence of fellowship as a force for public health.  We can be together, and we can help each other to do it safely.  And we will be stronger for it.