A Flood of Music

The groundhog was drenched and huddled on a broken piece of lumber that was wedged in some sticks on the edge of the flood driven waterfall. The poor creature shivered, its soaked matted hair dripping. It clung to the small plank, with no escape. I watched this footage of the Owego Flood on a youtube video. Then the scene switched to nearby railroad tracks, which were as far as the flood waters rose. The groundhog stood somewhat dazed, but alive, on the tracks.
"We saved this little guy, " said the caption, on the video.

"How's the flood patrol?" I texted my brother, who was still ensconced in his flood zone home. It would still be a month before his family would be able to return, but he would not leave it to be robbed or violated any further than the flood itself had done.
"Great! We have heat, water, and electricity now!"
"Hooray!"
"And I got three Stakmore tables!"
"How many people did you have to kill?"
"None! I just sweet talked the nice lady at the Stakmore factory. Christmas came early to Owego!"
"Did you get enough chairs for them all?"
"No...  :( "
"Well, I suspect with residents returning your prime looting days are over."
"Yeh, probably. You know, truth be told, we made out like bandits on this flood."
"Yeh, if it weren't for that $100,000 deductible on your flood insurance...."
"Well, it's only money.  We can make more of that. You know it is the love of money that is the root of all evil...not just having money."
"So I've heard...I wouldn't know from personal experience."

I thought of the video John had sent me. His son, Greg and he had gone wandering the flood receding streets, where piles of belongings were strewn on every curb. Then he passed a piano. John stopped as Greg filmed. John began playing simple tunes on the water damaged piano, battered and ruined, dumped on the street of the flooded city. It didn't sound as awful as you might think. In fact, it was a victorious melody, of sorts. A car slowed, stopped, and honked, waving a fist. The video closed with John laughing, and waving at his new comrade, forged in the wake of disaster.

Those two images kept popping up in my head all day- the shivering groundhog clinging to a plank while water raged around him, and my brother playing the ruined piano. I wondered how the groundhog had been saved. The water was rushing violently around him, on the edge of a waterfall. I can't imagine he was saved without some risk to his savior. I think Salvation always involves danger, and suffering for the Savior. It must have seemed  like pretty grim chances of survival to the groundhog.  As soon as he dried out, lifted miraculously from the flood, he would have two choices. He could cry out in anger to the world that had so suddenly shifted beneath him and allowed a flood to carry him so far from his comfortable place...or he could play a metaphorical piano, lifting a melody of comfort and gratitude to a species not accustomed to music in a flood.

Psalm 6 : 1-9

 ¹ LORD, do not rebuke me in your anger
   or discipline me in your wrath.
² Have mercy on me, LORD, for I am faint;
   heal me, LORD, for my bones are in agony.
³ My soul is in deep anguish.
   How long, LORD, how long?
 ⁴ Turn, LORD, and deliver me;
   save me because of your unfailing love.
⁵ Among the dead no one proclaims your name.
   Who praises you from the grave?
 ⁶ I am worn out from my groaning.
   All night long I flood my bed with weeping
   and drench my couch with tears.
⁷ My eyes grow weak with sorrow;
   they fail because of all my foes.
 ⁸ Away from me, all you who do evil,
   for the LORD has heard my weeping.
⁹ The LORD has heard my cry for mercy;
   the LORD accepts my prayer.

Dispelling the Darkness

When I walked in the Assisted Living Home, Comer and Evelyn were sitting side by side under the entry way chandelier. They were holding hands, looking straight ahead, dressed in Sunday clothes. Evelyn wore a beautiful necklace, and pink leather shoes. Comer wore a sports coat, and pinstriped shirt.Their expressions and posture were poised in expectant waiting.And I was 5 minutes early. I wondered how long they had been sitting there, leaning forward in their seats, dressed in all their finery, waiting.

I smiled when I caught sight of them, so eager for their outing, and waved. Comer, the 93 year old new author of a book of poetry, stood to greet me with a bag in his hand. Evelyn's face broke into a beaming smile of recognition, always surprising me in her struggles with Alzheimers, and threw her arms around me.
"Ready for lunch?" I said. She hugged me tightly.
Comer handed me the bag, "Six of my books, one for each neighbor."
"Oh, they will be thrilled! Did you sign them?"
"I did."
"Well then let's celebrate. How about Kentucky Fried Chicken?"
"Yes," smiled Evelyn.
"Extra crispy," said Comer.
"You got it!"

