Resurrection Life

Last week we experienced our first tornado. At 4am we awoke to the sound of giants hitting our house with clubs. Within seconds, we had all three girls in our bed and our conversation went something like this:

Eliza: “My hammock!” 

Katie: “The vegetable garden!” 

Greg: “The CARS!” 

Megan: “The skylights!”, as the one in our bathroom threatened to shatter with the impact of another golfball-sized hailstone.

Me: “Click your heels Dorothy, there’s no place like home!”

Huddled in bed waiting for the storm to pass, we each anticipated the loss of something important to us. A treasured possession, something we’d worked hard to cultivate, our sense of safety, our support system. 

We have all had to sit in this storm.

It reminded me of where we all were a year ago: listing our losses in the wake of a global pandemic. Job losses, loss of future plans, loss of community, loss of loved ones. Over time, we’ve had to learn how to give ourselves permission to grieve. We’ve had to unlearn the idea that we can avoid pain and suffering. We've had to accept that no one loss is greater or smaller than another. We’ve had to reject the empty promise of a quick fix. We have all had to sit in this storm.

And it hasn’t been the only one. Just like the tornado came only a month after the winter storm that pretty much destroyed all our native Texan plants, this past year has felt like a succession of events that have tried and tested us: our characters, our patience, our resolve. Some losses we have suffered individually, but others we have grieved collectively as our world groans under the weight of change. We are tired. Worn out. In pain. Stuck like a ship in the Suez canal. Many of us feeling as emotionally barren as my mostly-dead garden. It’s depressing to see brown when you were hoping for green. 

In all this devastation and loss, there are signs of hope.

It was whilst working in the yard this weekend that I made the connection between my hands and my heart. Even in all this devastation and loss, there are signs of hope. A redbud tree bursting with bright pink buds reminds me that we are resilient. A hint of green at the base of my sage bush reminds me that we can recover. And my hands working in the soil reminds me that our resurrection God is working to restore and rebuild us too. It will not always feel like this. It will not always be so hard.

Be patient. God is making all things new.

“Consider it pure joy. my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.” James 1:1-3 (NIV)