October 12 - “Not My Story”

My story today is not my story.  Well, I suppose in the sense that I heard it in person makes it part of my story.  At any rate, it’s a good one.  It sure got to me.

Terri and her two little preschool boys got home today.  They didn’t make it in time for church, but when they saw cars still in the parking lot, she had to stop and check in.

Speaking of church, worship went well today.  A few more regulars were back.  The youth praise team from University Baptist was back as well.  We listened to that first song Chris and I heard so “long ago” on that first Sunday after Ike, and I for one was fighting back tears again.  Bay Area First Baptist has sent a load of supplies, and before we left almost all had been taken – not just to use personally, but also to give out to neighbors in Jesus’ name.  That was particularly exciting to me, because Bay Area is supposed to bring more supplies in the weeks ahead.  Think of the potential to impact our community long after FEMA closes up shop!

Now, back to the story.  Terri and her boys and the three dogs they have been caring for stopped by to let us know they were back and well.  And Terri, like so many of us Galveston evacuees, began to tell her story.  She started with a passionate appeal to contact our legislator and ask that help be given to keep UTMB open.  Gradually, though, the story began to turn to her own homecoming … how she had tried to prepare her boys because “home is not going to look exactly like home any more.”  And how right she was.  See, they had moved not too long before the storm, and right after the move she was injured.  As a result much of her stuff – and many toys – was still stored in boxes downstairs.  And in the West End that means none of it was insured when the flood came.

As she began to sift through her own personal pile of rubble, the heightened emotions many of us have experienced began to rise within her.  Box after box brought ruined, unusable whatever-was-in-there.  It even seemed that memories had been crushed along with the symbols of those memories stored in those boxes.  A good indication of healing, by the way, began for us when we first realized that the memories themselves were not crushed.  They lived on, perhaps stronger than before, because now they were also tied to the trauma that was the flood – we survived and so did our memories.  And so – perhaps in a greatly revised sense – so did our hopes and our dreams – so did our future.  We survived.

As Terri picked up one more box, the bottom broke open, and to the ground fell Bibles.  Not just one Bible.  Virtually every Bible she had.  There was the one from her confirmation.  There was one she held during her wedding.  There was the one she got for …

That was her “I can’t take it any more“ moment.  Even the Bibles were flooded.  Why, God?  Where are you in this?  How can I find you if your word is all flooded out?

In her frustration Terri headed to that spot many of us have found more than solace in – the Salvation Army hot meal line.  But an interesting thing happened to her as she waited for her turn.  She heard one of the workers shout (she thought at her), “Here!  I think you’ll need this.”  She wondered why he raised his voice, and why he was even talking to her.  Then, in one of those happens-in-seconds-but-seems-like-forever moments, she realized that first, he wasn’t talking to her, but instead to another worker about to leave.  And second, the “you’ll-need-this” was a box of Bibles to be given away.  Hmmm.  Maybe he was talking to her.  Maybe “He” was talking to her.  She took one of the Bibles. 

It didn’t end there.  Shortly after she was given yet another Bible.  Now, Terri is a pretty sharp lady.  Two was all it took to get her attention.  “OK, God.  I get it.  You’re here.”  The rest of the afternoon she spent reading one of those Bibles – those little symbols of brand new memories.  God is there.  He does want to connect with us.

Psalms 118:105 says, “Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light for my path.”

Father, thank you for connecting with Terri.  Touch her gently with your Spirit as she reads your word.  Amen.