Our outing was our typical peaceful drive, while balancing fast food on our laps, and meandering through rich people's neighborhoods. Asherel was in charge of the music, and switched CDs from Engelbert Humperdinck to Romantic Melodies from the 50's. Even Comer sang along on a few of them today.

"I got a short story I want you to read," he said.
"Oh I would love to! Are we printing a book of short stories next?"
"Oh no, I don't have but three of them. But this one is particularly poignant. I wrote it years ago."
"What's it about?"
"I'm not going to tell you. You will have to read it."
"Haha! Well ok. Bring it next week."
"I sure will. It is about a Canada Goose."
"Oh, I love Canada Geese!" I said, "You know they mate for life."
"I know," he said, "That's in the story."
"I thought so," I said, glancing in the rear view mirror. He sat next to Evelyn, clutching her hand.
"Did you know Evelyn when you wrote it?"
"Oh yes," he said.
"I thought so."

I remembered my walks to the swan pond this week. I have been going twice a day, hoping against hope that I am not seeing what I am seeing. All week there has only been one swan. One lone swan, where for a year there have been two. I keep hoping I will see the second, hidden behind the brush. The lone swan has not moved from a little feeder island in the middle of the pond. A huge flock of Canada Geese float on the other end of the pond. The swan is all alone. His mate appears to be gone. My heart breaks every time I see him. Swans mate for life too, and his mate is gone.

"I've been editing my second book," I told Comer.
"What's it about?"
"Angels."
"Oh dear, I'm afraid I just spilled my entire drink on your floor. I am making a real mess."
"Don't worry, it needs cleaning anyway. Hey, have you been working on your new poems?"
"I have written 2 or 3."
"Well soon we will be publishing book #2 for you too!"
"Oh no, I'll die before then."
"You just never know what God might be preserving you for," I said.

Sometimes things seem so unbearably sad- old people with terrible afflictions, swans just reaching the age of producing cygnets, and the mate dies...full drinks spilling before we have a chance to sip them. But it is life. It is all part of life. Like Asherel's writing prompt yesterday said, do we truly value what we have not had to struggle to obtain?

Brother John texted me from his flood zone house last night. He'd been looting again, when the sun set.
"Scored a stakmore table!"
"Good for you! This flood is really turning out to be worth it after all!"
"I think tomorrow I'll just go to the Stakmore factory and ask them politely for the things they don't want."
"Haha, with your shotgun in hand?"
"Of course not. Way too noisy. I'll bring the Derringer."
"Got power yet?"
"No, but we ditched the generator and hooked into the neighbor's deck."
"The neighbor's have power?"
"Yep."
Oh good. Then John is not all alone in the flood. The neighbors are there, and they have power and warm showers, and light to cast away the darkness.

2 Samuel 22:29
²⁹ You, LORD, are my lamp;
   the LORD turns my darkness into light.

My Rear Guard

I think my brother might be getting bored and lonely, looking for looters all alone in his deserted flooded town. His son returned to Buffalo.  All the fun of the flood has lost its sparkle.
"Oh boo hoo," he texted, "Being in a flood sux."

He says it will be a month before the house can be lived in again. I don't know if he intends to hole up there with his shotgun that whole time. He didn't text for long with me, last night. His phone is giving him problems. It keeps texting dollar signs. I thought he was making a statement about what is happening to his bank account with the destruction of his home by the flood. However, the phone has been typing those dollar signs all by itself.

So I tried to divert his attention from his woes by telling him about the new helicopter challenge in Science Olympiad. We could build a copter very similar to what we did last year, or for three times the score, we can build a "non co-axial helicopter."
I quickly researched non co-axial helicopters. The two rotors are on different motor sticks, rather than one, like last years. I didn't read much about how to accomplish our task. I was just trying to define terms.
"So, I texted John, "I think we are going to build a non coaxial helicopter."
"How will you counteract torque?"
"Dunno."
"Good plan, Missy!"
"It's all I got."
"Better get another."
"Nah, actually if they spin opposite to each other, won't that counteract torque?"
"Correct."

