Milwaukee. You're my Home.

 I'm home.  

Like, back in Milwaukee, for real.

I have always been an urbanite. I love Milwaukee.  I love being downtown in the morning when the sun peeks over the lake and streams down Wisconsin Avenue.  Before the bustle begins when the air is crisp and the shadows are sharp you can feel everything just waiting to begin. Slowly the cars arrive, the shop doors open, the busses beep, and passengers step into the fray.  

Art museum events, walks with friends down the Avenue, lunch at the Farmer's Market behind the Grand dance in my heart and remind me of those other days. 

I have so many memories of visiting, working, and hanging out downtown.  I've watched the ebb and flow of increase and decrease many times in my life.  It's a favorite place.

And then I left.  I became only a visitor who sometimes went downtown when I stopped in between more important things, who might have taken a picture or two of the lake, but whose attention was clearly elsewhere.

I was living broadly in those elsewhere years.  From Minneapolis to Moscow and several points in between.  Alone, often.  Lonely, rarely.  College degree.  Traveling city to city to soak up culture, history, friendships.  Oh! the places that I went!  The coffee drank.  The tastes sampled. The laughter guffawed.  I remember one day, in particular, sitting at a lovely little shop in St. Petersburgh reading Chekhov and drinking tea.  And roaming Boston as if I owned the place!  And New York, of course, and St. Louis, and... and.. 

But home beckoned.  That great place by a Great Lake wanted me back.

When the opportunity to come home presented itself, I knew it was time.  

It was the offer more than the location.  You see, down in my heart of hearts, I know where my passion lies.  I deeply, sincerely, want to change the image of my city.  I hate that it's called the most segregated city in America.  I despise the idea that there are kids who are not given purpose, access to education, healthcare.  How can that be?  

Milwaukee has a long, long history of openness and acceptance.  Look at the pictures of the people who really built the city.  They are strangers from many different places who got through winter's storms and summer's heat to dig deep and settle in.  

Somewhere along the line someone decided they weren't us and we weren't them and hard words and violence ensued.  A chasm split the city into angry mobs.  

I, personally, don't understand it.  

Urban studying professors may tell you it was because of red-lining and freeway building that poverty dug her talons into my city.  Accountants might blame it on booming industry that later ceased booming and caused massive lay-offs.  Others will say it's because the Italians went over there and the Poles to that side and the immigrants from elsewhere settled into that neighborhood.  Which, I do know personally, to an extent is true.  We all hold our sameness closely and there are definite ethnic neighborhoods.  However, the whole ethnic mix is guilty of this.  We live and shop where we do because of common ideas, convenience, and personal preferences. 

But the idea that people aren't welcome in one place or another because of their skin or religion, I don't understand.  I have felt it, but I don't understand it.  It always takes me by surprise.

Because most people whether they look like me or not, are welcoming and friendly.  

What does that have to do with my being home?  I'm here with a large worldview now.  I have seen how other people in other places navigate strangers.  And I have come to the conclusion that the real determining factor is a lack of understanding.

I'm home.  I don't know how I'm going to do it, but I'm going to be someone who fosters greater understanding, greater grace, and greater love for others.  I passionately believe that education is the key to eradicating poverty.  I plan to be involved in increasing educational opportunities for urban students and teachers.  

For example, I'll be working this summer with the Center for Urban Teaching and its summer school program.  It's an incredible organization that prepares teachers with real, tangible skills to bring back to classrooms. Its methods are data-proven with 7 of 10 of the highest performing schools in Milwaukee being linked to CfUT.  Teachers, leaders and students all feel the benefits of this program. 

I hereby therefore henceforth (and any other old English word of your choosing) plan to be the change my city needs.

Amen. 

Who is with me?

Casting and Cares

I shared this with a ladies' group and thought perhaps you might like it, also.  As summer teases us, it's a good time to think about good times.  

Today’s Bible verse calls up a very vivid memory for me.

