My people freak out. The dog vibrates, the kids look at the radar on my iPhone. The questions start. “What will we do if it doesn’t come back on?” “We can’t even watch TV!” “What will we eat?” “There’s nothing to do!” This was in the first 30 seconds.
I see the wind start blowing, Stephen and I lower the umbrella and then watch the wind blow our 20 trees. I stand at the door fielding the questions but my mind goes to the mama bird and her nest in my fern in my backyard. I remember that she flew out when we walked outside. To occupy his mind I tell Bailey to keep an eye on the fern and our baby birds as it sways back and forth like a pendulum on the arbor. I wonder if I should intervene and take it off the hanger or just leave it alone. I imagine how silly I would look out there holding a fern steady in the middle of a storm and think of how my mom always said not to interfere with nature so I let it swing. I wonder if the mama is in it and if she’s gripping her little bird feet tight to the nest she had built or if she is watching from the fence and hoping her nest would sustain the rocking so those egg babies don’t roll out. I think about how I’m certain I’m the only one thinking about baby bird eggs right now.
We all pack up in the car to go to a restaurant across town where they have lights and warm food. We see friends and all talk about how they too had to go out because of no power. Tragic. We return home with our bellies full and our house dark. Stephen gets on his iPhone with 3G. I light candles, get a flashlight and sit down with my stack of magazines. Glorious. No laundry - can‘t do it, can’t even see it. I read an article on Sheryl Crow surviving cancer and living with a brain tumor, 3 broken engagements, 2 adoptions, a bunch of Grammys, a ranch with hired people to call and check on her kids at school during a storm, and how she is thriving at 52. I read about her lumpectomy and radiation and think, “wow, I had a lot of cancer, wonder what the article would say if I was her.” I write that article in my head.
I take my flashlight and give my girl a bath in the dark and think of how brilliant she is for asking for her headlamp because she “doesn’t like to carry stuff.” I dig in the junk drawer for triple-A batteries because I’m that prepared. This buys me another article because her brother who secretly thinks she’s ingenious is now borrowing her light and looking through his dark room for his so he can build legos.
He resorts to playing a game on the iPad that’s still got a charge and she crawls in my lap and asks why I’m not scared. I tell her, “It’s just a storm.” I borrow the headlamp and pick up a decorating magazine, enjoying the flicker and scent of beach, lemon zest, and leftover Christmas cinnamon, and freshly shampooed hair. It’s still dark, I’m still sitting, she’s asleep but jerks when it thunders so I keep holding.
And, just like that, the lights come on. It’s all like I left it 4 hours ago. The TV flashes on, the toys are in the floor, the dishes are in the sink and the clothes aren’t dry. I’m sad. Truly sad. I remember how it was 30 seconds ago when it was dark and I didn’t have to make excuses for sitting and reading a magazine with a borrowed headlamp.
I check Facebook because that’s the best way to snap myself back into technology and see that people in the neighborhood are taking a poll to see if other people were in the dark and talking about whether their food in the fridge might spoil. I hear sighs of relief from upstairs so thankful that the lights are on so they can go to bed for Pete’s sake. I blow out the candles, turn on the dryer, clean up the kitchen, make coffee for the next day to come on the automatic timer.
I think of how good we have it. How God tries to show us by turning of the lights so we can only see His path, sometimes dimly lit and sometimes smelling like last Christmas. How he makes our nest strong enough to withstand the rocking from the storm. How He teaches us as mothers to grip our babies with our tiny bird fingers but when we don’t make it there in time, He teaches us to wait patiently and watch from the fence so we can watch Him work in the storm. I think about my storms. I think about how He’s held the nest steady and how the sides are built just perfectly high enough to protect my 3 eggs from the rocking and let me watch from the fence. I thank Him.
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| Same God that moves mountains |
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