I discussed some other top secret design issues with him, but he only texted back one word answers. His phone was losing heart in the aftermath of the flood. And adding the costs in the aftermath of the flood. It was texting line after line of dollar signs.

I would presume people will be straggling back to the town as the water recedes, and he won't need to stay there as constantly. Power and heat will be back by Saturday, and maybe then, internet so he can use his computer.
"Living off the grid," as he put it, stinks after the first flush of novelty wears off.

Meanwhile, in between homeschooling, I have been editing Book #2. I wrote it last year, and did the stupidest thing a writer can do. With only cursory editing, I had sent it off to a few agents. As I am rereading it now, I am surprised by how many liked it. It really was not nearly ready to be seen by anyone but a vigorous revising pen. I am discovering that the more wonderful I think my writing is when I first write it...the worse it is in actuality. I think book #2 has potential, but I spent a full day yesterday, 8 hours, editing a 6 page chapter.
Well maybe 7 hours. The other hour was spent banging my head against the wall, ripping out my hair, and asking myself out loud why on earth I had sent this unedited work to agents, thus securing the likelihood of never finding a publisher for it.

I have read that one of the biggest mistakes of new authors is sending their work to agents before it is polished enough, before it is carefully edited, before it is ready. Guilty, I thought, reading and editing Book #2 and wondering how on earth I had thought it was any good. I stink, I thought wearily. I guess both John and I were feeling similarly dispirited by the long haul.

I had a dream of fighting some big and dangerous enemy, last night. I don't know who or even what it was, but it was relentless. It kept coming after me, sneaking up on me, attacking me. I knew I had no choice. I had to kill it. With a venom I had not realized I had in me, I caught it off balance on a cliff edge, and then I hurled it to the rocks below. Its head smashed against the rocks and burst. The enemy was destroyed, but I awoke in a panicked sweat. Trembling, I grabbed my bedside Bible and began to read. I don't know if the enemy crawled back up from the cliff in later dreams that night. I don't remember any other dreams.

Too much confidence is not a good thing. It makes one do idiotic things like send manuscripts off to agents when it is only in stage one revision. But loss of confidence, despair, is worse. It becomes an enemy that will kill you if you don't kill it. It's an enemy that doesn't stay dead, either. I have had this dream before. Fortunately, God warns us that there is an antidote. If we enter His house, and listen to Him, we may avoid offering the sacrifice of fools. Listen, learn, and don't be hasty. The enemy is on the prowl, but God is my rearguard.
I wonder what John dreamed about last night.

Ecclesiastes 5

 ^1]Guard your steps when you go to the house of God. Go near to listen rather than to offer the sacrifice of fools, who do not know that they do wrong.  ² Do not be quick with your mouth,
   do not be hasty in your heart
   to utter anything before God.
God is in heaven
   and you are on earth,
   so let your words be few.
³ A dream comes when there are many cares,
   and many words mark the speech of a fool.

Isaiah 52:

¹² But you will not leave in haste
   or go in flight;
for the LORD will go before you,
   the God of Israel will be your rear guard.

Piles

But it was free!
I gazed morosely out the front door window.
The pile of wood chips sat for day #2 in our front yard. Right next to the property line of the new neighbor. A huge pile. Like a mountain. A mountain of work that I was told I should not touch. There were big plans for this pile, beyond the capabilities of a mere woman. A man in a truck had driven by and offered to dump this pile on our lawn for free! And now it sat, mocking me.


After a day of biting my tongue, I asked the One who had allowed the free pile to enter our domain, "Where shall I spread the pile?"
"I will get to it today," said the One, "Please don't touch the pile."
The moon shone bright on the free pile that night.
The next day, every time I passed the front door, the free pile was grinning at me. The pile and I both knew that piles, no matter how large, tend to fade from consciousness the more days they sit there.

We all have them. Sometimes they are physical piles- laundry, dishes, papers to grade, books to read, unfinished projects of Sargent Pepper Lonely Heart Club band jackets made of duct tape that cost Mothers a pretty penny piled hopefully in the closet, homework, dust, clothes that don't fit anymore. Sometimes they are mental piles- the daily practice that has not occurred in over a week, the bookstores to call to talk into stocking a book, the political candidate credentials to read in order to make an informed vote, the volunteer opportunities lined neatly up in the back of our heads, the kindness, potential good deeds, and patience stored away that one day will be retrieved...Sometimes they are spiritual piles- the bible verses to commit to memory some day soon, the daily reading of God's word and encouragement, the daily alone time for meditation and prayer.


