Don't Go Out. Go In.

I don't think I can take it anymore.

I can't take another day of staring at these walls. The monotony. The echoing silence. The anxious hours creeping by. The sleepless nights.

I get up to a silent house and try to keep busy. Do a few dishes. Try to keep up with the news. Mostly I pace the rooms like a tiger in a cage, wearing a path in the carpet.

It feels like I'm living in a prison, serving an unlimited sentence stretching off into the future. I've even taken to keeping track of the days, an uneven line of tally marks on the fridge where the grocery list used to be, like some kind of quarantined Robinson Crusoe.

I just want to go OUT. To walk out my front door and go somewhere, anywhere.

Oh, I know what you'll say. We're all in this together. We're all at home, so quit whining!

But that really doesn't help.

It's been getting steadily worse, but today I could tell I was starting to crack. I was wandering from room to room, restless and fuming, when suddenly I found myself standing by that front door, reaching for the doorknob.

Then I noticed a movement out of the corner of my eye and glanced over at the mirror. Who was that tousled-haired, wild-eyed woman? She looked like she really needed a haircut, whoever she was. And maybe some therapy.

At that moment, as I stood there, frozen, my phone rang. I stared down at it where it lay vibrating on the table. Then I rubbed my eyes and bent down to peer at the caller ID. There were just three letters:

G O D

Huh.

Slowly, slowly, I reached out and picked up the phone. "Um, hello?" I croaked.

The voice was warm, as warm as honey, warm as a summer day. It said my name.

"I thought we should chat. Do you have a minute?"

Do I have a minute? I try to speak, but the words seem to have gotten lost halfway from my heart to my mouth. The voice goes on.

"I know you're having a hard time. You are, aren't you?"

"Yes," I whisper.

"Well, you know I love you, don't you?

"Yes - yes, I do." I wipe my eyes.

"So even though it's difficult, I'm asking you to do the right thing. Do this for my other children, because I love them, too. I love them all - your neighbor down the road who is so old and frail, the brave people working to save lives, all my beloved children who might be struck down."

The voice continued, "If you go out today, you would break the chain of protection forged by a thousand neighbors. Please. Do this for them. Do it for Me."

I swallow hard, and then choke out, "But God, I'm so lonely. And I feel so trapped and useless. I just want to get out of here."

"I know. But try this: You want to go out that door? Find another door, instead. A door inside yourself. Go through it and see what's on the other side."

There was a click. Then silence.

I stared at the phone a few seconds, and then slowly laid it down. I walked over to that mirror again.

Then I marched into the bedroom and changed into real clothes. I washed my face and combed my hair. I made myself a cup of coffee and sat down to do some hard thinking.

Another door.

I looked around. This isn't a prison, I reminded myself. I'm here because I know it's the right thing to do.

Suddenly I thought of all the people I've been seeing on Facebook: people learning to work from home, parents figuring out how to teach their children, and folks struggling to cope with losing their jobs and worrying about bills and eviction notices.

I thought about all the people learning to connect in new ways, reaching out to friends and family members, and all the people who are doing amazing acts of caring and creativity. Everywhere I look I see people shining their light in darkness, learning how to stay strong and find solid ground in these uneasy times.

They've been opening new doors, I suddenly realized. They've been finding ways to transform this time into something powerful and new in their lives.

So what's my door?

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I waited, and prayed, and then - then I opened that door, and walked into a new room, inside myself.

I'll stay here, at least for now, until I'm ready for the next door.

What was my door? Perhaps I'll tell you someday. But yours will be different, of course. You may have found it already. If you haven't, don't be discouraged. It's there: all your own, waiting around some corner, waiting for you and only you to reach out and open it.

Go ahead.