On Sept 6th, after our three-week stay in Newfoundland, Derick and I landed in Halifax, excited to spend the weekend with my sister and her fiancé.
I am an anxious flyer, so I was thankful to finally be on the ground again and to have had a "turbulence-free" flight to boot. Noting this to Derick, he leaned in, looked me in the eyes and—with a wry sense of humor—said, "You do realize hurricane Dorian is expected to hit the east coast tomorrow, particularly Halifax, and you are glad to be here on the ground, uh?"
In my defense, I hadn't given much thought about the hurricane heading our way. It's not that I was oblivious to its destructive path throughout the Bahamas and the U.S., at that moment, I was just glad to be off the plane and not yet ready to comprehend the dangers that Dorian might pose—one fear at a time, please!
Upon arriving at the baggage carousel, however, I was no longer thankful to be on the ground. My sister had confirmed the brutal facts: We'd indeed be taking a direct hit from hurricane Dorian early Saturday a.m., with forecasted wind speeds ranging from 120 to 150 km an hour (yikes!).
And true to form, the torrential rain and blustering winds struck us with a vengeance the next morning, and in its wake, widespread power outages impacted the region.
Fortunately (as the storm raged on outside), a generator afforded us a sense of normalcy, a means to have breaking news updates as well as coffee and food and lighting.
While Dorian appeared to pause shortly after lunch, we were left wide-eyed, frozen, by the stillness of nature's rage. I am not sure who blurted out, "I believe we are in the eye of the storm!" Nevertheless, this turbulence-free zone filled the air not only with calm energy but an eerie yet peaceful feeling as well. I mean, even the trees seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. Regrettably, though, the brevity of nature's rest soon gave way to pounding winds from the opposite direction—casting us into uncertainty once more.
Hours had passed since the stillness in the eye when, from the living room vantage point, my eyes caught sight of the dusk sky peering through the kitchen window. Its shadowy outline lured me into taking a closer look. And as I stood there (pretty much on tippy-toes, to get the full view of the outside) and watched the treetops fiercely sway back-and-forth against the darkening backdrop, a wave of panic gripped me.
You see, during the day, I was somewhat comforted by the fact that my "hawk-eyes" could take in every detail of the storm's rage around me. But knowing that it'd soon lurk in the dark, knowing that it'd soon hammer us with hidden fury, caused anxiety and fear and a pang of uncertainty to flood my body. Yet, I knew I had no control over the results of Dorian. So I did the only thing I knew to do: I prayed.
Thankfully, we all survived that horrifying night unharmed. And although for several days nearly a million people were without power throughout the Maritimes, there were no human casualties. There was, however, significant infrastructure damage, and many of the areas majestic trees had succumbed to Dorian's wrath.
I liken Dorian to life storms. Many of you reading this have weathered them. Many of you have suffered significant losses in their aftermath. And yet, you have found a way to rise above. Not unscathed, not without being changed and shaped differently, no doubt. And rightly so. Your life was serene, and then—in the blink of an eye—you were tossed into a raging storm, battered and broken and uprooted from the life you once knew.
I can relate to storm damage in my life, as well.
I was twenty-eight years old when my fifty-six-year-old mother suddenly died. In an instant, without any warning, she was gone. One day I had a mother, and the next day I was motherless. In its wake, this tragic event triggered a slow-moving grief hurricane, where the winds of pain came at me in many directions, where I went through life searching for the serenity of the eye.
The backstory is: Although I went into survival mode for my, then, four-year-old daughter and five-month-old son, it took years to work through my grief. The truth is, it wasn't until I found Christ in the eye of yet another storm, over a decade ago, was I able to find true peace and calmness of spirit. And even though I still succumb to fear, I've come to the realization that (unlike the trees), if we survive the fall, our life isn't over. We can choose to rise again. We can choose to embrace the lesson's grief offers. We can choose to become generators of light for others, even though the gaping hole in our heart is irreplaceable.
With the Christmas season fast approaching, many will be stressed and lonely and sad this year—loss of traditions, an empty seat at the table, financial difficulty, illnesses, loss of hope...have trapped them inside one of life's storms.
Christ draws us ALL to the eye of the storm, a place of rest and calmness and peace. But for those who are burdened by circumstances, generators of light may need to come alongside them. Perhaps you/we can be that light this year?
