“...Hidden in the
storm, I answered you...”
--Psalm 81:7
William Faulkner told an interviewer that writing a novel is
like trying to “nail together a henhouse in a hurricane.” He said: “You haven’t got time to be thinking
about images and symbols. You’ve got all
you can manage without that.”[1]
I know what he means.[2] And what he is saying applies not just to
writing, but to life as well. In the
midst of the storm one doesn’t have time for symbols and images and lessons and
profundities. In the midst of the storm
you are too busy trying to keep the henhouse together to look for symbols and
imagery; for grace and lessons. In the midst of the storm you are holding on
for dear life –your own and those of the people you love. But, I think what I
heard in Psalm 81 this morning was: if you open your ears –if you really
listen—if you train yourself to be open to them –you will discover that they
are there. In the storm He answers us.
When we were at the hospital –in the midst of our storm—I
had little time for thinking about symbols or images or meanings. I was too set on trying to stay awake and by
my daughter’s side. And too worried
about what might come next. Also, I was
worried about my wife and my other daughters and about my job and about getting
lost in the halls, about the parking garage and what happens if I lose my
parking ticket and back in the ICU there were all those monitors and those
numbers that kept changing and the beeping and the IVs and the nurses who would
come and go at all hours and I couldn’t remember anyone’s name and... I felt frightened and helpless and overwhelmed.
To be there, by her side, feeling helpless and afraid, was to
be in the midst of a terrifying storm; and sitting there by her side
–especially in the middle of the night—I felt terribly alone. And all I could do was keep praying over and
over: Lord, help us. Please God, help us. Without realizing I had stopped
praying or knowing how long I had been sleeping, I would awaken to see a nurse
checking vitals or noting something on a chart or changing an IV bag –tenderly caring
for my daughter—and without knowing it, I would fold back upon myself, eyes
drooping closed, head slipping exhaustedly down upon my chest, mouth murmuring
prayers and in my half-consciousness wondering whether God would ever
answer. Wondering whether the storm
would last forever? Would we feel this helpless, this alone forever? The storm beat us down, physically,
psychologically, emotionally. Even
spiritually. It stopped us in our feet.
Everything we were doing, our lives, our work, our plans... all of it stopped.
The storm came, and all that busy-ness stopped, and we were forced to put
everything else aside and attend to one thing. And the strain, the effort
required to focus ourselves in such a way, it was terrible. Exhausting. Utterly
consuming.
And yet, looking back, as the storm fades, I can see there
was signs. There were symbols. Images.
I wasn’t alone. There
was the friend who spent that first night in the waiting room with my wife, the
same friend who invited me the second night to come take a shower and take a
break at her house. After my shower, she
and her son sat with me, talked as she peeled a kiwi and sliced it and put it
on a plate in front of me. Refilled a glass with water and listened and laughed
with me as I repeated stories about the hospital and my daughter, then --for
some reason—the conversation wandered off to Dostoevsky and Camus and Marilynne
Robinson and carrots. Invite a librarian to come take a shower at your house –see
what you have to put up with.
That was my first break from the hospital; from the
storm. And all I can remember from it is
the patience and kindness of this friend and her son.
The next day I took a second break and went home to sleep
for a while. My wife and a friend were at
the hospital, and they convinced me that I needed a nap. I went.
Someone else drove.
At home I stretched out on my bed, certain that I wouldn’t
be able to sleep. Until I woke two hours
later worrying about what time it was.
As I got ready to go back to the hospital, the doorbell rang. It was someone delivering groceries. Apparently, my oldest daughter had been getting
calls from our co-workers and friends asking about what we liked to eat and
what we might need. As she was putting away
the groceries she opened the freezer to show me all the frozen meals someone
had already brought us. It was crammed full. As I was leaving, the counters were
still covered with grocery bags and she was promising me she would find
somewhere to put all of it. Not to
worry. She opened a cupboard and a box
of crackers tumbled out.
“Not there...” she laughed.
Over the next week and a half more groceries would come, even
meals from restaurants until our house was overflowing with food... In the back
of my mind, I kept thinking how kind people were. How generous. How blessed we were. But somewhere deeper inside I was haunted by
the thought that none of it mattered. All I really wanted was someone to fix my
daughter. To fix our family. To fix this
brokenness. To make us whole again.
By the end of the week we were home. She was home. The storm was over. Maybe. At least it had paused. And I could breathe again. I could put the hammer down –so to
speak. Take a long look around and see
what kind of hen house the storm had left standing.... so to speak.
The first thing I noticed was all the groceries still on the
counters. The refrigerator full, the
cupboards full and even as we were laughing at that somebody was pulling into our
driveway with dinner from a Tex-Mex joint: fajitas and queso and chips.
Still worried about my family, I was starting to get
overwhelmed by the abundance. It felt
like one more responsibility to be worried about, one more source of stress,
anxiety, and I couldn’t bear it. But with
time and a little distance I began to understand it differently. I began to
recognize an image in the cupboards and refrigerator and counters overflowing
with food... I began to see twelve baskets overflowing with broken bread and pieces
of fish... I recognized in my own life the actuality of the miracle described
in Matthew 14. We were in a lonely place
and we felt like we had nothing left; less than five loaves and two fish; and the
Lord told us to sit down and suddenly there was more than we needed; the food
was literally overflowing. We didn’t
have baskets, so we were putting things in boxes and bags. But it was clearly a loaves and fishes
moment! An image of God’s grace and generosity was lived out before our eyes.
But as Mr. Faulkner says: In the moment, in the middle of
the storm, who has time to look for symbols and imagery. Only when I had come to rest and feel a
moment’s calm could I begin to see.
Yes. The answer was in the
storm. And the answer wasn’t: “Everything
is going to be fine.” Or: “Let me fix this.”
The answer we were getting wasn’t
words or promises, it was a miraculous abundance of food and it was people
dropping by to check on us and staying to have tea and share some of our
cookies or crackers or carrots. It was
small acts of kindness and generosity. Acts of love. Out of the storm God answered us: You are
loved. Your family is loved. The answer was simple and clear. And beautiful.
Hidden in the storm we may not recognize God, but He is
there. Hidden in the storm there is an
answer, and it is simply this:
Love.
It’s not an easy answer. And it is very hard to recognize
when you are exhausted, and the henhouse seems to be falling apart... but when
there is a pause in the storm, perhaps just a calm before the next, take a
moment and look around at the signs and the symbols. Take a moment to reflect; close your eyes and
open your heart and listen. They are
there. He is there. And I suspect you will find the answer is always the
same: Love.
[1]
This is quoted in Hugh Kenner’s essay, “The Last Novelist,” in his wonderful
book on American modernism: A
Homemade World.
[2]
I’ve been trying to write a novel for years and every time I think I have a
nail in place my hammer disappears!
