God and the Albertville Tornado

Let me preface this, should you be reading, that this is not an attempt to convert you to Christianity, nor am I "preaching," as it were. I am simply stating what I think, in the only way I know how, solely based on my own experience, education and belief system...

I keep hearing people say -- either verbally or via posts on Facebook -- things such as, "My child asked me how Jesus could let this tornado damage our town -- how do I explain that?" or "I can't believe God allowed this to happen to us." or "God took my house away." I even heard a pastor on a local news station say that God had spared his church. People are asking, "Where was God when the tornado came?"

Here is my response, and you can take it or leave it: Jesus did not "let" this tornado affect the town so epicly. God did not "allow" this to happen to you. God absolutely did not take your house away. God did not "spare" one church and smite another.

So where was God? God was the father who could think of nothing but his family while he tried to protect them, hunkered down in the hallway. God was the mother who, perhaps for the first time, did not know how to protect her children. God was the child looking to his parents for comfort. God was the man or woman that kept a cool head in the midst of total chaos. God was the volunteer who showed up with a chain saw and helped a dear friend, or even a complete stranger, remove trees from her yard. God was the various people who handed out bottled water and food. God was all those who lifted up a prayer for loved ones and strangers alike. God was the family who had no damage that generously took in another family until they can get back on their feet. God was the city employees who worked -- and still are working -- tirelessly to get electricity back to people's houses. God was the faithful few that took communion and gave thanks in their church courtyard, though the church building had a gash in the ceiling and the walls were leaning off the foundation.

My Aunt Pam, a very wise and wonderful lady, sent a message to me. It was in response to a post on my Facebook page, where I said that I was sad to see our church damaged, but that I was excited and comforted about the new possibilities that lay ahead. Aunt Pam's message read, "This didn't take the Lord by surprise -- he already has the plans laid out. It is just our job to seek his will."

We are not God's playthings. He is not some grand puppet master, and we are not his puppets. I hope that people will stop believing that God caused this destruction. I hope that parents will stop letting their children believe that Jesus took their homes and trees away. I hope people will stop thinking that God was merciful to some and merciless to others. I hope people will stop asking, "What did God do to me?" and ask instead, "What does God want for me?"

Sleepless

I tried praying, but I don't know the words to utter. I tried watching a funny sitcom, but I'm still not calm, or any cheerier. I tried talking it out to my husband -- even woke him up at midnight, squalling, telling him the most terrible news I'd ever heard. I tried lying down in bed. That didn't help me either; I thought of my boys and wanted to look in on them, which I did. And now I am here. I guess I'm just going to have to blog this one out.

An old college friend of mine has a little son, and he has cancer, Stage 4 neuroblastoma, I think it's called. I only learned of this a month or so ago, though he was diagnosed several years ago, a little younger than my oldest son is now. He has had more pain and medication in his young life than some 80 year olds. He has had blood transfusions. He has been in and out of the hospital. He has been sick and gone bald from chemo. He knows what pain medication is, and he knows when to ask for it, which breaks my heart. He has been visited by several celebreties, which also breaks my heart, because celebreties generally don't visit the children who are going to be OK. Now his life is in real jeopardy. Doctors told my friend today that, judging by recent scans, his bones are being eaten up by disease. They gave him treatment options, but added that there is a 0% chance of survival -- they are simply buying him time.

I am grieving like this is part of my family. I haven't seen my friend from college in 14 years. We were not even close. I have never seen nor met her son. I can't figure out why I am so affected by this family's pain.

Maybe I'm just that nice a person. It's possible. I am not made of stone, though I have been told that I come off as pensive.

Maybe I see parallels in my life and my friend's. We were both music majors, and we both have two sons.

Maybe just nine months ago, my youngest son's life briefly hung in the balance because of birthing complications. I can certainly empathize with the fear that your child, whom you would do anything for, may not live. I have prayed that prayer -- that my child would be spared and my joy would be restored. Oh, yes -- I can empathize with that.