I can see my 10-year-old self on the banks of Jackson Park lagoon. I’m leaning against a tree and watching my grandpa as he digs around the tackle box.

“You want to make sure you have the right lure and the right sinkers.” He is talking more to himself than me, but I’m trying to really listen. I’d rather be swimming. But the pool is unexpectedly closed and I said I would fish with him instead.

Truth be told, I never really liked the whole process of fishing. First of all, there is the hook which can get caught in your finger – which I experienced at a much younger age. Then, there is the catching of the smelly fish which … smell. Finally, there is the cleaning of the smelly fish which is even smellier. I didn’t mind eating them, however, but the rest of the process was not my favorite.

Being with my grandpa, however, was always a treasure. He was 6’2” of stories, patience, and love. We spent countless hours walking around this lagoon from my earliest childhood.

And so I succumbed on this summer day to fish with him. Little did I know this would be one of the last opportunities for such a magical day.

“You remember how to put the sinkers on? You do that part and I’ll get the hook set on the other pole.”

I did remember. You had to have them in the right place and then clinch them together or you couldn’t properly cast the line. It wouldn’t go far enough out and it wouldn’t sink far enough down. Casting was a very important step in fishing.

I clinched the sinkers with the pinchers and carefully re-wound the line on my pole and set it down. I reached over to Grandpa’s pole and set his sinkers, also.

“Well, looky there. You got that perfect. Thanks.” The sun behind him was shaded by the ever-present hat cocked jauntily on his head. I beamed in his approval. Even now, almost 50 years later, I can feel his love wrap around me like a blanket.

“Ready to cast?”

Here’s the thing about casting. You have to do it. Willfully, purposefully, and confidently. This is not a namby-pamby action. You have to cast with strength or your hook will hook the tree above you, the grass beside you, yourself. I speak from experience.

This time, I cast perfectly. I absolutely flipped my wrist, let loose the reel, and watched the hook and line soar out over the pond.

I don’t remember catching anything that day except a sunburn. But I remember that cast. I’m sure it’s the best cast I ever casted. I’m also sure I have never fished again.

I know what you’re thinking. What verse are you talking about? Being fishers of men? Being called like John and Andrew? Where is she going?

Actually, here is the verse that brought that lovely memory:

1 Peter 5:7 (KJV) Cast all your cares on Him, for he careth for you.

Now you understand the casting. Picture yourself with confidence, strength, and determination literally casting your cares to Jesus as if He is standing beside you like my Grandpa. Tall, strong, capable just waiting to help you, waiting to tell you how proud He is of you.

If you can’t quite picture that, let’s read it in The Passion Translation:

1 Peter 5:7 (TPT) Pour out all your worries and stress upon Him and leave them there, for he always tenderly cares for you.

In our culture of independence, especially for “modern” women, it’s hard to be vulnerable enough to ask for help. But do it. Just try it. Find yourself a place to pray and pour out the whole entire set of problems. Big and small. He has time to listen. Your problems are not a bother to Him because they are too small. He never said that He only cares about big problems. In fact, cancer that needs to be healed has the same capacity for a miracle as the stretched budget and the healing in your heart over a friend who just betrayed you and the situation at home or work that you can’t seem to solve. If it’s your concern, He cares about it. Talk to Him.

What have you got to lose?

It might just be that one prayer time, that one specific connection to Jesus will live on in your memory like a sunny day at a lagoon that the thought of makes you feel heard, cared for, and loved.

Building the Writer

 Ugh!

There are two things I really don't like.  One of them actually makes me a good teacher and the other makes me a good coach.  Neither of them is helpful to my writing career.

First, is the task of bragging about myself and my writing.  I don't know why it's good or what makes it good or how to describe what's good about it.  I just know that I love to do it and people enjoy reading it.  

"Summarize the skill and provide a sample."  

