What I Miss Most Wearing A Mask

The first time I put on my mask to enter a store, I have to say it felt...awkward. I fumbled with the right way to tie the ends, where the top knot should sit on my head, and how low was too low for the lower set? I took a moment to pull and push to make sure it covered the right portions of my face, and acknowledged the slight itch that came from the mask pushing against my beard. And for some strange reason, I suddenly wondered if this is what it was like for a person who was about to enter a store with the intention of robbing it? Weird, I know. I never would have guessed the act of putting on a mask would illicit such strange thoughts, but again, this was my first time in such a scenario.
 

As a child, the idea of it being socially acceptable to wear a mask all day would be seen as a godsend (of course that would require it be the applicable favorite superhero of the moment). Yet now, it feels more like a responsibility rather than fun. A responsibility to myself, to my loved ones, and to the stranger I pass on the aisle as we play toilet paper roulette hoping today is the day. 

I have grown accustomed to the feel of the mask on my face. I am no longer as surprised when I see my reflection in glass, or as shocked when someone I know is able to recognize me without me pulling down my mask (I wonder what gives me away?). No, I feel quite confident now in my mask wearing capabilities, but the other day, I was struck by a newfound reality of what is missing because of this mask.

Being born and raised in the south, the notion to greet a passerby, known or unknown, is about as an involuntary an action as saying "bless you" when someone sneezes. I tend to offer raised fingers from the steering wheel at an oncoming car, throw up an arm at the neighbor in their yard, and yes, smile when I pass by someone in a store. I might accompany this smile with a nod, a wave, and if your lucky, maybe even a "hey, how's it going?" Oddly enough, last week as I passed a stressed looking gentlemen in the sparse meat section, I realized that behind my mask, I was instinctively smiling. Then it happened again when I cut through the bread aisle to get to checkout. That lady never saw that smile coming either. 

I was immediately struck by a sense of sadness. Sadness for what was lost; a small way to connect with someone in my community. A chance to greet them and acknowledge their presence. A way for me to let them know that I see them, and in some strange, out-there kind of way, that God sees them too. I choose to wear my mask because of the unknown, and because I couldn't forgive myself if I unknowingly gave this virus to my family or someone else. So I wear the mask for my community around me, but gosh, I still wish I could give them that smile. 

Today, the job of recognizing their value and worth has to take on a different meaning than just that smile I offer as I pass by, but honestly, I can't wait to get it back. I miss it yes, but I know there is more than one way to connect with others than just a passing smile. In seeking out new ways to continue loving our neighbors in meaningful, tangible, and honest ways in the midst of this crisis, we can reveal a joy, grace, and love that no mask can hide.