Maybe this child's plight has led me to the discovery (I use this word loosely) that he is not the only child dealing with such sickness as this, that children everywhere are dying of some horrible disease that cannot be controlled. This angers and saddens me. And I'm not one of those who gets mad at God, wondering why he would allow that kind of suffering. I don't believe God works that way, not my God at least. That is a whole other blog, though I may end up touching on my thoughts about God and suffering somewhere in this post.

Maybe I think of my Nicholas and how smart he is and how in tune he is with the universe. I mean, he told me that it was time for me to have another baby and --WHAMO!-- Parker was on his way -- BEFORE I knew I was pregnant. Somehow Nicholas knew. And I know beyond any shadow of a doubt that if Nicholas were as sick as my friend's son, he would KNOW that his life would be shorter than the average little boy -- he literally would piece that together. And I wonder how any mother could handle the questions I know my friend's son is asking. I can't stand to think about it...

I am so thankful that the conversations I have with Nicholas are about all the normal things in life -- "It's a beautiful day -- go outside." "You need to eat more vegetables." "You can play the Wii for ten more minutes, then it's time to get off." "I love your drawings. You are so creative." "You did a great job at gymnastics." "Time to go brush teeth." Normal, everyday stuff. Nothing truly sad or life threatening or painful. Not that life is always a bowl of cherries *all* the time, but still, life is very good.

Maybe I feel guilty. It almost seems unfair that some families have to struggle with losing a young child while others don't. Not that I would trade places with my friend. I really wouldn't. I never want to know that kind of heartache. It's not the natural order of things, for a parent to outlive a child. This is my greatest fear.

I think this will be an on-going, evolving post, for a little while anyway. I just found out about this child's prognosis of 0% survival, and it wrecked my world, and then I couldn't sleep. But now I must go and try to rest my brain and my body, no matter how much guilt and empathy I feel...

Homeless

Last weekend, Mark and I were on our way to the Simmons' house in Albertville for a church related meeting/dinner/thingie. Mark asked if he should take Rose Road, and I said no, go down to Railroad Avenue. Then I thought about it and I told him no, you're right -- Rose Road is the best way for us to go.

I used to know Albertville like the back of my hand -- I could have driven to nearly any location with my eyes closed. It was my home, and everyone I loved lived there. But now I do not live there, and haven't for a number of years. My parents don't even live there anymore -- they moved to Huntsville. I now go to Albertville only twice a week -- on Wednesdays for Nicholas' gymnastics class, and on Sundays for worship. I no longer know the neighborhoods and side streets like I used to. So as we were driving to the Simmons' and weighing the shortest route to get us there, I realized that I was glad I didn't know Albertville as well as I once did. I even caught myself thinking, "I can't wait for the day when I don't know this place anymore."

I began to wonder why I felt this way. The main reason, I think, is because my home is gone, and that leaves me with both relief and sadness. And when I say "home," I mean that place that exists in my mind when I think of "going home." It is more than a physical address. At least I think it is. It's almost like a state of mind, but my memories give it a physical place. Until I was eight years old, I lived with my mom and my grandparents. That was my real home and in my mind may always be, complete with Granny's irises in all their glory and the vegetable garden that got smaller and smaller as my grandparents got older and older.

I had other homes in Albertville as well, but they are all sold off and gone (as is Pap and Granny's place), and though I have lots of memories tied up with those places too, it is Pap and Granny's house that remains the definition of "going home" in my head.

I am glad, as I said, to be moving on from my home in Albertville, but I find myself with a void -- without "home" -- homeless. And that is not comforting. As much as I detest that little town (there are various reasons for this, but I shall not go into all that here), at least I had some place to call home.

I can't "go home" anymore. So I am left asking myself, now what? I want home. I do have a home -- the place where my family and I live. It is filled with lots of love and joy and happiness. Yet this is not the place I want home to be -- not in this town, not in this house.