I mean, I can give you a sample of the piece I wrote about Tolstoy or Michael Perry or Mitch Albom, but how do I summarize the way they have spoken to my soul and pulled out a piece of my history?  There is no professional way to say that Andrew Bridge unwittingly acted as my counselor as I worked through my history in foster care.  My review of their work helps others to see through my experiences, but how can I put a value on that?  

Similarly, I can tell someone else your story.  I will ask you a thousand questions and find a theme, a consistency, a layer of the story beneath your answers and write it full of adjectives, adverbs, and actions that will make every reader think they have become your best friend.  Can I summarize my work that way?  Which company wants that on their website?

This makes me a good coach.  Knowing how hard it is to brag about myself, and thinking you may be just as uncertain, I can help you with a hundred adjectives about how great you are and what you bring to the table.  

The other thing I hate, that makes me a good teacher, is I had to take tests.  I doubt and second-guess every answer.  And 9 times out of 10, my gut reaction was correct.  I understand the second-guessing on tests which is why I try to make them more logical.  

I say all of that to say this.  Although I am really working to get my name out there as a freelance writer and although I'm really trying to market myself as a valuable asset to people who need someone to share their story, I really don't like it.  

I love writing.  I can do it almost effortlessly.  I have something to say that is valuable and helpful.

But, wow, it's hard for me to pinpoint why it's worth your effort.

So, dear readers, if you know anyone who needs an article, a skit, a white page, a book review, a paper edited, or a lesson planned... pass on my name.  If you want to be my publicist or agent or summary writer, please reach out.  

While I'm waiting for the fish to bite, I'll just be over here answering every LinkedIn, Upwork, Writer Access, Indeed lead I can find.  

As challenging as it is, however, I am thankful for this season of rest, refresh, and reset.  God is good.  

I Lost My Voice

It’s inevitable.  It’s Spring.  I know it’s going to happen it’s just a matter of when.  My kids always found great amusement in teasing me when it would happen. 

“Is that a mouse in the house?”

“Too bad mom isn’t up and calling me to leave because I’m totally ready.”

I would try to respond, but only a squeak or a hoarse whisper would be returned. 

This losing my voice thing has always been with me.  I don’t know the medical cause.  I’m sure someone who gets paid more than me could figure it out, but since it comes and goes I’ve never felt compelled to solve it.  Give it a day of not talking, some tea with honey and lemon and it will return.

As a writer, it shouldn’t make much difference.  After all, writers use words on paper, not verbally. It’s the perfect opportunity to use talent instead of vocal cords.

This time, however, it occurred to me that not only did I lose my voice verbally, but I have lost my voice on paper.  That’s a much greater problem.

I looked back on my blog and see there are scant posts for the last several years.  No attempts to explain, interest, engage, or exist outside of my bubble have been made.  I didn’t realize it was happening.

So, how did I lose my writing voice?  I became very intensely involved in teaching, mentoring, guiding, and helping a school and all of the people in that community.

It wasn’t a bad thing.  In fact, it was often quite good.  I watched several students find their purpose, their voice, their talent.  That is the real reward of teaching.  I poured my time and ability into them.  I wrote the best lesson plans I could.  I found activities to stretch them and bond them together.  I searched for opportunities to pull them out of their circumstances to see the greater good in the world. 

I watched the K-8 school slowly expand to high school adding one grade level at a time until this year there will be high school graduates.  I’m so proud of the progress. I’ve worked with colleagues that stretched their own imaginations and abilities to create tools to build successful students.  We cried together over losses, laughed with each other in joyful celebrations, and dug up old mindsets to create growth.

It has been a wild and rewarding ride.

All of those good things were good.  But it didn’t leave time or energy to write.  The miasma of activity circled me and pulled me higher and higher into its grasp.  There was no time to think, no time to play, no time for relationship building outside of the work. 

It’s what was needed.  It’s what was required.  It’s what was important.  Until it was done.

Now, in the stillness after the rush, I hear the words pulling me to paper again.  Perhaps this is the season of my life where writing will give back enough to keep body and soul together.  Or, perhaps, this is the season when the words will bring rest to my exhausted spirit. 

