Monday, September 25, 2017

The trucks with the big claws turned on our street this afternoon. Our turn for the city to haul off the growing pile trash had finally come without warning. I'd left my biggest, most intimate possession for the last: the bed. That beautiful sanctuary in which we had laughed for hours, playing our own version of Name that Tune into the wee hours of the morning, the safe place to shed our tears and prayers over our children, the soft surface where I gingerly massaged Rob's swollen feet in those last days. 
Of course, we would not have kept it much longer than the "replace every eight" recommendation, and even in this situation, we would have simply run to the store to purchase a new one...together.
But this was our bed that I was placing on the rubble. Our bed is forever gone.

The grief counselor says write, write, share...tell your story over and over.
And yes, I need to so badly. I'm falling apart, feeling overwhelmed and abandoned. The people I would rely on the most to help me solve issues are just not there for me. However, God continues to bring those that want to help...my Harvey Angels.
So for my sanity, I'll write and share this journey with those who are truly interested in what it is like to go through a catastrophe on your own. 
I'll let those that don't subscribe to my blog, know when a new post is published; that will allow those who just don't want to continue to hear about Harvey to skip my story.
Interestingly, there are still two types of friends that continue to send me a personal message after a Facebook post: those drowning in their own flood and the friends who really want to pray very specifically. 
I want to connect with both of you. You can subscribe here, send me a pm or just comment on my FB notification. 
As we are all in this together. I so want to hear your story.  And don't forget, it's history.

Carry each other's burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ. Galatians 6:2

Friday, September 22, 2017

I suggested to my pastor last night that we need to spill our grief on paper, so again, here I am.
Yesterday, I met with a contractor. We walked through each room and again, just as with the insurance adjustor, I felt the overwhelming task of rebuilding sweep over me. Judging the remaining piles of things to inventory and the foreboding weather, I temporarily closed up shop. I could not face another day of rain falling on debris plus the devastation of the hurricanes, the earthquake, friends' personal loss rendered me useless. 
 I needed some normal: a visit to my hairdresser, a sweet dinner with some of my favorite people, an opportunity to gift someone else.  And I needed a lot more Jesus!
So many lessons rise from this rubble. Most strikingly, I've accepted that family comes in many forms. Most of my relatives are far removed from this disaster; they can't even fathom the catastrophic effect Harvey has had on the Texas Gulf Coast. Though only a few have reached out to me, God has provided a faithful spiritual family. Most escaped the physical devastation of the reservoir release, yet, their empathy and compassion surrounds me  through each and every day. They act out of love, not survivor's guilt; they are God's lavish gift. My newfound family calls, advises, listens, provides. They truly ease the pain of being separated from my relatives. 
I'm duly learning that just as my damaged foundation needs repairs before rebuilding, so does my life's footing. As this new chapter ensues, even though unwelcome, my emotional and spiritual health must be shored so the bricks will stand firm. For me that requires respite, community, much prayer...and an occasional trip to the salon.

Monday, September 18, 2017


God sent me a team of amazing women and men on Saturday.  I was leaking hope until they arrived to divide and conquer. The men from my church tore out cabinets, sheet rock, appliances and some nasty gypsum board from my home's exterior walls. The women washed and packed fragile items that no longer have homes. Then, a sweet couple came and rescued my carload of books, saving me a trip to donate my large collection. That's after they had already washed all of my clothes.
After everyone had left, I stood in awe of the work they had completed, blown away by the sacrifice of their weekend with their families. I can't even describe the outpouring of love. Overcome with gratitude, I just wept and thanked God for this gift I could never repay. And I felt hope rise once again.

Later, I ventured off my street, surveying the rest of my neighborhood. I am overwhelmed by the magnitude of destruction. The further I drove, the greater the stench and heartbreak.  The piles look just like mine, but something about seeing it all run together helped me drop my self-pity and encouraged me to care beyond my own tragedy. 
So today was  a day to process and worship. The loss of Rob's things are taking its toll and I will need to seek counsel on how to trudge forward in my journey of grief...once again. I took some time to reflect on how I'm going to allow something beautiful to come from the rubble. As I've said before, I don't want to waste this tragedy.
Sunday night is quickly coming to a close. I'm thankful for a day off to rest my weary legs and soul, yet I feel a sense of dread.  I don't want to face  another work week of decisions, piles to pack and discard, and that ever-present and necessary MASK! But I know who will see me through the rubble.

Saturday, September 16, 2017

My new Lug bag arrived today. I'd ordered just the right one for my trip next week. I had planned a fun trip to the Northwest and possibly a surprise visit to  see my sister for her birthday.  That trip was cancelled a few days ago to concentrate on my flooded home. No whales, no little grand-nephews, no much needed fellowship with family. Harvey rained out a lot of our plans, didn't he?
 As I see photos of friends' trips and special occasions,  I wonder if I'll ever just get out of my debris-filled neighborhood.  
Life doesn't seem to have any "normal" in it.  It's packing, demolishing, pushing sheet rock dust from one destroyed room to yet another.  Right now it  seems like there are three groups of people in our city: the displaced, the exhausted volunteers, and the ones going on with their everyday lives. I must be honest; sometimes I resent the latter one,  wondering  if the reservoir casualties will ever return to their former lives.  But then my heart floods with gratitude for the beautiful army of volunteers. They have not forgotten us! They sacrifice their weekends, quietly serving in the stench,  laboring in our houses that look as if they've been bombed. They don their masks and gloves and spread much needed hope to the displaced.   
I hate being in the first group, because I desperately want to serve alongside my church family. Instead, I, like many, have no choice but to receive. That's really hard for me, but I quickly realize that stubborn pride hinders my recovery.  
The new turquoise bag's back in its original box; instead of packing this weekend for a wonderful fall trip, I'm unpacking the lessons learned by cruel Harvey: endurance, patience, gratitude and humility.

Sunday, September 10, 2017

I was on the verge of shutting down my little corner of the world here at Larksong. I'd moved far enough along in my grief of losing Rob that I thought there wasn't anything else to write.
Then Hurricane Harvey devastated the city of Houston. 
In the midst of this great loss, God has given me a new story. It's not one I would have chosen to tell.  Just a few hours after evacuating in waist-high water in the pitch black with a bag and computer raised over my head, a life-long friend asked me to tell my story of loss and restoration.  Any purpose of doing so alluded me until God whispered: Tell my story, make Me known throughout all of this. Make Me believable.
I doubt my writing will be pretty; my brain can hardly string a simple sentence together, but obedience is greater than grammar.
Fresh grief for Rob has rushed over me once again, just like this horrific release of flood waters.
I am "smack dab" at the beginning. As I sort through debris, I suddenly find a remembrance of him too contaminated to restore.  Discarding them makes me weep all over again, but then I'm reminded that nothing can erase the beautiful memories of our sweet life. And more importantly NOTHING can separate us from our great God's love for us.  Not swollen bayous, rising waters or even death of any kind.  
Nathan sang it so beautifully this morning...
I need Thee ever hour, most gracious Lord.
We need You every hour! You are the God of this city.
Chris Tomlin says it much better than I could ever.
You're the God of this city

You're the King of these people
You're the Lord of this nation
You are
You're the Light in this darkness

You're the Hope to the hopeless
You're the Peace to the restless
You are
There is no one like our God

There is no one like our God
For greater things have yet to come

And greater things are still to be done in this city
Greater thing have yet to come
And greater things are still to be done in this city