Tuesday, October 16, 2018

Ode to the Forgotten Coast



There is something in the human spirit that causes us to, when disaster strikes, long to link ourselves to those impacted.  It seems we are searching for a connection.

"My dad has a business partner whose brother was on flight 93." 
"My best friend from college went to high school at [insert name of countless locations of school shootings.]"
"The tornadoes in Tuscaloosa ravaged my college town."

After Hurricane Michael I have, unwillingly and with a broken heart, joined in the chorus:

"My in-laws have a beach house in Port St. Joe, Florida."

The first time I visited this house was in the summer of 2014. I can't claim a life-long love for the "Forgotten Coast," as it is affectionately called by those who know it well. However, it's a place that grows quickly on a person. 

That first visit, back in the summer of '14, was when I realized I could (and would very much like to) not only marry my (then) boyfriend, but marry into his family. Spend a week at a house in a sleepy beach town with people and you'll figure out pretty fast how you feel about them. 

Since then there have been multiple trips. Long weekends spent with friends. Our first New Year's as a married couple. Family beach weeks with both of our parents. And, most recently, last January, a trip with our 3 week old son.  We were new parents and had no clue what we were doing so the three of us hunkered down among the locals and snowbirds and enjoyed the quiet of a beach town in the winter. We took him to many of our favorite places that week. And I'm glad we did, because some of those are now damaged or gone.


There's the local spot, Killer Seafood, in Mexico beach where we sadly pinned a dollar to the (already crowded) wall in honor of our pug, Presley, who had died the day before we arrived. Killer Seafood is gone now and that dollar is floating somewhere in the gulf. I wish it would wash ashore and find someone who needs it.

There's Oyster City Brewing Company in Apalachicola where we have shared local beer and stories with friends and strangers. They experienced damage but are  up and running as of today, providing a place for people to gather and, as they put it, try to "resume life as normal."

And there is, of course, Indian Pass Raw Bar. It's a place of legend that, if one place can, embodies the spirit of the entire Forgotten Coast. They lost their doors, their sign, and took on several feet of water within their restaurant. Their team, mostly family, has already begun a clean up effort and is donating all of their t-shirts to those who lost even more than they did.


These are only a few of the local establishments that make this place what it is, and I am only one of many who could write this post. Each person who has spent time down there could pen an ode, and I hope each one will.

As stories of hurt and loss continue to surface in the wake of this disaster, so do stories of heroism, sacrifice, and perseverance. So we will continue to pray. We will continue to give* and go to those who are hurting. Because, in the end, we do in fact have that connection for which we are searching: we are made in the image of God and God is present in tragedies.  He is embedded in the lives of the hurting. He is "near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit."** As his image bearers, we will try to do the same.


*There are many places you can give to support the Forgotten Coast, but two I can recommend and know to be sincere are:
**Psalm 34:18

Thursday, March 8, 2018

Grief and Celebration



We had Mack dedicated at church a couple of weeks ago. Right in the middle of Lent. We're Baptist (well, technically, I'm a "Baplican," but that's another story for another time), but were we of a more "high church" denomination, we would have been asked to wait until after the Lenten season to perform such a celebratory act. We also would have been asked to sprinkle him. Yet another story for another time.

It has been noted on this blog before that despite being a Baptist I am a huge fan of the Liturgical tradition. I revel in the anticipation of Advent and the solemnity of Lent. However, as I contemplated this joyful occasion we were imposing on such a sacred time of year I felt a peace.

I have come to realize that one of the bittersweet tensions we hold this side of Heaven is that grief and joy are not mutually exclusive. They are not confined to their own separate corners only coming forth when asked. They ebb and flow and mix and mingle and cannot truly be separated.

I have seen this in my own life as I feel I am constantly grieving the end of one stage of life while celebrating the beginning of another. I remember as our wedding approached I felt a surprising amount of grief for the end of my single days. The same was true as my due date approached last year. I grieved the end of the "just the two of us" newlywed stage Will and I were preparing to exit. And in a brief three months of parenthood I have already grieved many stages of Mack's life even as I rejoice to see him growing and progressing into a healthy little boy. I have no doubt that will continue.

This tension between grief and celebration became clearest to me last summer when my grandmother passed away while I was almost nine months pregnant. I stood in front of a crowded chapel and gave her eulogy while inside me I could feel my son kicking--a sign of life. The significance was not lost on me and I remember in the moment taking a minute to soak in the beauty of God's mercy that as He had called my grandmother home He was simultaneously gifting my family and me with new life. It left me breathless.

We also see this tension in the life of Jesus, especially the end of his life that we celebrate during the Lenten season. The Bible tells us that "for the JOY set before him, Jesus endured the cross."* There must have been some bittersweet thoughts in his last few days. Knowing the agony that was to come but the joy and peace that would follow--I often wonder what He was thinking. I think the human side of Jesus held this tension in the same way we do today. After all, on his last night on Earth he did not retreat to solitude to mourn his impending death. No, he gathered together his closest friends and had a meal. We don't know every detail of that night, but I have to believe Jesus rejoiced, even if only inwardly, over the work they had done and would do in the name of the Father.

This Lent has been perhaps my least devoted. I can't tell you what I'm giving up or what I've added to my life except that I have a bit less sleep and personal time and a little more laundry. However, as I stood in front of our church dedicating my son back to the Lord on the second Sunday of Lent, I felt a tinge of that bittersweet tension washing over me and knew that in this particular season I was exactly where I needed to be.


*Hebrews 12:2