Last Thursday

I am thinking about last Thursday, which seems like such a long time ago now.  Years ago.  But really, this is just Tuesday evening, and Thursday was not so long ago.

We slept in our new house for the first time Wednesday night.  We had moved in a lot of things (but not everything) the weekend before.  It was extremely hot and I was so grateful for the help of many people from our church.  We moved a few more things (but not everything) and Wednesday we stayed at our house for the first time.  We didn't have our bed yet, or our kitchen table, or our washer and dryer, but we had enough.

So on Thursday morning I had a funeral.  It was a funeral for some Lutherans I didn't know before, who didn't have a church, but needed a pastor.  I had met with them the week before, and apologized for being disorganized because I was in the middle of moving.  A week later, I was still in the middle of moving.  The plan was to finish off on the weekend.  You know, Friday and Saturday.  But there were these rumblings about a disturbance called "Harvey" which might become a hurricane.

On Thursday morning I had a funeral for a woman named Geneva, who was not terribly old.  She was in her sixties and she died of heart disease, leaving a husband and two grown children.  It was a small memorial service, and people were sort of murmuring about Harvey, and people were telling me that I need to be prepared, to make sure (for example) that I had enough water and food for if we lost power.  One of the funeral director assistants was pretty adamant that I should take this seriously.  She could tell I wasn't from there.

At the funeral I noticed a few people who wore butterflies on their lapels.  I said something to one gentleman, something like "I like your butterfly pin."  And he said to me, "Geneva told me, last time I saw her, 'Next time you see me, I'll be a butterfly.'"  And I thought, "I am the resurrection and the life.  Even though we die, yet we shall live."

And I thought, is this what transformation looks like?

Last Thursday, I came home from the funeral, feeling like I had done something that I am good at:  I spoke words of hope at a funeral.  And I also came home feeling like I had listened and learned something about the hope of the person whose family I had ministered to.  The hope did not go in only one direction.

Last Thursday, I came home from the funeral, and took off my funeral clothes and put on my "moving out of my apartment clothes."  I was thinking about what I would say in my sermon on Sunday, but between moving and the funeral and what I was saying about hurricane Harvey, I was finding it hard to concentrate.  I wasn't that I was terribly afraid; I just felt scattered in all directions.  People came to help move more things from our apartment to our home.  And we stayed in our apartment for the second night, trying to believe that this was now our home.

And last Friday, someone from my church came one more time over to our apartment.  We knew that Harvey was coming.  No one was whispering any more.  One of our neighbors got us more water, and brought us a casserole.  We also were the proud recipients of leftover Mexican food.  We brought a couple more loads of our possessions from our apartment to our house.  There were boxes everywhere.

And Last Friday night we sat down and waited for Harvey, not really knowing what to expect.  I have been through my share of blizzards, a couple of them scary.  I get blizzards.  I am smart about blizzards.  I am not smart about hurricanes.  I admit it.   But I have heard stories of people who knew just what to do:  offering shelter, helping evacuate neighbors, bringing food.

And now it is Tuesday night.  We are fine.  Houston is not fine.  Just south of us.

Last Thursday.  And now.

The world looks so different.  Transformed by water, devastation, mud -- and mercy.