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| Eighty-nine rings. I can count 89 clear and discernible rings on the stump in my backyard, and there are many more I can’t count. For more than a century, this pecan tree had stood as a sentry, watching over this piece of holy ground. It had seen the farmers till this soil, first with mules and then with machines, it had seen the tractor paths become roads into a newly purchased church camp nearly 40 years ago. This tree witnessed tens of thousands of children saying good-bye to their parents as they embarked on a new adventure in Christian community. This tree beckoned to others, “Come, rest here, retreat under these limbs, be renewed, enjoy the shade of my brothers and sisters in this grand forest.” Now, as I counted the rings, the roots of this testimony to the majesty of God’s creation stretched their way 15 feet towards the cloudless blue sky. The trunk of this tree rested on my roof, its limbs piercing their way into the bathroom and dining room, buckling the walls under its weight. A crew with a huge crane had already spent 3 hours trying to remove it from its resting place, so that we could cut it into manageable pieces of timber. It was a stubborn soul. I laughed out loud when the chainsaw was unable to cut the stump from the trunk, at 4 feet in diameter it was too thick, it would not give up without a fight. But mostly I grieved the loss of this old friend. It might seem silly to grieve a tree. But as I meditate upon Paul’s letter to the Romans which tells of the “whole creation groaning together,” and Hebrews recounting the “great cloud of witnesses,” I cannot help but think that this tree bore witness to much of the ministry of Makemie Woods. Along with two other pecan trees and a walnut tree that now lay in my yard, and hundreds all over the 275 acres of the camp property, this tree succumbed to the devastating winds of Hurricane Isabel. The storm passed just west of the camp, putting this little peninsula of land in the path of some of the most powerful wind gusts and a torrential ten inches of rain. Mighty oaks uprooted and fell scattered like matchsticks, pine and poplars snapped and twisted before gently and slowly toppling to the ground. As I watched the trees sway during the storm, making bets with my children about which would fall next, I remained completely in awe of both of the ferocity and beauty of the storm. We prayed. For nine hours the winds howled and the rains blew horizontally, and then finally there was stillness, and the sounds of crickets that had come out to see what was left. I was glad to hear their songs. I was thankful. But not as thankful I was would be the next day, when I could see all of the destruction, and fully recognize God’s providential care. Four buildings had sheltered residents of the Emily Green nursing home, evacuated from Portsmouth, and also my family and some of the camp staff. Not a single one of these buildings had been touched by the storm. Others, like the residence, had trees in them, against them, or in the case of one of the summer sites, was completely flattened. Yet every person was safe. And since the camp has gas stoves and water heaters, a generator on our well for water, and plenty of lanterns and flashlights, we were in many ways better off than most for our nine-day electricity-free adventure. Not only did we have showers, we had HOT showers. I confess it was difficult to wander into the radically changed landscape of the camp property, to tally up the collective damage and begin the tedious task of reporting to the insurance company, the adjusters, FEMA. Everything was changed. The path I walk with campers to the chapel, late at night in the dark to teach about trust and nature, that path was no longer even discernable. Once there was a single huge uprooted tree about 10 minutes into the walk, where I would stop and show this example of the awesome power of Hurricane Floyd, how that storm felled a centuries-old oak–now there are twenty or more such examples within sight of that one, and a hundred trees criss-crossing the camp paths. Everything is different, and there is a lot of work to be done. My job description has changed dramatically in the wake of this storm, my family’s home life, the school schedule, our priorities have shifted. I didn’t choose this. It is out of my control. Were it not for my thankfulness and my inherent sense of adventure, I might be resentful. Out of control. Was this what fueled the disciples’ question to Jesus as they hung on for dear life to their swamped boat, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” On that day long ago, the disciples and Jesus set out on calm water, expecting to cross to the other side. They do not have the benefit of the Weather Channel’s hourly tropical update, or NOAA weather radio. They didn’t have a week’s notice to decide if the forecasted winds and torrential rain meant they should forsake the lake and take shelter on higher ground. So they follow Jesus’s suggestion to cross the sea, away from the crowd. A sudden storm overtakes them, and though they are experienced seamen, they are quickly overwhelmed. Their own knowledge and experience is inadequate. They have no control. It is undoubtedly an awful feeling. I know if I had been in that boat, I would have terrified. Nothing I would do or say could save me. And Jesus is sleeping through this? What is particularly interesting to me about this passage is that apparently the disciples don’t know of, or believe in, Jesus’ power to help them. Frantic and out of control, they wake Jesus. The don’t ask, “Jesus, please make it stop,” the question is, “Don’t you care that we are about to die? Don’t you care...” He answers their question, I think, in a way they don’t expect. He doesn’t speak to them, he speaks to the storm: “Peace, be still.” And once it is calm, (and I believe he is smiling and amused and patient when he asks this, not critical,) “Why were you afraid? Have you still no faith?” This storm has undoubtedly changed the way that they perceive Jesus, it has indeed changed the way they believe–they are filled with awe, “Who is this that even the wind and the sea obey him?” Here is someone even MORE powerful than the storm, here is someone in control of that which has always been out of control... and here is someone to believe in. Throughout the Bible, storms illustrate power beyond human control. Noah, Jonah, Elijah, Moses, they all know about storms, and the change they bring. We have been changed by this