We were enjoying our last few days out of the country for an annual missions conference when we first heard about a strange sickness in central China. It was late January, and none of us were eager to return from the tropical weather to cold, urban realities. To be honest, I think we all repeated the same thing to each other numerous times, “This will all blow over in a week or two.”
We were very wrong.
We started to realize how wrong on the flight back. We were the only people not wearing masks. In the airport at passport control, the zig-zag, roped-off area to line up was eerily empty. We were the only foreigners entering the country at that moment. Over the next week we began to learn the meaning of “lockdown.” Those who hadn’t made it back from annual spring festival travel either weren’t coming back or would be subject to quarantine on arrival. The facility that rents us meeting space for Sunday service informed us we would no longer be able to use it. Urban housing communities began sealing off to non-residents. And nearly everything in the city closed. Stores, restaurants, schools—everything. There’s nothing more eerie
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