Home & Hurricanes
I glance at the familiar Fontanini figurines of the Holy Family, tucked within the rustic stable. Today is the Feast of the Holy Family. And it has me thinking about the place we call home and the places that welcome and shelter our family.
I awoke today to the wind whipping and heavy rain falling outside. Were the tarps holding? We cautiously opened the door to the room that still - three months past Hurricane Helene’s visit- has a gaping hole reinforced with a patchwork of boards and tarps. Sure enough, water was dripping down the wall. The ladder came back out, and we unwrapped a new tarp. With a hammer, some roofing nails, and a little marital teamwork, the rain was rerouted back outside.
We are not alone on this morning I know. Many of our neighbors are worse off than we are. Many Augustans are still not living in their homes. I am starting to think that blue tarps and piled-up tree trunks by the curb may be around for the next year. And when I look at the naked landscape all around me I get overwhelmingly sad. But why?
I’ve done a lot of pondering over these past few months on the meaning of home, the importance of home as I try to understand why this has shaken me so deeply. For one, the restoration is not in my control, or on my own timeline. But I think it’s a lot more than that.
I think it comes back to my understanding of and my love of place - of being rooted - and of seeing home as a sanctuary. The ground that I’ve called home for the past 28 years and our beloved shade trees have been quite literally uprooted. Our home sanctuary is in chaotic shambles. And yet - there is light breaking through if I still myself long enough to notice.
Although I haven’t written in this space since the Hurricane, I have been writing a little about this time and sharing pieces on Instagram. I thought I’d gather up those reflections and share them together here as we begin to close out this year and look forward to the restoration that 2025 will bring.
I pray that wherever you are and whatever you are going through, God will allow glimmers of His light to penetrate the darkness. May we together wait in joyful HOPE.
October 4, 2024
I don’t want to forget the grounding smell amidst the visual devastation. I close my eyes and pause the shocking scene surrounding me as I breathe in the aroma of our Georgia pines and Southern oaks.
Try it. Breathe slowly and deeply as you walk between the house-high piles of tree trunks discarded by Hurricane Helene as if they were toy Lincoln Logs.
The birds - do you hear them - among the hum of chainsaws triaging the destruction? Our feathered friends weave among the wreckage - singing their notes of hopeful new mercies.
I try to make my way to Big Oakey, our beloved and enormous white oak tree. He was named when my boys were young enough to find the backyard ripe for exploring. But I can’t make my way back there. Not yet. I can’t go over or under or through the tangled jungle. As I look at the massive root structure from afar I see a glimpse of orange. There, flying gently upon it, is a butterfly.
Our city is crushed, but not forsaken. Devastated, but not destroyed. Resurrection is coming. And the light - His light - is shining brighter than ever through the people standing together under the canopy gaps of our fallen trees.
October 5, 2024
“These uprooted trees are in the shape of a cross,” my brother-in-law said, as we sat 10 hours away, itching to get home. “I don’t know how they didn’t fall on your house. You must have been praying.”
That tangle of trees, now taken down, was hanging over the corner of the house where my prayer chair sits and where I meet Jesus in The Word each morning.
Y’all, the stories from friends and family and neighbors from this storm leave me in awe and deep gratitude that the immense damage around us isn’t even worse, and that the injuries and deaths aren’t even higher. I am grateful for God’s mercies through Hurricane Helene. Saddened, yes, by how my rootedness to this place has changed with each tangled tree that fell. And yet still grateful. Both - And.
Let me tell you about my Jesus - He holds all in His hands.
October 21, 2024
Sometimes big, black, ugly trucks are the most beautiful thing you will see on a Monday. The Hurricane Helene debris removal has begun. This is no easy task with so many massive oak trees and pine trees…with even more in the backyard waiting for space to haul them to the front.
I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that it still makes me incredibly sad to see our beloved trees picked up like chopsticks. I guess my “living in a tree house era” is over. But there will be beauty from the ashes and eventually, there will be order from the chaos. Today’s breath of hope came in the sight of black debris trucks. It’s a great day to be alive - even if it looks like we are living in a dystopian movie set.
November 12, 2024
Under the Trees That Remain
I placed myself under a battered maple tree only half of what it was remains. The gentle wind chimes call me to remembrance and thanksgiving. Thank you Lord for the trees that stand - their changing leaves soon will fall Like this season of rubble and maybe, just maybe, abundant growth is on the horizon.
December 19, 2024
Advent moonlight shines brightly above me from the edge of the driveway. Clearer night sky views - one silver lining from Hurricane Helene’s backyard landscaping.
“The people who walked in darkness, have seen a great light.” Isaiah 9:2