Three days after wondering exactly how to get to the Simmons' house, I read Psalm 45. What led me to this particular Psalm is my Lenten disipline. Each day I read the meditations in the Episcopal devotional _Forward Day By Day_, but I have not been reading the daily Bible readings that go with each meditation. For Lent I am reading the Bible readings, which include selections from the Old testament, the Psalms, an Epistle and a Gospel, hence the Psalm I was led to read: "Listen, O daughter, consider and give ear: Forget your people and your father's house (v. 10)...Your sons will take the place of your fathers; you will make them princes throughout the land (v. 16)."

Well. If that ain't God talking to me! My home is -- IS -- my boys, Nicholas and Parker. They are my new home. Why have I never considered this? My friend Debby suggested that perhaps God wants me to consider where I want my boys to call home. Mark immediately said, "Huntsville!" Well, yes, that is ultimately where we'd like to live. Maybe God is preparing me to get ready because the move is coming, even if I don't know it yet. Maybe God wants me to do as my grandparents did for me -- they didn't look back a whole lot, though they cherished and honored their memories of the past -- they continually moved forward. Their garden that they made smaller and smaller with every passing year is an example of that: they were preparing for what was to come. I think the common theme here is that I should prepare. For exactly what, I don't know. But my boys will see me moving forward, not stuck in my past. And definitely NOT worried about how to navigate the streets of Albertville.

Blackened Salmon

So last night I made blackened salmon for the first time. Mark and I have decided that we need to eat more seafood, simply because that's what The Experts say we should all be doing. We love salmon croquettes. I always use salmon from a can, and I mix it with bread crumbs, egg, parsley and onion. And then I fry them in oil, kind of like hushpuppies, and serve them with cheese grits. I don't think that is the healthy seafood meal The Experts have in mind.

The other night Mark and I were watching TV (probably the Winter Olympics, but that's a whole other blog) and I asked Mark what he wanted for dinner this week. And for whatever reason, though I'm sure it was a subliminal message we saw on TV -- a Red Lobster commercial, or maybe some message from The Experts about how seafood is so good for you -- Mark said, "Fish!" So there you are -- blackened salmon, here we come.

Like I said, I have only used salmon from a can, or sometimes from one of those vaccum-sealed pouches. I never really liked salmon beyond those sources. Even in a restaurant, the featured salmon dish just never appeals to me. So purchasing fresh or previously-frozen-and-magically-turned-to-fresh salmon and preparing it myself made me a little nervous. But I learned some things last night, making blackened salmon for Mark, Nicholas and myself:

I learned that putting Nicholas in charge of seasoning the salmon makes for a very salty dish, but not to the point of it being too salty. Whenever Nicholas shows interest in what I cook, I always allow him to help. It gives him ownership of what goes on his dinner plate, and he's more likely to eat something that he prepared. [It doesn't hurt that Mark and I brag and brag and brag about what a good job he did.]

I also learned that to blacken something means to cook the you-know-what out of it. I figured this out while cooking the last three of nine fillets! Paprika helps -- a lot.

I learned that the three of us LOVE blackened salmon! I can't tell you how happy this revelation was. Whenever I find a meal that all three of us (soon to be all four, as Parker is eating more and more table food these days) enjoy, it never leaves my repertoire.

Blackened salmon will grace our table again, maybe next time with some sort of lemony sauce. I'm also looking forward to having it grilled (ahem, Mark!) and baked and seared -- it's all good. The Experts would be so proud.

Several years ago, I took a personality test, and based on my personal traits, it said I would be quite happy as a writer. I'm such a closet English major anyway, so here I am. Blogging. Here I will celebrate both the mundane and the extraordinary in my life. I don't really have a focus, like food or my kids or stuff I like -- although I'm sure I'll mention all those things at some time or another. I think I'll just simply work out my thoughts in this space and see what evolves. By all means, feel free to suggest subjects or ask me questions -- I will respond as best I can.



"Be well, do good work, and keep in touch." ~spoken by Garrison Keillor at the end of each episode of The Writer's Almanac~