Healing Wounds–The Tornado Aftermath a Year Later

 

It’s been nearly a year.

The trees are dressed in their finery of fragile snow white, pinks and lilacs. The emerald promise of summer to come is beginning to replace these frilly undergarments with tiny leafy sprouts. Vivacious red tulips and shy yellow daffodils nod in the the ever present wind.

It’s been nearly a year.

The nurseries are packed with dedicated green thumb enthusiasts, new home beginners, and dutiful gardeners like me. I’m not gifted at gardening; but I love the whole process of selection, planting, and watching as the smallest of plants begin to thrive. (If I’m fortunate.)

I adore walking the aisles, taking in the fragrances and the  smell of fresh dirt. Analyzing the labels, comparing the heartiness, and being lured by the vibrant colors are all part of my routine.

Needless to say, I do this ritual alone. The Preacher helps me mulch and plant the large items that require a shovel, but has no interest in the selection process which I tend do veeeery sloooowly. 

It has been nearly a year.

But right on schedule, spring has arrived in Oklahoma, and we rush to beautify the dormant and dead.

In some ways we have forgotten the devastation, the images of death, and mayhem. Yet the wisps of anxiety waft through the air, not on gloriously sunny days, but on the dark humid days.

We who have lived here for years know the uneasy feeling, the sticky, heavy breath of the atmosphere on those days. Low ominous clouds threaten our sense of well-being, a reminder that life is fragile; and all things of man can change in a day, a moment, a second.

My stomach clenches,

though my brain knows worry is useless. Tornado alley is my home, so I deal with life in the aftermath.

I didn’t use to be this way. But as the years pile, and the count grows, and the ruin multiplies, I feel each more keenly than the last.

I had been to the movies in Moore with the kids. Taking the backroads to their house, which was two miles north of the destruction, I found myself in the midst of the rebuilding. It took me a moment to realize where I was.

Then I saw it, the tree.

I had to pull over.

I was standing in the middle of the previous tornados’ deadly path. Vacant lots dotted the streets along with new houses and new construction. And instead of removing all the broken and twisted trees, the builders had left dozens standing with hope for their recovery.

Few branches were left, but they stood as silent sentries. They were scarred and wounded soldiers, a reminder that all this shiny and new was purchased at a great cost.

The sadness in my heart turned to a smile as I looked closer at the pockmarked trunk. Sprouting profusely were small branches covered with tiny green leaves. Life surged within its mangled body, producing

signs of healing,

signs of recovery,

signs of hope.

The tree was a random sacrifice in the storm, yet our Lord was a willing sacrifice in our storm.

He begs you to allow his wounds to heal your soul

So you can be made whole again.

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Isaiah 53:5 He was pierced by our transgressions, he was crushed by our iniquities. The punishment that brought us peace was on him. And by his wounds we are healed.

 

-During this Easter season, thank him for his ultimate sacrifice so that we can be made whole again.