Saturday morning. Skies are clear.
An hour after awakening, my husband shows me the two tall pines we lost in the night. One lays toppled on another. The straight winds blustered entrances and exits most of the night. No way these trees can upright themselves again. They are uprooted.
Kindest friends, I am one of those who can hear snoring dogs, the drip of a faucet, someone turning pages and sighing over a sad paragraph. But last night, I heard nothing.
Thank you, Lord.
I needed the rest, the deep sleep. It was a gift...Though it’s strange to me that while I am sleeping, a 9-1-1 event can go on in my own yard, and I don’t know about it. Profound.
We see the top of the gum tree scattered on the yard, but nothing is bowed down by the wind.
There’s a part of me that wants to hold everything in terra firma, but you and I know I have no control over the wind. In fact, there’s not much I can hold together. It has taken me decades to realize that. And no amount of love can save pine trees or people.
But I now find myself in a bit of a mood.
On I go with my rat-killing as my mama would say, but there’s an underlying melancholy. I can still think and do, but the sorrow is real.
Probably from seeing brokenness, splintered trees, roots upturned. And the suddenness of it.
Stay with me. This is also the human condition.
It’s a loss. This is a change I don’t want. My moodiness speaks my grief, though no words, no tears.
Later, Jimmy, my better half, takes me with him to check out the church. We’d heard the sign had blown down. He cares about everything that happens on those grounds. It’s our holy place, where church family gathers three times a week.
It’s early December, and I long for spring and its tender greens.
We pass a tilted metal barn and a capsized carport. The sign in front of the church was destroyed. But, oh, the sigh my husband sighed….
Some things last and last, then they fail to go on: like the running river, a dog’s tail twitching like a metronome, and the light dimming down.
I know that all things must fall. We know that, right? But when it is in my face, I struggle with accepting it quickly, especially if it is no longer beautiful.
Sunday morning. Cloudy and cold.
I’m told by my teacher at church that joy can come out of anguish.
I know this is true from my own experiences, but I heard it best from Psalms 30:11 (NKJV): You have turned for me my mourning into dancing; You have put off my sackcloth and clothed me with gladness.
I needed that scripture and Psalms 30:5. Weeping (or moodiness, in my case) may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.
My teacher, who directed her class to those scriptures, also says, “Pain and anguish commonly precede joy like childbirth precedes a baby. ”
Yes, and the cross preceding redemption. Big joy.
Then James 1:2-3 says: My brethren, count it all joy when you fall into various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces patience.
Okay, so I have to work on reframing more of the negative happenings in my life which I cannot control, to count it all joy. Got it.
One thing I see is this: the pine boughs used for Christmas will come from the tree uprooted.
I guess joy will definitely come from this.
I live in the unknown a lot of time. Don’t we all? Always trying to figure things out….
May your belief in the Holy One stay strong.
Kindest friends, I invite you to share and/or comment on my blogs.
Close shot of toppled pine tree in Pat’s yard, taken by her on December 2, 2018.