There’s something completely different going on in my heart
this time around. So last night when our
former youth pastor asked the question, “Why are you here?” I wasn’t able to
quickly find an answer. So why did I
choose to spend a week in Arkansas doing tornado mission work? Why did I choose to go to Oklahoma last
year? Those answers, and I’m sure the
results, will be completely different.
That’s the great mystery of devoting your life to a God who’s full of
surprises. The God that knows my
weaknesses, my faithless moments and the tears of struggle I shed when I try
and carry my own troubles. No matter
what I try to do, spoken and unspoken, to defiantly deny (which is what sin is,
isn’t it, a flat-out denial of what we know to be true in our hearts) His love
for me, there comes a moment when the realization hits home.
I’m on my third day of relief work here in Arkansas. I’m having a blast. We traveled Monday with a group of 17 youth
and five adults. Many of them
participated in the Oklahoma trip last year, others I know from church or
having worked at last summer’s work camps.
We met a crew from Louisiana that is headed by our former pastor and his
wife. We’ve been in the business of
moving scrap metal, wood, tearing down fencing and clearing debris from a wheat
field (for those that know me, we had another wheat field experience in
Oklahoma). The work is constantly
blanketed by oppressive humidity and layered in our own sweat. In Oklahoma, we were not among the
neighborhoods that were wrecked, so the smells of the decay were lost among
us. This time, the smell of mildew and
rotting refrigerator food has had an overwhelming effect. It’s at times disgusting and comical. I’m afraid to move a bag of trash for fear
that some mystery juice will seep out of a peephole, or that a rat or snake
will spill forth awaiting to macabrely dance me to shrieks.
I’m still not used to seeing this type of destruction. Being up close to wreckage is unlike anything
someone could experience. Support beams
uprooted and bent, metal garage doors crinkled like paper, insulation in
tatters as if a gigantic yellow lab had been shedding hair among us (which is
funny since we met up with Maggie at one site, a yellow lab who shed at each
stroke of her back). We played games of
“Guess that object,” many times today.
Radiators, a barbecue grill, smashed toys, a section of a soccer
goal—all were contestants on this day.
I always try and get a sense of the life or lives that have
been touched by this wreckage. How can
you assemble someone’s life, their personality, from the remnants of
objects? A button pin of a youngster,
the covers of rain-beaten books—from a “how to talk to yourself” book to
cookbooks—VHS tapes, a headless weed eater.
My mind cannot “inception” the twisted metal back into reality. It’s gone and the envisioning cannot fully
happen. I couldn’t imagine waking up
every morning to the sight of an unfamiliar ceiling, or driving down a street
where your neighbors are no longer around (or any longer living), where the
familiar road you traveled and the stops along the way to work have been
shifted by some seismic mind game.
It’s clearly evident why I’m here, however. Tim spoke of one’s life being fulfilled when
one pursues God’s best in their lives.
What a profound and simple statement.
He didn’t say, “Make sure to be good,” or “Don’t do this or that.” What are some of the things I pursue? They are not always God-related. Some of them are work related and many of
them are selfish. But all the times I
have chosen His plan it’s been proven to be prophetic.
And this type of work is just that. Who wants to spend a week digging through
reeking trash? Who wants to take
downhill and uphill treks to drop off steel?
Who wants to wade through a wheat field so someone can harvest their
crop (in Oklahoma) or feed their cows (Arkansas)?
Am I better off for going?
My two last weeks have been pretty crazy here in Ohio. I finalized my 11th year as a
fifth grade teacher. Another new
principal awaits, and cleaning my room the last day was something I wasn’t
looking forward to. Cleaning my mess is
an ordeal to be avoided at all costs.
Cleaning a huge, destroyed-home mess is not. Crisis prevention at home as my wife and I
wade through the unplanned surprises of our son’s behavior. Lately, naps, punishments, prayers, beer and
throwing my hands in the air have been the ways I have dealt with my son’s mood
swings. I look at a hunk of metal that I
cannot possibly carry on my own and I have friends that will help me lift. I don’t ask for help often, and on trips like
these, help is a must. We took shifts
today while we worked to beat the heat.
Still, we have one with a fever and a van load of kids were blasted
emotionally by the heat.
I spoke with Ms. Falk who was telling me the story about the
neighborhood where we were working.
Seven people sought shelter with a thirty minute warning of imminent
danger. Two men, sons, across the street
chose not to and were among the 17 dead in the town of Vilonia. I spoke to the woman she had taken in after
the destruction. She sat in the truck,
smoked her cigarette and talked about how her furniture was completely lost or
broken apart. There was a weak resolve
in her voice, a woman in her 70’s, her husband already passed years ago. But the resolve was there. Some are more defiant. Neighbors spiked American flags from the
remnants of their driveways, the flag of Arkansas, state pride, Arkansas
strong. It’s times like these that can
make you or break you. Miss Lonora,
whose trailer home was completely demolished, plans to rebuild for the third
time. Her 29 year old grandson left town
and vowed to come back when she got “a real place.” He survived the tornado despite being thrown
out a window of a trailer home that had been flipped over twice, where the only
structure that remained was the tile flooring.
My life is not in shambles, but from my attitude lately
you’d think it was. I needed a
perspective check. Maybe the reason I
came was to escape responsibility that I know awaits in Ohio. Maybe this trip was exactly what I needed
after not calling for God’s help in months.
Maybe the reason has yet to be revealed.
What’s certain is that through the remaining week my mind and actions
will revolve around God. What’s certain
is that I’m sure there will be some surprises along the way, like there always
are. I’m amongst a group of teenagers
and I feel young, all up until I sit and become reminded of my aches. And I’m among friends too.
I told one today that despite them moving out of Ohio, it’s
like when we see one another you pick up right where you left off. You don’t ever get a chance to do that when
people leave your life. Death happens
and sometimes there’s regrets, reliving those last moments. A family moves from your lives and soon a new
neighbor arrives. I moved every year as
a kid growing up, so I constantly said good bye to friends, only to never
really get the chance to say what I really felt, or at least a hug
goodbye. That’s a slice of heaven. The minute we return to glory, our loved ones
will look upon our faces like we had never been gone. And you’ll catch up as if you had seen them
yesterday. That’s friendship. That’s God’s true intention for our
lives. None of the awkwardness of what
to talk about. None of the shame of having
regretted some offense.
I’ll return home soon to see my familiar surroundings. I know that eventually I will notice the
flaws, the cracks in the cement or the garage that is full and needs to be
cleaned. But I’m first going to catch up
with the wife and kids. Hug them as if I’d
been gone for days, and loving on them as if there had been no separation.
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