So today’s entry is coming from the second story, literally, of the house where I live. Because the basement–where I call home— is flooded.
The rancid odor encroached on this afternoon’s study session; I smelled before I saw. My language teacher phrased the situation quite nicely: “… you have a problem with your house.” What to do? CALL FOR HELP. While not a common thing, my housemates tell me, it isn’t the first time. So they, too, called for help.
We hope the plumber comes soon.
And in the meantime I sit on their porch, looking back the interruptions of the past several days. Unusual rain interrupting this city’s rhythms earlier in the week. Mosquitoes interrupting sleep for a few of my nights. A national celebration interrupting normally scheduled classes at the university (a celebration which I learned about two hours before my class was supposed to begin). A recent video released by Save the Children UK, illuminating in wrenching ways how a child’s life can be quickly interrupted, uprooted, and confused by war.
Videos like that cause movement, movement in my soul. Shaking, my soul sits before God and asks how I can trust Him, feel safe, or preach a gospel of life and salvation. These devastating interruptions don’t just come to “bad people,” or to “others.” They come. They leave life irreversibly altered. They surprise me.
He makes wars cease to the ends of the earth…He says, “Be still and know that I am God….” The Lord Almighty is with us; the God of Jacob is our fortress.
My soul is also moved to action– but while some are good steps I do want to make, none is easily going to change all things. I know it won’t be through my own plans that the trembling ceases in me, or the struggle ceases for others.
So all I know is, beyond shaking, and before and after doing, my strongest movement is toward stillness. And from a place of stillness, I can call for help. “Great are You, O God my God; You won’t stay silent against the violence…” (another song from Tim Coons— The Lord’s Prayer).
Will you call for help, too?
My housemates’ young sons seize the opportunity, afforded to them by my interruption, and keep me company on the porch. One informs me of his plan to “earn seventy million dollars” teaching Arabic, and then to “buy a jet pack.” His six-year-old brother asks me why ants like sugar, while munching cookies and insisting that he has no personal appreciation for the stuff. And I wait for the plumber more patiently.
And to those for whom the wait is not so gentle, those whose interruption is life-altering, know, your story is not done. There is hope.
There is a second story.