Risking wrath at 4:00, I went to the One who had promised the free pile would be spread after lunch.
"About that pile...the one I am not allowed to touch...I can abide by that for one more day. But after that, I don't think I will have the will power to resist anymore."
The One had the good grace to chuckle, and I noticed a few minutes later, was working on the free pile.


Brother John sent photos of his street, with the flooded homes now emerged from the water. On the front lawns were piles and piles of a lifetime of possessions. Ruined possessions.
One neighbor wrote, "I hope they take that pile away soon. I can't bear to see twenty years of my life ruined on my lawn."


I called a bookstore in the flood zone of Binghamton, the town beside my brothers. There would be no bookstores open yet in my brother's flooded town...if there were ever any bookstores to open again in my brother's flooded town.
"I am an author who lived most of my life there," I told the bookstore owner, "I was wondering if I could stock my books with you and donate a portion of the sales to the flood relief. If there are any sales...."
With my husband still unemployed, I can't do a whole lot more. Nonetheless, the book store owner was grateful and would add my book to her pile of inventory. A good pile, I hope. A pile with promise that would disappear perhaps more rapidly than our free pile steaming now like a pile of compost.


So, with the pile staring at me all day, I had piles on my mind. I have learned that God works through visual images, through symbols, not only in Biblical times, but in my life today. A word study of "piles" in the Bible is very interesting. There are basically two kinds of piles- piles of rubble and destruction from an angry fed up God, and piles of remembrance of the miraculous salvation of God. Sin, redemption. Destruction, Salvation. Rubble, Remembrance. I lay in bed this morning thinking of what kind of character I was piling up, day after day. Which kind of pile will I be...one that people would desire to have carted away as quickly as possible, or one that would be remembered with fondness, with love? I better get working on the pile I want to be, I thought, glancing out at the free pile of wood chips in the front yard.

Leviticus 26:30-31
³⁰ I will destroy your high places, cut down your incense altars and pile your dead bodies on the lifeless forms of your idols, and I will abhor you. ³¹ I will turn your cities into ruins and lay waste your sanctuaries, and I will take no delight in the pleasing aroma of your offerings. 

Genesis 31:44-46, 48
⁴⁴ Come now, let’s make a covenant, you and I, and let it serve as a witness between us.”  ⁴⁵ So Jacob took a stone and set it up as a pillar. ⁴⁶ He said to his relatives, “Gather some stones.” So they took stones and piled them in a heap, and they ate there by the heap.^..
 48 Laban said, “This heap is a witness between you and me today.” ... “May the LORD keep watch between you and me when we are away from each other. 

2 Chronicles 31:5-6

⁵ As soon as the order went out, the Israelites generously gave the firstfruits of their grain, new wine, olive oil and honey and all that the fields produced. They brought a great amount, a tithe of everything. ⁶ The people of Israel and Judah who lived in the towns of Judah also brought a tithe of their herds and flocks and a tithe of the holy things dedicated to the LORD their God, and they piled them in heaps.

In the Flood

"Are you still in the flooded house waiting for looters?" I texted my brother John.
"I'm standing here at the ready," he texted back.
"Have you seen any looters?" I asked.
"Nope, now I am looting. Got my eyes on some sweet Stakmore chairs."
"Mom and Dad are wondering if Jenny and Anthony and Callie will be coming to live with them, while you loot. They haven't been able to get a hold of you."
Silence.
A few minutes later, my phone beeped as his text came in.
"Snagged the Stakmore chairs! Google them- really nice! I love floods."
I did pause to google the Stakmore chairs. They are made in Owego, my brother's flooded town. I don't know if the factory flooded or not. They are folding chairs but look like fancy sturdy chairs.
"Nice," I texted, "Especially the Queen Anne ones."
"Snagged one Queen Anne," he texted.
"Are you stealing from your neighbors?"
"No, they put them out with the garbage. Idiots."
"Well if they are wood, they might be ruined by the flood. Maybe they are warped."
"No, they are in perfect condition. $$$$$"
"See any queen futons?"
"Yeh, I can get you one of those..."
"So back to the folks....will you all be living with them? Where is your family?"
"Jenny and Anthony will be going there from our friend's house tomorrow. Me and Callie (the dog) will be looting."
He sent  a photo to my phone then. It was titled: "Defending against looters."
"What's this, John?" I asked, "It looks like a fire."
"It is the fire pit on my back deck. I am defending against looters."
"Ah, and do you also have a 6 pack of beer to help you defending against looters?"
"Yes! How did you guess?"
"John...I am not sure you are taking this flood with the proper degree of seriousness..."

