Garbage day in my neighborhood has come and gone. The mountains of household items and memories are gone from my neighbors’ front yards. I live in one of those neighborhoods where whole blocks were submerged in both rain water and sewer backup. Even if you didn’t have to evacuate your home, chances are your lowest level got some water. I say this with a sort of survivors’ guilt: my home did not get any water even though all the ones surrounding mine did. I look at the rows of driveways with bright red construction dumpsters sitting in them. It breaks my heart.

     I have stopped by many neighbor’s homes and listened to their stories and offering to help clean up. There is so much to do it is even hard to show someone where to help.

     Yesterday I stopped by a neighbor’s home because I heard it was their first night back since they had to evacuate. Our daughters are the same age and have been friends growing up. I didn’t know what to do.  I
brought some flowers for them so they would have something beautiful to look at in their home. (And something that didn’t smell like sewage.) As we stood in her driveway and looked at their belongings set in piles (things to save, things that need to be cleaned, things that maybe can be saved if they dry out, etc), I realized what she needed was to talk. She needed to share her grief. The story is important and the act of telling it is important, just as when we experience grief when someone dies.

     She told me her middle school son is lamenting that his childhood has died. Their basement was the playroom for years. Even things that her kids didn’t play with anymore were still down there because they were treasured. Thomas the Tank Engine. If you know Thomas, those are all wooden pieces. All gone. Most of their Christmas decorations including the ornaments they bought each year for their two children are probably too damaged to save. But they are still sitting in their own pile. She is not ready to commit to putting them in the dumpster yet.

     And then she stared to chuckle, with tears in her eyes, “You know what made it through the flood? The toilet paper roll Nativity Set the girls made when they were in Kindergarten Sunday School.”
Who would have thought that the nativity set made with old toilet paper rolls would be one of the sturdiest things in their home? But in a way it makes sense. Our faith is not a flimsy, fair weather, tissue paper valentine that is there to make us feel warm and fuzzy. Our faith is sturdy: ready to withstand the floods, destruction and
heartache that come with living. Our faith has withstood those things through time and will carry us again. God promised us and still does, “I will be with you. You are not alone.” The irony that it was a clothespin Jesus that has survived is not lost on me. It is through Christ that God is present with us every day. God's promises even show up through the handiwork of a 5 year old child.

     My neighbor’s only request: “Pray for us.” I can do that. I am hoping she will call if she needs physical help. But for now, I will pray for more of that sturdy faith that has gotten all of us this far.

~Pam


  

     As I watched my Facebook newsfeed unfold in the past few days, one thing was consistent – there are no words when grief fills you.

     Three days ago I learned my high school classmate, Dave, died suddenly, very unexpected. Yesterday in the midst of the news of the bombings in Boston, my cousin contacted our family that his wife’s brother, Jim, had died unexpectedly as well. He had been sick but there was no indication that death was close. In each of those cases, there was not a flood of postings about the people or event. But people were there. I know this sounds strange, but the grief was present, palpable, hovering over each Facebook community. You could feel it.
Sometimes there are no words.

     A friend at church sent me an email this morning asking how she can explain something like the bombings in Boston to her sons. I told her I think we try not to explain it. We can’t. We can’t fit our grief and heartache in a box. There are some things we just don’t understand.
What we can do is talk to each other. Ask the questions. Let them hang in the air. Pray.

     Our faith is not something we try to explain or understand. It is something we trust and believe and profess: Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again. We trust the promises of God that say he is always with us. That is the mystery of the resurrection that we live everyday – not only on Easter. Jesus is here with us. In our grief. In our heartache. In our questions.

     In Morning Prayer at my church this morning we sang. We sang more hymns than usual. We sang hymns of lament. Hymns filled with questions and hurt and yes, even some hope. This hymn touched my heart – my heart that aches for Dave’s family and Jim’s family and the people in Boston.

In Deepest Night
In the deepest night, in darkest days,
when harps are hung, no songs we raise,
when silence must suffice as praise,
yet sounding in us quietly there is the song of God.

When friend was lost, when love deceived,
dear Jesus wept, God was bereaved;
so within us in our grief God grieves,
and round about us mournfully there are the tears of God.

When through the waters winds our paths,
around us pain, around us death;
deep calls to deep, a saving breath,
and found beside us faithfully there is the love of God.

When I have no words, these are the words I share with everyone I love today.
~Pam