Today began like they all have lately (except for Sunday, which already seems like an eternity ago). Put on my boots. Pull on my gloves. Strap a mask to my face. Tug my Astros cap a little tighter on my head. Wade into the pile of rubble that used to be where I lived. Where we hosted home group every Thursday. Where we set up a Christmas tree the Saturday after Thanksgiving right after the Turkey Bowl. Where we gave out candy and Jesus stuff on Halloween. Where I researched sermons. Where we homeschooled our sons. Where we played and laughed with our grandsons. Where we hosted whoever needed a place to crash. Where we blew out birthday candles. Where we had marriages on our deck. Where we watched the air show from our backs on the roof. Well, that’s enough waxing nostalgic for now. I know I’m not done, and neither is Chris, so we’ll revisit this stroll down Memory Lane. Many times.
It hit us today that we are not in this alone. Oh, we knew there were other bodies around us, but we finally realized that they were here – with us – for us. Stan let us stay in his house. Both my brothers gave me some of their clothes. Which led, by the way, to the classic comment by my middle child, who was truly understanding of my own “middle-child-dom.” Josh never missed a beat when I told him of the brothers’ generosity. He matter-of-factly said, “So Dad, you’re still wearing hand-me-downs.” Speaking of sons, all three came. Ollie and Kay came by and dug in. Paulette, who can’t live in her house either, came by and offered a generator and power washer and air compressor. Neighbors were beginning to return and wanted to make sure we were OK and to check on Mom.
No, we were not alone. I personally realized this significant point as I stood, precariously perched atop our overturned piano, emptying nic-nacs from a shadow box on the wall, and waiting for Chris to return with a box. My leg muscles were quivering as I watched her pick up the box, start to return, then stop to greet yet another visitor. Seconds seemed like hours as I clutched the precious, as-yet-unmolded artifacts and held on to the piano. Finally, I called out, “Hello! I’m still in here!” She heard me. And came … quickly!
I guess it would be easy for us to join with John there at the end of the Book of Revelation and say, “Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.” But in the meantime, we are not alone. 1 Corinthians 12:27 says, “Now you are the Body of Christ, and each one of you is a part of it.”
Father, thank you for having such a family. And thank you for inviting me to be adopted into it. I need it. Amen.
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