But really, I am glad to see his sense of humor wasn't flooded out of him too. As long as he can keep laughing, he will be fine. Meanwhile, as John was defending against looters (and/or looting himself), I took Honeybun and Asherel and off we marched to my very first book signing. We arrived a half hour early, and within a few minutes, a customer walked in. She was an animal lover and as we chatted, she picked up my book.

"I have to read this then!" she said, and had me sign my first copy.

Over the next three hours, a steady stream of people came by. Many wonderful friends showed up, but I also signed books for many strangers. All the children raced over to Honeybun and I showed them how to ask her to shake hands with them. I had them put a treat in their closed fist, and then tell her shake. The once starving dog would then paw at the fist.
"That's as close as it gets," I warned the kids who felt that was not much like a real hand shake.
This was a skill newly developed just for the book signing and she was not consistent. However,  by the end of the book signing, Honeybun was eagerly shaking with every one who walked in the store.

One lady told me about their dog, who was always off visiting other homes, escaping every fence they tried to keep her in. And then, she escaped and was gone for a year. They had given up hope of ever seeing her again, and a year later, she was back. She acted as though she had never left.

Another lady had me sign two books, one for each grandson.
"Do they have dogs?" I asked.
"No, but they want one. Their mom won't let them have one. Hey...how about if you sign to their mom too? Maybe it will convince her..."
"I hope so," I said, laughing.

"This is riveting," said one friend, flipping through my first chapter. I glanced up.
"I have never read a book," he said.
"He doesn't read," said his wife. We all looked at them.
"Well, I mean, he does read...he knows how to read..., " she explained, "He just never sits and reads a whole book."
"But you'll read this one, right Denny?" I asked.

"I heard Brandon ran a race!" I said to another friend. I hadn't seen Brandon in years, since he was just a little tyke diagnosed with autism.
"Yes," said my sweet friend, who had shadowed Brandon for years so he could successfully attend Sunday school, "And he did really well. He was invited to an invitational race, in fact, in South Carolina, he did so well. A coach runs alongside him. It is the first sport he has ever tried, and he is good."

And as they all filtered in and out, first a flood of them, and then a trickle, I thought of how many walking books there are in this world, how many wonderful stories, how many magnificent people. I was too busy trying to sign perfect and unique little snippets on each book to really talk to the friends that came in. I felt bad about that, but I am pretty sure they understood. I never had more than 2 or 3 waiting in a line at a time. It wasn't like the one book signing I went to, when President Jimmy Carter was signing in Charlotte. I didn't like Jimmy Carter, but knew my mom did, so I waited in line an hour to get a signed copy of his book for her. My book signing wasn't like that. But all Jimmy Carter did was scratch a near indecipherable signature when I handed him the book. He didn't even look up at me. I never want to sign books that way.

After the remarkable, momentous day, we settled down to dinner, and Comer, my old senior friend from the nursing home called.
"Vicky!" he said, "How did the book signing go?"
I was shocked he remembered it, or even knew about it. I hadn't seen him in two weeks, as he had forgotten our scheduled meeting last week and gone off on a field trip with the other residents.
"I wanted to be there," he said, "Ken came for me and I was going out the door, and I don't know what came over me. Felt like passing out. They had to help me back to bed."
His speech sounded slurred.
"OH my," I said, "Are you feeling better now?"
"Yes, I just needed to rest," he said, "But I was mighty sorry to miss your book signing."
"Well it is so kind of you to even have thought of it," I said, "Thankyou. You rest up, and I will see you for lunch Thursday."
"I won't forget," he said.

