Come now, you who say, “Today or tomorrow we will travel to such and such a city and spend a year there and do business and make a profit.” Yet you do not know what tomorrow will bring—what your life will be! For you are like vapor that appears for a little while, then vanishes. James 4:13-14
Several months we’ve been giddy with our lavish plans to escape a bit of winter and soak up sun with our west coast family. The first Friday after the new year we said light-hearted good-byes to our son and his wife and our infant grandson. An easy good-bye, despite knowing they were leaving Minnesota, boarding a plane and flying two-thousand miles away from Papi and Nana. But the parting was momentary. “Seventeen days until we see you again in sunny California!”
Yet we do not know what tomorrow will bring.
They’d been home two days when the first news broke. The first spark catching, wild wind blowing and blowing and blowing.
They are fine. Our family is out of harm’s way—at least for today. But it’s sobering. How quickly the script can shift, the tone can change. “We’re traveling next week to California.”
Come now, you who say…
So, what should we say?
I feel the weight. I tune into news, images burning. Burning. Do I weep with those who weep?
Or do I selfishly worry? Imagining myself facing such devastation. At the very least I am faced with my idols. My safe, tidy home. My ordered life.
I confess and I pray. "God, have mercy…”
The Bible is full of wisdom and warnings. Reminding us we are dust. Vapor. Fragile flowers. The Word clearly cautions—
About moths.
About rust.
About fires.
Perhaps we do not really believe what we read in Holy Scripture.
Or is it just me?
Of all the interviews I’ve seen there was one that was different. One middle-aged black man who stood by the charred remains of his family home and you could see in his eyes—an ember. A spark of hope. “I remind myself it’s only stuff.” (And I look around at all my stuff, again confessing…it’s more than only…) But this man in the interview talks about friends and family and church and he says, “I still have all the things that matter.”
God have mercy—
I want that.
One day as I pray, I sense maybe God has given me a glimpse of something. I plead with Him to bring some kind of good from all this chaos. It is, after all, what He does. Beauty from ashes. Fire cleansing, purifying, refining.
Making all things good.
But it is hard to discern through the terrifying images, the noxious fumes. And so I pray and I pray and I pray.
Here at home I continue making preparations. I choose clothing, check a weather forecast that’s California perfect. Sun. Sun. Sun. And for the first time it hits me—no rain in sight.
In spite of everything I’m eager for the chance to escape winter and snuggle baby Quoia and take daily walks by the ocean. I’m not worried, but I am aware. Sobered by the temporary nature of plans and possessions. And grateful for a God who is not surprised by tomorrow’s news.
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