A good cup of tea with a dollop of honey and a splash of lemon will soothe my voice and help me to speak again.  A good hour of prayer with a dollop of reading and a splash of music will soothe my soul and help me to find words again.

Have you lost your voice?  I recommend you take some time out to rest, refresh and renew in the One who gives life. 

God Knew

My camera roll is a study of contrasts.  Google reminded me recently of five years of memories.  I studied the layers pealed back to see who appeared in the shots, where I was and why it seemed important to document for the lady who clicked the button.

Five years ago today I was journaling my every day Moscow life.  This was my second full school year in Moscow.  My neighborhood was familiar, comfortable.  I recognized people and knew my way around enough to not be lost.  One photo is the landmark church that guarded the street where home could be found.  But the photo was not a creative “shot,” just the view through the fence.  It was the view that you see when walking home from the grocery store.  I feel the bags pulling on my hands, my feet are sore, the wind has blown my hair into my face.  No glamour, just common. 

The next photo is a tired, solid apartment building.  The brown wood of the balcony has seen better days.  Weary lilac bushes are seen trying to push out leaves to welcome spring.  The sidewalk is littered with leaves and small bits of trash.   Another common view of my Moscow home. 

Four years ago today I see a myriad of shots from a long Moscow walk.  Instantly I am transported to that day.   The sun shone cooly and teased us with its brightness.  Thankful for a warm jacket and hot coffee, we walked.  I was accompanied by a young historian full of knowledge who practiced his English while I absorbed the culture of this grand city.  The photos are full of contrast.  A sleek, modern mirror building reflecting an ancient church.  An Easter Village sprung up in the court of the Bolshoi Theater. 

At the end of our walk, outside of a metro station named for the Revolution of 1905, beneath a statue honoring Communism, we happened upon a parade of Russian military tanks and soldiers walking with guns drawn.

My friend took a sip of his coffee and said with a smile, “So, when you were  in your 20s like I am now, did you ever imagine you would be standing here?” 

When I was 25, the Berlin Wall still stood staunchly in place.  I was someone who hardly left the South Side of Milwaukee, let alone would stand calmly watching a Russian military parade in the middle of Moscow. 

But God knew.

Three years ago I was in Thorp, Wisconsin, at a picnic table in a little park surrounded by my grandbabies.  Hardly able to keep them in the frame, they are running, playing, laughing at the day.  Such a contrast of the last year’s location!  American freedom exemplified.  Had you asked me at 16 would I be so richly blessed with my family, I could not have imagined it.

But God knew.

Two years ago my worlds collided.  Friends in Moscow took a picture which was tweaked and printed by friends in Eau Claire who brought it to me in Milwaukee.  I see my reflection in the photo of the photo.  I am reminded how small the world is.  Had you asked me if I expected my love of history to bond two artists across the continents, I would not have expected it.

But God knew.

One year ago the photos are filled with ministry at church and work.  It’s funny, in a way, that my work would become more ministry than profession and my volunteer time would be the same.  I see the people that I work with at church in the photo and the kids that we get to bless together.  I’m a facilitator that makes sure the teachers have the tools and training they need to be successful.  I love it.  I get to enjoy the students, but also enjoy helping brilliant young teachers thrive.  My profession is a teacher, but it’s more ministry than teaching.  My students come from almost the same starting place that I did.  I see myself in them so often.  It’s my privilege to help them academically in a place where their spiritual growth is just as important. 

The church photo shows a room full of listening hearts lifted up to hear an encouragement, a puppet speaking from a tree, several teachers filling the air with their love and compassion.  I can feel the joy of the place. 

In the second photo there is a line of young artists, fresh faced, innocent smiles, best and brightest. They are together enjoying a taste of victory.  They have well represented our school by their excellent work and character. 