Floods are on my mind, but I did indeed feel a flood of love encircling my world yesterday. The sweet daughter who helped me with Honeybun for three rather dull hours for her, the husband who came out near the end of the day to cheer me on, the friends who gave up a portion of their family day to show me encouragement and support, the brother who found laughter (and nice chairs!) in the midst of disaster, the old friend who sounded as though he may have had a small stroke and but for that would have walked with the labored cane tapping steps of a 93 year old man to come to this day that meant so much to me, the sisters and cousins, friends, and son who all asked eagerly how it was going, and how had it gone.

"What do you want me to write to you?" I asked one friend.
"I thought you would have that all planned out," she laughed.
"I want to write something special to everyone," I said, "Just the right thing."

But I just didn't have words to say what it all meant to me. What my family, my dog, my God, my friends, my world all mean to me. Floods are everywhere, and in my case, it really is a flood of joy.

Psalm 69: 1-6, 14-17, 30-36

 ¹ Save me, O God,
   for the waters have come up to my neck.
² I sink in the miry depths,
   where there is no foothold.
I have come into the deep waters;
   the floods engulf me.
³ I am worn out calling for help;
   my throat is parched.
My eyes fail,
   looking for my God.
⁴ Those who hate me without reason
   outnumber the hairs of my head;
many are my enemies without cause,
   those who seek to destroy me.
I am forced to restore
   what I did not steal.
 ⁵ You, God, know my folly;
   my guilt is not hidden from you.
 ⁶ Lord, the LORD Almighty,
   may those who hope in you
   not be disgraced because of me;
God of Israel,
   may those who seek you
   not be put to shame because of me.


 ¹³ But I pray to you, LORD,
   in the time of your favor;
in your great love, O God,
   answer me with your sure salvation.
¹⁴ Rescue me from the mire,
   do not let me sink;
deliver me from those who hate me,
   from the deep waters.
¹⁵ Do not let the floodwaters engulf me
   or the depths swallow me up
   or the pit close its mouth over me.
 ¹⁶ Answer me, LORD, out of the goodness of your love;
   in your great mercy turn to me.
¹⁷ Do not hide your face from your servant;
   answer me quickly, for I am in trouble.

 ³⁰ I will praise God’s name in song
   and glorify him with thanksgiving.
³¹ This will please the LORD more than an ox,
   more than a bull with its horns and hooves.
³² The poor will see and be glad—
   you who seek God, may your hearts live!
³³ The LORD hears the needy
   and does not despise his captive people.
 ³⁴ Let heaven and earth praise him,
   the seas and all that move in them,
³⁵ for God will save Zion
   and rebuild the cities of Judah.
Then people will settle there and possess it;
 ³⁶ the children of his servants will inherit it,
   and those who love his name will dwell there.

A Patch of Dry Ground

My brother spent the night in his flooded town in his flooded home with a shotgun, watching for looters that dared enter his home. There is no water, electricity, food service, or any service of any kind open in the devastated Owego/Binghamton NY flood zone. Into this vacuum, the looters came. The National Guard increased its patrol, but my brother must not have felt it was sufficient. He couldn't stop the flood, but he is determined to stop the looters.

I can't imagine what his night must have been like, but I am waiting anxiously to hear from him today. It distresses me greatly that anyone would take advantage of others' troubles as to loot the remnants of horrendous loss. Ninety percent of the Owego businesses were flooded extensively. I can't imagine how this town is going to rebuild.

My brother sent a newspaper photograph of an aerial view of flooded Owego. No streets are visible. It looks like Holland with canals of water crisscrossing the town, with trees growing out of the water. There is one patch, one small patch of dry grass in the whole city. The flood waters rose around all but that patch of grass. Half my brother's house sits on that small patch of dry ground. His house is the most fortunate house in all of Owego.

While the waters were rising, the river not yet crested, and John's wife, Jenny, and son Anthony, were trapped in the house, John had texted me.
"Now might be a good time to get on the God hotline," he said.
"I'm on it," I texted back.
I prayed and prayed, throughout the day, texting back and forth with my brother as the river rose. I prayed for the safety of John's family, and for his beautiful two hundred year old home.
Finally I got the text that the river had crested. And that Jenny and Anthony had been rescued.
However, I felt like John might think God had let him down. The house had still flooded, at least part way up the first floor level. But his family was safe. I praised God for His deliverance. Not a single person died in the overwhelming flood.

