“I will not be moved . . . ”

As he hung up the call, Matt rushed to put his shoes on that were by the front door. His posture was tense after he answered the phone, and I could hear concern in his voice. Something had happened, and I could tell we would not be watching the movie we had just started. The call was from the Fire Chief asking the church to open as a shelter for people being evacuated. The rains of Hurricane Harvey had started the evening before and been relentless. The rescue teams needed somewhere to put people. We left our girls with my brother and sister-in-law, and I drove Matt to our house so he could pack a bag and get his truck. He began making calls while my mind was racing. Did I go with him, or stay? What was going to happen? He didn’t know and neither did I. My kids were safe and taken care of, so I convinced myself I should go. I ran into the house with him, threw some clothes and snacks in a bag and hopped into the truck. We picked up another pastor on the way and drove around until we found an open route to the church. I began scouring our student building for anything helpful . . . boxes of baptism t-shirts, blankets, throw pillows. A few hours later an open-air military vehicle delivered a group of rain-soaked people to the student building. We had mats down for them to avoid slipping as they shuffled in, shivering and bewildered. One of our pastor’s helped them sign in, and we directed families to the bathrooms to change into the dry clothing we had to offer. I walked with a frail elderly woman in her 80’s who had been staying with her nephew as she received cancer treatment. I helped her change into dry clothes, her frail, tired body crowned with a rain-soaked wig. She removed it and covered her bare scalp with a dry turban. I wanted to sob at the sight of this sick, delicate woman having to change in this church bathroom, without family. The absurdity and cruelty of the situation had to be set aside, and all I could care about was getting her into a chair safely, so she didn’t fall and break a hip. Foam partitions that we used as dividers for our student small groups were laid on the floor so families could have some padding to lay on. We shared water and snacks that had been stocked for a training event that had been canceled because of the storm. We got everyone got tucked away with the resources we had to share, and Matt and I walked back to the front doors of the building to wait for more people. We knew more were coming but didn’t know when or how many. I grabbed a throw pillow for each of us and we laid down on the “porch” that had been built by the front doors as a welcome area for new students. I’ll never forget laying on the wood floor of that porch, cold but thankful to be dry. I lay wide awake, wondering when the next batch would come.

            At 4 o’clock in the morning, the next group came. And then another. And another. Over the next few days, our buildings would swell with over 900 people seeking shelter from that horrific storm. Volunteers were organized. Excel spreadsheets were created. Food and clothing donations were sorted. A makeshift medical clinic was housed in the children’s area. A friend and I were caring for a bedbound man who had been evacuated from his home and was in need of significant care. I’ll never forget the irony of caring for him in that cheerfully decorated classroom. One lady had major surgery just a few weeks prior and needed her dressings changed. Another had just received gastric bypass surgery and needed special food. The peanut butter crackers and trail mix I had to offer were not going to cut it. We had drivers who would take people to dialysis and make pharmacy runs to pick up essential medicines, like anti-seizure meds and insulin. Doctors and nurses signed up for shifts. The Texas State Guard came. Fox news came. Legislators came. After the initial intake, I transitioned home, as we had friends who were sheltering at our house, and a daughter whose birthday fell within a few days of the chaos. Fortunately, there were a few gifts already purchased, and her sweet cousin Melody made her a birthday cake. We smiled sad smiles and celebrated despite the weirdness of our world.

            Even as I type these words, emotion wells up in my throat and spills out my eyes. It was a shocking experience, but equally stunning was the glory of Jesus’ church that shone strong and beautiful in those first days, and in the weeks and months following. Not only our church, but so many all over the country that came for the mud outs and rebuilds. It was awful, and wonderful to behold.

            I went walking a few weeks afterward when the trails opened back up. You could see where the water line had been on the surrounding tree trunks. The stench of dead trees, brush and fish was potent because of the September sun. The water around the pond had receded and there were tiny shoots of life poking up among the brush and dead grass. And there were tiny bits of normalcy creeping back into our lives, too. Church services were happening again. School was reopening. I remember listening to the words of this worship song as I walked: “I will not be moved when the earth gives way . . .”  The flood exposed our delicate reality. Our well-orchestrated lives, our brick homes and our concrete lined world were no match for that storm. It screeched to a halt and was forever altered because of it. Our vulnerability continues to be on display, as the birth pains and chaos in our world escalate. “All these are but the beginning of the birth pains . . . “(Matthew 24:8 ESV). As much as I want to tap out at times and say, “Check, please!” I remember these events are in complete submission to God’s plan. Jesus told us that. They are birth pains, leading to an ultimate end of one reality, and the birth of a greater reality, on God’s Kingdom calendar. Jesus continues with more warnings in that chapter, and He reminds us of the centrality and movement of the gospel throughout the world as these events transpire (Matthew 24:14). In the meantime, when fear causes my throat to tighten as the tornado siren pierces the air, or word of yet another storm warning is issued for my friends in Houston, I remember the melody of a children’s song that carries these words to my mind: “The wise man built his house upon the rock; the wise man built his house upon the rock; the wise man built his house upon the rock and the house on the rock stood firm.” No wind and rain will collapse the life built on the words of Jesus Christ, and on the Rock that He is. My life stands firm because it’s built on Him. His promises will not be moved when the earth gives way. Because He will not be moved. And His church shines His glory in the darkest of days. “And this gospel of the kingdom will be proclaimed throughout the whole world as a testimony . . .“ (Matthew 24:14 ESV).

“And the house on the rock stood firm.”