I remember being the age they are.  When the world was full of possibilities and I began to stretch my creative wings.  I dreamed of being a writer at a famous magazine or newspaper.  I would travel the world and write, write, write!  Or maybe I would be a teacher. I would go to a foreign country and teach impoverished children how to read and write.  Or maybe I would be a social worker and help foster kids and kids in jail get out of the life of drugs and alcohol and hurt. I would have a big family with lots of kids and extra rooms for more kids so they would never feel left out.  

Then life happened and all those dreams lay beneath the will to survive.  Hard years happened.  If I were smarter I may have avoided some of those hardships.  If I had more direction I may have not become so scarred and calloused.  Had you told me there would be a time when my life would become enveloped in helping kids in various ways, I would not have believed you.

But God knew. 

Now I see in these pictures the reflection younger me couldn’t imagine.  I see healing, confidence, strength, love, compassion and strength.  I did go and do all those things I dreamed of.  I have filled my life with people in every place who occupy spaces in my heart and, I hope, I in theirs.  

I love to look through my camera roll.  It reminds me where I’ve been and where I’m going.

This Thing About Families

This thing about families.  It’s not about a name or a place to live or a status to have.

It’s about belonging.

It’s about walking into a crowded room and knowing where to sit and who to talk to.  It’s about not ever knocking on a door, but always just walking in.  It’s about being sick and knowing someone will go to the store for you, make soup for you, pray for you.  It’s about reaching out and finding a welcome hand.  It’s about being inclusive, never excluded.

It’s a hard thing for me to understand.

It’s not about time spent or even calls made.  Although those are nice and welcome.  But family doesn’t count the days between, only the hours with.  Family thinks about you when you’re not there and talks about you like you’re just around the corner.  “My sister always loves….,” “My brother always says ….”

Family knows you – really – and accepts you anyway.

Your fears are their opportunities to be a hero.  Your joy is a reason for them to laugh.  Your tears are a reason for the to problem solve or share or fight.


It’s holiday times and create a memory times and everyday times when you just need to be alone with people who know you.  Take the mask off, lay down the shield.  It’s refreshing and resting and sometimes even arguing, but knowing once you blow your stack and spill the beans and all the volcanic ash is everywhere but in, you still have someone to grab a cup of coffee with and a smile to share.  Family helps you find the boundaries.

I have seen it often – but not always – at church.  I have known it with certain friends, but not all.  I’ve even felt it in some workplaces.  Not all, but some.  It’s like you’re covered, held, welcomed.

Most people silently push away, exclude, separate from others.  


Family pulls you in.  


It’s not culture, color, religion, location, time that builds family.  I have family in Africa, Asia, America.  I’ve known some for all my life, some share my DNA.  They represent many religions, many socio-economic levels.  Some are very wealthy.  Some are very far below the poverty line.

Some share pages and pages of history with me.  Some only a few paragraphs.

I’m mostly afraid of the family thing.  Afraid I am over-assuming my place. Afraid I am over-assuming their acceptance of me.  I stay back a little just in case.  So, if they reject me, no one will see.  I am cautious until I know for sure that if  I walk into a crowded room and I see family, I know where I belong. 

What’s Left

The Story of Tina and Hurricane Michael


I wrote this story, but it's not really mine.  It's Tina's and all of her household.  It's a story of blessings.  It's not an allegory.  It's not fiction.  Total, 100% fact.  When everything is taken from you, you find out what's left. - Kris 


TINA

Who knows how long the winds lasted or the rain?  Can someone tell me their force and fury?  To me, time stood still and whirled and pulled and pushed and caught up until everything that could be shaken, had been shaken.  But what was left were the most important things.


October 10, 2018 Hurricane Michael strutted through the Panhandle of Florida like a gangster.  He thought he would break us down.  He thought he would destroy us.  Instead, he left behind hope, community, faith and family ties stronger than before.


How can that be?  Well, let me tell you a story.