storm, Hurricane Isabel. Yes, we had the opportunity to prepare to a degree, we could board up windows and send our ships out to sea, we had the choice to evacuate or risk being overwhelmed by the winds and rain. And yet we all knew and understood the reality that the storm was beyond our control–that when the sun would come out again, we knew everything would be different–we just didn’t know in what way. Some may have even questioned if God cared that the storm was coming, that homes would be destroyed and lives lost... I think God’s answer now is the same as it was then: “Peace, be still.” The Daily Press ran an article in which the author stated that the dealing with the aftermath of Isabel was far worse than dealing with the storm itself. I would argue that the aftermath is in fact the real storm. Because the storm isn’t the wind and the rain, as much as it is that sense of being out of control. We can’t force someone to cut up our trees, most of us can’t make the electricity come back on, I can’t make contractors return my phone calls, the insurance adjuster won’t come to the property until it is our turn. How do you deal with this kind of chaos, how do I? Do we throw up our hands and try to wake a sleeping God and ask, “Do you care?” “Peace, be still.” Did you see how brilliantly the stars shone at night, without interference from street lights, traffic signals and neon signs? There were so many visible stars I struggled to pick out the constellations I can usually see at the camp. Did you speak with neighbors you usually barely notice? Did you pick up a deck of cards, a good book, did you help someone else, did someone help you? Were you thankful for power crews from faraway places? Why is it that it takes a natural disaster to remind us who and what is important, that there are many things more valuable in life than stuff, and that to be out of control is to be human, and alive, and a child of God? And we don’t have to be afraid of it? Storms change us. The disciples learned something about themselves, and they learned a lot about God. And yet I have heard so many people say, “I was so relieved when things got back to normal.” As if we somehow, after a storm, return to the way we were. We can’t. Our world is different. We are different, and for some of us the changes are dramatic. We can remember and honor the past, but trying to go back to something that no longer exists is futile, not a very good use of valuable time, energy and emotion. But isn’t that true of every passing day? It is a sign perhaps of our arrogance, and maybe more of our naivete, that we think only huge storms, like hurricanes and other natural disasters and colossal acts of terrorism bring change that we need to respond to, adjust to, to grieve or embrace. We experience all of kinds of storms–conflict in our relationships, the loss or change of jobs, family and friends, challenges at school, illness and emotional upheaval. All kinds of situations, unexpected, where we feel afraid and out of control. Where is the hope? Is it in wishing that things would just get back to the way they were? Every time the rain falls, the world changes–the earth is nourished or washed away, there are accidents caused by slick pavement, there is cleansing and renewal. Every time the sun shines, the grass grows or it withers, a baby at a park takes its first steps, insects are born and insects die. We have no control over any of these things–but we think of them as normal, as the way we expect things to be, and for the most part we aren’t afraid. “Peace, be still.” We worship a God of the unexpected, who speaks to the wind and the waves and they obey, who speaks to our hearts... “Be calm, be silent, be not afraid. I am in control.” We worship a God of the unexpected, of the miraculous, a God who showers us with mercy we don’t deserve, who offers us grace and love and patience immeasurable. So now it is time to preach to myself. What would happen if I lived my life ALWAYS expecting the unexpected, always trusting God is in control of what I cannot, indeed what if we trusted God even with those things we believe we can control–our decisions, our relationships, our day-to-day “normal” routine? What if we asked our neighbors how they are doing, what if we asked what they needed and how could we help, even when we weren’t in the midst of catastrophe? What if we sang songs and played card games with our kids even when we have electricity? What if our worship honored the past, and embraced the changes of the future, reaching out to our children, and our children’s children? What if we welcomed the unexpected storms, knowing they bring a greater knowledge of ourselves and the God we worship? 89 rings of a pecan tree, a tribute to a bit of God’s creation that has seen and endured many more storms than I have. I hope I can find a fitting way to memorialize this old friend, and the ways my children and generations of children swung on its branches and played in its shade. It looks like I will be going to Food Lion for the main ingredients of future homemade pecan pies. It is inconvenient for my family to live in an RV while we wait for our house to become liveable again, but we are taking this opportunity to make some long needed improvements to this old house, including new wiring that will make it safer, many new fixtures, and a bath tub with jacuzzi jets. It will be worth the wait. I will need to find new landmarks to guide the campers to the chapel at night, but now that the canopy of the forest is a bit more open, the moonlight will stream in differently and more abundantly, creating an interesting walk of a new kind. I am learning about a myriad of government relief programs, and about sharpening chainsaw blades. And I am meeting many, many people volunteering to help with the clean up at the camp who have stories to tell about why Makemie Woods is holy ground for them, why they want to give back to this forest, to these trees. “Peace. Be still.” I could be overwhelmed and afraid and resentful. Or I can be thankful, and welcome the love and patience of a God who does care, even though I don’t deserve it, and extend that love, patience and grace to others. The storms and go. Our knowledge and experience may help us survive for a time, but in the end, if we rely only on these things, we will be overwhelmed. Let go. In the midst of the storms, we can let go of our fear and know the one whom even the winds and the waves obey. Thanks be to God. Amen. |
89 Rings:
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