It fascinates me, the gathering of people.

Walking into a room, I witness the intersection of histories, each person coming from their own place and chronicle of events to meet someone else who comes with their own past. Separate tales could be told, but with the merging of people comes the merging of stories.

In a group there lives an environment of emotion. Whether collaborating or clashing, emotions come from a person and enter the space with other people. Some are willing to receive these emotions as they move and morph; others want to deflect or ignore the invisible forces in the room.

My husband and I experienced this convergence a couple of weeks ago, on a weekend traveling with friends and family for a belated celebration of our wedding. Most of the people coming had heard the names of others on the trip, but they hadn’t met everyone. I had people from different circles of my life, and Joe had people from different circles of his. Some of our guests had known us all our lives, like our parents, and they traveled alongside a few who hadn’t met one or the other of us before the wedding because of quarantine. Whatever the connection, this was the first time we’d all spend together.

We had prayed over ourselves, the logistics and tasks we needed to manage before we left, and the dynamic of our guest list. We knew key people in our lives declined the invitation for safety or distance reasons, but we also couldn’t wait to see the people who confirmed their attendance. It would be a motley crew, but they’d be ours, and we’d have time and space together that we hadn’t ever experienced.

Add a strange out-of-body sensation, an almost disbelief about reality because the trip had been delayed over three months, and we didn’t quite know what to expect. We only hoped we could feel like we were present!

I don’t have the vocabulary to describe it, the warmth that rises and fills a space as relationships are forged and love builds in the room. The mood thickened with emotion as our crowd discussed life changes and updated each other on painful circumstances of friends and family. Volume levels rose over storytelling and competitive games of cards. Chlorine pervaded the atmosphere with the splashing of pool water and the moving of towels to find sunshine to dry. Doors slid open and closed to the tune of laughter, and plates of food exchanged hands, more hands than had been in one place in months.

At one point, I remember pausing and trying to breathe deeply, more deeply than my lungs could open. I wanted to soak in every bit of this. Maybe, if I breathed deeply enough, this feeling would absorb into my skin and I’d carry it with me forever.

The days passed, and our time ran out. As we hugged family and friends goodbye and watched cars fill with luggage and carry our people away, my husband and I felt ourselves weaken and empty. What had seemed robust inside us only hours ago now felt hollow. As quickly as the weekend came, it went, and we felt the shift deeply.

A favorite word I’ve learned is “kenopsia,” which is the eerie, forlorn atmosphere of a place that is usually bustling with people, and that’s the feeling that hung in the air after our people left.[1] The building echoed, calling out for the fun we had the previous days. Chairs and couches held out their arms to be filled; water tensed with anticipation of disruption that wouldn’t come. Untouched food spoke of stomachs too full and happy to take more. Wood glistened without the beating of plates or feet. The lives and hearts that had bled into this space were almost tangible, and we felt the ache of their absence inside us.

It was precious time, unlike any we’ve had and possibly ever will have. And as I recall our time and count the blessings and become warm with memory all over again, I bless the God of community for the gathering of people.

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[1] Definition found at both urbandictionary.com and dictionaryofobscuresorrows.com