PANAMA CITY, FLORIDA

Hurricane season is not a new thing in the Gulf of Mexico.  It comes and goes each year.  Sometimes it clears out large swaths of trees and homes.  Over the years people have become wise to its wiles and have learned to build better and be more prepared.  Warnings for strong storms are issued long before landfall.  


Panama City sits like a hidden jewel in the middle of the Panhandle.  Family vacationers have long enjoyed her white sand beaches and Shell Island.  Family businesses are strung along the coast like a pearl necklace.  It’s gentle southern charm mixes with the sunshine to lull visitors into a quiet rest.

Hurricanes are not normal here, actually.  They go up and down the sides of the Gulf, but really don’t make landfall here often.   Maybe a Category 2 storm here and there, but nothing you can’t get through with window covers and a tub full of water.  There are stories of the storms in the history of the town, but that was over 100 years ago.  Nothing to worry about.


Hurricane Michael was set to make a name for himself, but we didn’t know it.


My name is Tina.  I am a Wisconsin transplant to Florida working as caregiver to my 92-year old grandmother-in-law, Francis.  I also care for my mother-in-law, Pam, a diabetic with COPD who requires oxygen 24/7.  The day of the hurricane Grandma’s 89-year-old sister, Aunt Betty, came to hunker down with us.  I forgot to mention the love of my life, my husband, Beau.  He was there, too.  He has some challenges of his own which keep him from functioning at 100%.  


As the caregiver of this little band, I looked into evacuating.  It’s a project to get the walkers and wheelchairs and oxygen tanks into a car anytime we need to all go somewhere.  Impossible with Aunt Betty because that is one more body than my car can carry.  She would drive herself, of course, but not more than a block or so.  


I called the people I was supposed to call and explained the frailty of my household, they said to stay.  I spoke with family asking for options of where I could go, they said to stay.  I asked Grandma and Aunt Betty and Pam and they said to stay.  No one expected more than a Category 2 storm, if anything would make landfall at all.


The day started normal enough.  Some wind, some rain, some warning that the weather would worsen.  I filled the tub with water, made sandwiches and put them in the cooler along with other water and food stuffs in case the electricity ran out.  Grabbed the extra cash on hand and important papers and got them into one purse.  I then made sure I had everyone’s medicine in one place.  A friend from Wisconsin watched weather reports and texted me a stream of information.  How close was the eye, how strong the winds, when was it going to make landfall, and then silence.  


SHELTERED

I have no idea when the intensity increased and I don’t know how long it lasted.  People have told me the wind speed and the hours upon hours of battering, but I can’t comprehend it.


At one point I realized we were not safe in the living room.  One-by-one Beau and I moved the ladies into the hallway, then into the corner of the hallway.  As the winds howled and tore around us, we began to pray.  Grandma and Aunt Betty are preacher’s daughters well versed in the art of communication with God.  At first we asked for safety, shouting in heavenly languages above the roar.  At some point, however, it changed.  Peace surrounded us and we realized somehow we were in the middle of a miracle.  We began to thank Him for taking care of us, for getting us through, for the shield of protection.


Meanwhile, Michael was picking up and putting down everything in his path.  Including the house around us.  The walls, the roof, the possessions around us tore up like matchsticks and strewn about.  Finally, there was silence.  We looked at each other stunned, grateful.  None of us were injured in any way physically.  Not a scratch.



I looked around the house that Grandma and her husband had lived in for most of their adult lives.  It was completely destroyed except for the corner where we stood.  Cautiously, I ventured out.  I found one cat, but not the other.  I made a path to the door outside and shouted to the neighbors.  One at a time, we made a roll call of who was remaining.  Banding together, we helped each other out of the unsafe homes and into one that was mostly solid.  


Electricity was out.  Phone lines were down.  I made a desperate attempt at a Facebook post hoping my sister in Wisconsin would see it.  “Send help.”  


My phone rang, “Hello?”  Somehow my sister was able to reach me.  


“Hello!  We’re alive.  The house is gone.  Send….” And then the phone was dead again.