But as I gazed at the startling photograph of Owego underwater, with that single patch of grass beside my brother's house, I thought of the rest of the story I had learned later. Jenny had been able to walk across that single patch of dry ground between the waters, to the public phone in the business on the other side of the grass, and call the authorities. Every road was flooded. Owego was trapped in the water. The National Guard was alerted, and John's family was rescued by boat. I couldn't stop looking at that patch of grass, and thinking if that isn't an answer to prayer, I don't know what is.

"But what about the other people?" asked Asherel, when I told her the story.
Yes, I had thought of the other people. They weren't given a patch of grass. But everyone in Owego is safe, and there is much to be thankful for in that alone.
"I should have prayed more fervently for the whole city," I said, "I was so focused on praying for John's family..."
It is not that I think my prayers direct God, nor that they even influence God. But we are told to pray "without ceasing", and I do believe that obedience in prayer brings blessing. It may not bring the answers we long for, but there is always blessing in prayer. And if everyone would bow their head in prayer, they would have no time to loot, or blow up buildings...

This anniversary of 9/11, I have my first book signing. It was the Park Road Bookstore's available date, and thus assigned to me. But my book is one of hope, of redemption, of saving what seemed impossibly lost. Perhaps it is a good day for my book signing, after all.

When there is a flood of trouble around you, and today certainly is the memory of that, I think sometimes the only way to wade through the grief is to look for that one patch of dry ground. The waters do eventually recede, and flood plains have the richest soil of all to start anew, when we find the strength and courage to replant.

Nehemiah 9:10-12

¹¹ You divided the sea before them, so that they passed through it on dry ground, but you hurled their pursuers into the depths, like a stone into mighty waters. ¹² By day you led them with a pillar of cloud, and by night with a pillar of fire to give them light on the way they were to take.

Warnings

My brother has had better days. It seems that while he was stuck in Atlanta, the mighty Susquehanna reached record flood levels and in the middle of the night, surrounded his beautiful historic home in Owego,NY, trapping his wife and son inside. It filled the basement as John tried to book a flight into Binghamton. All flights were cancelled as my hometown went into a state of emergency, and the waters rose to the first floor of my brother's home. My parents were safe, high atop a hill, but the city of Binghamton, and Owego proper, on the Chenango and Susquehanna Rivers, were inundated with flood waters. Even if my sister in law Jenny could get out of the house, all the streets out of Owego were flooded.

Midday, the National Guard arrived in a Zodiac boat, and rescued Jenny, Anthony, and their sweet dog Callie. My folks will have their son living with them again, it looks like, for a few months. When the waters recede, poor John will have to make massive repairs on his beautiful home. He will fly into Binghamton this morning. As of now, Jenny is with friends in a neighborhood near Owego, but swollen creeks cut off her path to get to my folks. The airport is on the same high ground as my old home, so John will wait with my parents for the raging waters to recede from epic, record breaking flood level, and will retrieve his family. They hope to reunite by Saturday.

"Why didn't she leave when she had a chance?" I asked John.
"Because no one thought the river would flood that high," he told me.
That's what Noah's neighbors said too....

Warnings. They are all over the place, and we ignore them at our peril. I am not faulting Jenny. In the two hundred years that beautiful historic house had been standing, it had never flooded more than a few inches in the basement. She had no reason to suspect the river would engulf her home. But it did start me musing about all the warnings in life that we ignore. They are sometimes little things, like sassy tones that creep into our children's voices. Sometimes they are little indulgences that are slowly not little anymore. The occasional cream jelly donut becomes the staple, and broccoli becomes the occasional treat. We go for a run rather than tackle that work we should be tackling...just this once...and that just this once becomes commonplace. Rather than fill our lungs with healthy fresh air, and move the muscles God gave us, we slouch like slugs on the couch, because today we are too tired. We don't notice that today becomes tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, and soon the muscles are as gooey as that jelly donut we are now eating in prodigious amounts. We ignore God's nudges to look up at Him, and open our hearts to His pleas, and when His image becomes fainter, we blame it on Him. Sarcasm and anger replace encouragement and gentleness. The rain begins to fall, and falls and falls for forty days and forty nights. We keep thinking it will stop, but one day it doesn't, and it floods the world. And as we grasp at the planks of our homes floating by, we wonder why we weren't warned.

