In late June I was in week 13 of lockdown in Vermont with my 88-year old father. My wife Donna and I had agreed I should come in early March to support him. She was back in our new home in New York City. Over the weeks apart we celebrated 33 years of marriage, via Zoom. The United Nations, where I work with an international non-profit, fell into paralysis with U.S.-China blaming. New York City became the pandemic’s epicenter. Donna’s new hospice nursing job suddenly turned into front-line COVID-19 work in an eerily empty Manhattan, apart from constant ambulances and sirens. And America’s deeply embedded racism became fully exposed once again.

Early on in Vermont, on the day of Annunciation, I had sensed the call of this time to me in Mary’s response to the visiting angel: “God, let it be to me according to your word.” What was that “word” for me, I wondered. Dad’s house in small town Vermont was a strange place of discernment. As serious global challenges emerged from so many angles, I searched for answers in online international conferences and Zoom calls with colleagues from Asia to the Middle East. Then, walking from my “war room” computer screen to the back yard, I transformed into Dr. Doolittle, surrounded by woodpeckers, goldfinch, porcupines, and the two chipmunks raiding the bird feeders throughout the day.

Gradually, sharing daily rhythms with Dad on our little monastic compound, I realized the most important “word” was right in front of me: At evening meals, as I listened to Dad’s stories (some of them more than once, and counting). Watching his eyes, still thrilled by photos of his beloved Sue, my Mom, who passed away two years ago. Hearing him easily break into Korean language, still flowing from his lips from 16 years of missionary service in South Korea. The mind of a preacher, coming alive whenever stories of the Bible become the topic. The heart of a pastor, opened up in many drives together across the nearby hills. Where he knows nearly every house and holds in confidence its secrets of pain and hope, where he has entered, listened, prayed, and healed. I urgently arrange a conference call with his children so he can share his anxiety about moving into a retirement community – and he shows up with an opening prayer, a mini-sermon, and a closing exhortation (to himself), as if in front of the congregation once again. In late June when my brother and I drove him to his new life and home, the whole town lined the street with thank you posters, shouts, and social distancing to say farewell to this gentle giant who indelibly touched their lives.

It was not easy. Years ago in our church in Mississippi, an internal relational crisis threatened to put an end to our national social justice work. A mentor had to open our eyes to the most important work right in front of us. “Caring for each other. Forgiving each other. Keeping the dishes washed,” he said. “The rest is details.”

I cared for Dad. In my long separation from Donna, he cared for me. I had to forgive him, he me, multiple times. And the dishes? I cooked, he did the dishes. And then I would do them a bit more.

Early on I had received an image of living into pandemic as pilgrimage, as a journey onto strange ground that becomes difficult ground, which God transforms into holy ground – if we are willing. I confess I am wired to look for that ground in weighty matters and achievements. But in life with Dad, traveling our tiny terrain, I heard, “This is the pilgrimage. This is the ‘word.’” This was where unexpected ground became holy ground.

Chris Rice is director of the Mennonite Central Committee United Nations Office in New York City. He is co-author of Reconciling All Things and was founding co-director of the Duke Divinity School Center for Reconciliation.