Yesterday, when I reshared a little story I wrote for Easter two years ago, I didn’t immediately remember that—I was confined back then, too. I was recovering from surgery, and I was learning to walk again. I’m not sure it helps to compare, but it definitely can’t hurt to reflect on the experience.

It was long, three and a half months. I lost some of my mobility around mid-February, had the surgery in early March, and I could go out again on June 7. (I escaped in the last days of May to attend a conference here in Budapest.)

In many ways, I was worse off then. For weeks after the surgery, I was too weak to walk much. When I first ventured out to the street, an elderly gentleman with a cane overtook me quite easily. For some time, I thought I had to get used to being weaker than a 80-year-old—I got a taste of classic old age.

In early April, Andi drove me to vote. I had to walk from the nearest corner, and into a school building. After the whole affair, I felt more tired than ever before—or since. And my vote was not a lot of use because the bunch I voted for lost.

Oh, and I wasn’t allowed to sit for three months.

But then it was only me. The whole world wasn’t locked down. And I got stronger and on my feet again. We traveled again in the summer. But it was a taste of this nevertheless.

I’m sure many of you have similar stories. You may want to check them out—to see if remembering or comparing helps in these times.

In the tradition, as well as in the Jewish and Christian faiths, Easter is a story of liberation, of being saved. Jews remember physically escaping the Pharaoh, emigrating to another land. Christians remember Jesus’ resurrection—being liberated from death itself.

So, in a way, waiting for Easter also means having hope that we will walk free again.