Off and on through the next several hours she would call and I could answer for a few minutes at a time.  She gathered enough details to make a few calls.  But I’ll let her tell you that side of the story.


KRIS

I watched and worried and prayed in Wisconsin as I saw the storm moving closer and closer to my sister.  Unable to bridge the land gap, I prayed that God would send a hedge of protection around her house.  She is my only sister and my best friend.  My heart ached as I wished I could do more.  Once I saw the storm winds had receded I started to call her every couple of minutes just in case I could connect.  I saw her Facebook message to send help and immediately called her.  


“Hello?”  I was shocked to hear her voice. 


“Hello!!”


“Hello!  We’re alive.  The house is gone.  Send….”  And silence.


How could I get help to them?  I posted to Facebook and Twitter asking if anyone knew anyone who might be closer.  My son, Thi, joined the quest.  We needed to get the ladies out of the destruction, but how? 


Over the next few hours we managed several short conversations with Tina.  We knew they were in a safe place with the most essential bases covered.  However, without electricity Pam was going to run out of oxygen.  Finally, Thi connected with the Coast Guard in Milwaukee and told them of the situation.  They contacted the Coast Guard in Panama City.  They couldn’t say when they would get there, but they would send someone as soon as possible.



TINA

We had no idea all of that was happening.  It took several hours to get everyone safely into one place.  The ladies were shocked at all they had lost, but grateful to have each other and be alive.  Tucked into the standing portion of one of the only standing homes in the cul-de-sac we tried to sleep.  


At one point I stood looking into the night sky. Without any light noise from the city, the sky took on a life of its own.   Complete quiet, complete peace, deep night sky lit with a million stars.  I thanked God for seeing us through.  At last, I, too, lay down to try to sleep.


I was roused awake by the clatter of helicopter blades.  I sat up to see a search light scanning our area.  ‘They must be assessing damage,’ I thought. 


Across the street, Dan ran out, pulled down the American flag from his front porch and began to wave it wildly signaling the helicopter our location.  He realized that somehow they had gotten word of our needs.  Hovering, they sent down first a medic and second a basket.  


“We heard there is a woman here on oxygen in need of help?”


“Yes, over here.”  Dan directed.


It was a like a movie being filmed around me.  They loaded Pam into the basket and then she and the man were lifted by rope into the helicopter and swooshed into the night. 


The next morning we left the house with hardly more than the clothes on our backs.  For the next several months we would stay with friends, in a rented condo, an apartment and finally a new home.  We were some of the extra blessed minority.  Insurance quickly replaced most of what we lost.  I went back twice to see what could be saved.  


WHAT WAS LEFT

Although Pam’s rescue was a dramatic miracle, as was the standing corner of the room, there were many other less dramatic surprises rife with meaning.  The WWII medals won by Grandpa preserved beside his flag.  Grandma’s silver and china untouched.  Our car left outside of the garage almost completely preserved.  Even the missing cat was found almost two weeks later hiding under a bed.  

I have had seasons before when I thought I lost everything.  I thought I understood the meaning of love and friendship taught by many hard life lessons.  Michael brought it all sharply into perspective.  


We found new hope in the future.  Surely God is writing a story of our lives that is not yet complete.  We realized we are surrounded by a community of friends, near and far, who love us deeply. Their generous gifts of food, money, clothes, prayers and kindness overwhelm us.  Our faith in God is stronger than ever.  Having been tested in the fire, we find God is still surrounding us.  Our family ties are stronger and more committed than ever to taking care of each other.  


My friend Jackie called me tearfully several weeks after.  “Why would God do this to you, Tina?  You’re such a good person.  Why would He take so much from you?”


“It’s clear to me, Jackie.  He knew that I would tell of His goodness in the middle of the storm.  I would give Him glory for taking care of us.  I would thank Him for his protection.  I could bemoan what was taken, but instead I will rejoice in what is left.”


Hurricane Michael tried to destroy us, but instead left us with many great gifts.