I've only ever seen one sunset. It was on a beach in Oregon. I was on a Spring Break trip with my friend, and we were driving along the coast, back to San Francisco. She said we should stop and watch the sunset on the beach. I'm so glad we did. Not that I'd never seen the earth turn hazy red, orange, and purple, then dark. It's just that I'd never seen that exact moment when the sun disappears. It was such a thrilling thing, knowing that there's this second, something you can calculate, when the sun goes away for the night. I couldn't believe I was actually watching a movement of that gigantic glowing ball as it sank lower and lower and lower. There was something - a shudder, maybe a chill - when the last tiny brilliant drop of light disappeared into the Pacific. I will never forget that.
I took the kids to the park the other night. It was in the late afternoon, when all the lovely shadows of the last bits of light mix with the colors of the coming evening. I tried to watch, to really pay attention, and see if there was some kind of line that separated the last light from the first darkness. But, like so many other things in life, there wasn't anything definite I could see in those two enteties. Just a kind of magnificent mixture.
I drove around a little bit before we went to the park. I wanted to take pictures of some of the destruction that Hurrican Ike left behind. Those things weren't pretty. There were uprooted trees, damaged homes, and piles of debris. But that magnificent mixture of opposites is still around. It's in my town - in the people, in the work being done, in the lives that have been changed.
Our church has been a central location during the aftermath of Hurrican Ike. It's been home for 300 some volunteers from the Red Cross and North Carolina Baptist Men. The volunteers (or heroes, as our church members have been calling them) have been sleeping, showering, eating, and just living in our church since Ike hit. They take a little rest - sometimes a very little - before going back down the street to the abondoned K-Mart parking lot to serve meals, or back into the community to serve meals, clean up debris, and repair home damage. We church members haven't minded all the air mattresses and cots lined up in the hallways, scattered among the atrium and in classrooms; we've been joyful to assist with laundry and prepare meals for the workers. It has really felt like church. I felt a little bit sad last night, when I went to church and saw a lot fewer air mattresses and cots in the atrium and in the halls. The work is coming to a close. The volunteers are going home. The magnificent mixture is slowly becoming more homogeneus. The destruction - homes lost, sometimes everything people owned - was met by the beauty of helping hearts and hands.
Destruction and beauty. The Bible talks about the refiner's fire. Destruction takes place so that beauty can come out of it. One of my dear professors (I've told this story many times) once called me an ugly pot. He said that I could remain an ugly pot, useless, or I could allow God to break me and remake me and then I would become something beautiful and useful. Would it be painful? Very much so.
I still feel pain when I think about the wreck. It's been almost three months now, but I'm still haunted. And still, in the midst of all the destruction - broken bodies, torn emotions - there was beauty. The beauty of so many prayers lifted up for my family. The beauty of a new sister-in-law who held me while I cried as my baby was being taken away on a helicopter. The beauty of a God who is close to the brokenhearted. The beauty of phone calls from friends, offering love and encouragement.
And even the journey that I've been on since the wreck, the questions about God and faith and Truth . . . even that has had its beautiful moments. As I've been walking on a road that seemed, to me, littered with debris of its own, others have walked beside me. They've girded me up. They've offered their own stories. They've prayed. They still are. Beauty along that road on which I'm tripping over broken stones and fallen trees. Destruction . . . and beauty.
The kids and I stayed at the park the other evening until it was just not enough light to really play. The sky was so beautifully dark with a heavy blue color. The thumbnail moon shone above craggly branches that had been stripped clean and broken in the storm. I took a picture of the scraggly black and broken trees with the thumbnail moon behind. Destruction and beauty all in one place, making something that just should never be forgotten.
I took the kids to the park the other night. It was in the late afternoon, when all the lovely shadows of the last bits of light mix with the colors of the coming evening. I tried to watch, to really pay attention, and see if there was some kind of line that separated the last light from the first darkness. But, like so many other things in life, there wasn't anything definite I could see in those two enteties. Just a kind of magnificent mixture.
I drove around a little bit before we went to the park. I wanted to take pictures of some of the destruction that Hurrican Ike left behind. Those things weren't pretty. There were uprooted trees, damaged homes, and piles of debris. But that magnificent mixture of opposites is still around. It's in my town - in the people, in the work being done, in the lives that have been changed.
Our church has been a central location during the aftermath of Hurrican Ike. It's been home for 300 some volunteers from the Red Cross and North Carolina Baptist Men. The volunteers (or heroes, as our church members have been calling them) have been sleeping, showering, eating, and just living in our church since Ike hit. They take a little rest - sometimes a very little - before going back down the street to the abondoned K-Mart parking lot to serve meals, or back into the community to serve meals, clean up debris, and repair home damage. We church members haven't minded all the air mattresses and cots lined up in the hallways, scattered among the atrium and in classrooms; we've been joyful to assist with laundry and prepare meals for the workers. It has really felt like church. I felt a little bit sad last night, when I went to church and saw a lot fewer air mattresses and cots in the atrium and in the halls. The work is coming to a close. The volunteers are going home. The magnificent mixture is slowly becoming more homogeneus. The destruction - homes lost, sometimes everything people owned - was met by the beauty of helping hearts and hands.
Destruction and beauty. The Bible talks about the refiner's fire. Destruction takes place so that beauty can come out of it. One of my dear professors (I've told this story many times) once called me an ugly pot. He said that I could remain an ugly pot, useless, or I could allow God to break me and remake me and then I would become something beautiful and useful. Would it be painful? Very much so.
I still feel pain when I think about the wreck. It's been almost three months now, but I'm still haunted. And still, in the midst of all the destruction - broken bodies, torn emotions - there was beauty. The beauty of so many prayers lifted up for my family. The beauty of a new sister-in-law who held me while I cried as my baby was being taken away on a helicopter. The beauty of a God who is close to the brokenhearted. The beauty of phone calls from friends, offering love and encouragement.
And even the journey that I've been on since the wreck, the questions about God and faith and Truth . . . even that has had its beautiful moments. As I've been walking on a road that seemed, to me, littered with debris of its own, others have walked beside me. They've girded me up. They've offered their own stories. They've prayed. They still are. Beauty along that road on which I'm tripping over broken stones and fallen trees. Destruction . . . and beauty.
The kids and I stayed at the park the other evening until it was just not enough light to really play. The sky was so beautifully dark with a heavy blue color. The thumbnail moon shone above craggly branches that had been stripped clean and broken in the storm. I took a picture of the scraggly black and broken trees with the thumbnail moon behind. Destruction and beauty all in one place, making something that just should never be forgotten.
2 comments:
Beautiful post. I'm crying on Monday morning now.
So glad Charlie is better...and that you had wonderful people surrounding you after the wreck. And Charlie was well cared for. :)
I love you.
Girl, this is beautiful. You really have a gift for writing. I love that illustration about the broken pot. I'm praying for you!
Love,Rebecca
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