Jeremiah 6:9-11

 ⁹ This is what the LORD Almighty says:
   “Let them glean the remnant of Israel
   as thoroughly as a vine;
pass your hand over the branches again,
   like one gathering grapes.”
 ¹⁰ To whom can I speak and give warning?
   Who will listen to me?
Their ears are closed
   so they cannot hear.
The word of the LORD is offensive to them;
   they find no pleasure in it.
¹¹ But I am full of the wrath of the LORD,
   and I cannot hold it in.
   “Pour it out on the children in the street
   and on the young men gathered together;
both husband and wife will be caught in it,
   and the old, those weighed down with years.

Matthew 23:37

   ³⁷ “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those sent to you, how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, and you were not willing.

Drought and Flood

There have been something like 30 straight days of no rain and low humidity. The bugs are lined up on the curb holding little tin cups out with signs, "Will work for water."

The nasty looking creatures we call "crickapeeds",  cricket/millipede mutants, are braving the Terminex chemicals in our home to seek a drop of sustenance.They congregate in the bathrooms, heads hanging, their million feet still and waiting. This is a poor choice. If Asherel finds them, they stand a chance of rescue to be tossed outside where they belong. If I find them, on the other hand.......

We never have much grass because the weeds tend to demand extortionist rates to allow "that kind" into the neighborhood, but even the weeds are dying and brown. The bushes are drooping, and the lovely birch has dropped half its leaves.

Most folks water their lawns. I am philosophically opposed to doing that. I believe that if plants can't make it on their own in our yard, then they are in the wrong place. I am considering putting up a sign on the curb to explain our position so the neighbors don't stone us. It is not like we have amassed any points towards "Neighbor of the Year Award" given the proclivity of our dog to fill the evening period of repose with very un-reposing sounds. But I feel like I am probably being harshly judged regarding the condition of our so-called "lawn". Perhaps if the neighbors knew that I am taking a stand of deep conviction they will not be as horrified.

And that tangled mess around our mailbox....well that could not be avoided. I tried. We have planted at various times sunflowers, mums, azalea, clematis, ivy, and small bushes. Nothing lived. Except grass. It is the one place where grass grows, though we can't get it to grow anyplace where we want it to grow. We have discovered that no other plants at that location could survive teenagers learning to drive over them, or my benign neglect gardening philosophy.

However, I do love the birch in the middle of our yard, and I could not bear to see it suffer.  So I buried my conscience, and pulled out the old sprinkler.  I turned it on and went to make dinner. That evening, I went to bed and realized that someone was taking a very very long shower. I dreamed of waterfalls.  In the morning, I remembered the sprinkler I had never turned off.

So the birch and the bushes got a good soaking, and the bugs are all joyfully laying out beach towels and drinking mimosas by the pools. There is no rain in the forecast, however and their joy will be short lived. Sometimes the environment is harsh. The things we know we need to thrive just are not forthcoming. Every moment, the thirst grows. The specifics may be different but I think the general needs are the same- love, respect, understanding, recognition for effort, connection with a universe, finding one's place and seeing it unoccupied and perfectly shaped to fit me and only me..... you all know the list.  But at times, the drought is never ending and all those drops of sustaining needs are withheld.  Other times, troubles wash over us like a flood, and threaten to sweep us away.

I think God is more merciful than I. I don't think His philosophy is "Green things, you are on your own. Survive by your own wits or perish."
I think He withholds what we think we need most to refine our understanding of what we truly need, and of where our strength comes from. The same Lord is the Lord of the drought and the Lord of the Flood. Whether withered or bloated, my limbs need to be reaching out to Him.  When I can sing with a throat parched or drowning, I may be on the cusp of understanding The Song. And I think then I  might recognize that He was sending me streams of living water all along, in the perfect amount.

Psalm 42:6-8 (New International Version)

⁶ my God.
       My soul is downcast within me;
       therefore I will remember you
       from the land of the Jordan,
       the heights of Hermon—from Mount Mizar.
 ⁷ Deep calls to deep
       in the roar of your waterfalls;
       all your waves and breakers
       have swept over me.
 ⁸ By day the LORD directs his love,
       at night his song is with me—
       a prayer to the God of my life.