I feel like a prisoner in my own house—apartment. I woke up this morning with the reality that I was scheduled to go to work—actually, to help a friend paint a room to be used as a church office. My pastor was sort of counting on me to help out. But I feel lousy. I hope I’m not getting the coronavirus. I’m 69 years old and ripe for the virus; old people like me are really suppose to stay home. I didn’t want to do it, but I really felt that I should—that I should text the pastor and tell him that I can’t come, that I wasn’t feeling well. So, I did, and of course he understood. A couple hours later my doctor called me and asked me not to come to my appointment tomorrow if it wasn’t an emergency. I agreed to cancel, and I also talked to her about some of my medical concerns.
Now I feel like I should just obey the President and the experts and stay home. But I’m feeling better and I don’t want too. I’m antsy. Can I really stay here in my apartment for a couple months until, as they say, this coronavirus washes out? I know I can always find things to do, like what I’m doing now, writing. But I like to get out too. I have favorite eating places, coffee shops…and I want to go there. Oh, it’s tough! I don’t think there will be anything wrong with going for a little walk outside. I need the exercise. I think I feel well enough to do that, and I won’t be around anyone…I don’t think. I will pray. I will make this day a day of prayer—for myself, for the country, and for the world.