As Father’s Day approached, a story about the world’s largest family caught my eye. India’s Ziona Chana, 76, died Sunday but reportedly had 89 children, 39 grandchildren, and 38 wives. I don’t know what kind of work he did but I can’t imagine trying to buy that many clothes, shoes, gallons of milk, and school supplies or providing love and nurture for that many women and children.
I am struggling this week. I’m not angry or sad, but “I’m feeling some type of way.” An indescribable kind of way. It’s 2021, I’m in my 65th year on the earth, and race, violence, terror, and hatred continue to dominate too many conversations.
I am relieved that the news seems to be improving. Thankfully there are reports of fewer hospitalizations, widespread vaccinations, significant legislation being passed to help citizens who are suffering the lingering effects of the pandemic, schools reopening, and a return of some sense of normalcy.
Earlier this week I spoke to a friend whose neighbor had died of COVID. She has the kind of neighbors people used to have—you know them because you spend time in their homes, the children play together, they have a key to your house, etc., and I lamented that even though I’ve met my neighbors, I don’t know them.