Written by Holly Paulette

[Note from the author: This piece was written in September 2018, shortly after Hurricane Florence hit the East Coast. We thought the sentiments were relevant for this time in history, too.]

My sister and brother-in-law live near the beach. It’s idyllic—walks on the beach before work, dinners on the water, early morning surfing, and weekends on the ocean. My sister has always dreamed of this life, and her husband was created for the water. Life at the beach is a calm life, and I yearn for a rhythmic peace that looks like their days.

But then a hurricane hits.

That picturesque scene is unimaginable in the wake of this storm. As I’m writing this from the comfort of our mountains, my sister just texted me, “Part of Oak Island pier is gone.” Water once tame is flexing its power as it swirls and rushes and floods and, quite simply, demolishes. It was already there, though. That power. That strength. Dormant beneath the façade of calm and beauty, the ocean is strength personified. If God wants it to roar, it roars. A hurricane wakes up that power.

The thing about a hurricane is that it follows no pattern. The damage isn’t done to a specific group or targeted area.

Natural disasters strip us of the assumed predictability of newsworthy, widespread tragedy. We’re becoming used to distant reports of wartime destruction and bombs that wipe out neighborhoods and beyond. But the annihilation that a natural tragedy such as a hurricane has the power to commit isn’t targeted. It just simply destroys everything in its path.

In the unpredictability of a natural disaster, God is sovereign and in control. I think that we struggle so deeply with understanding the “why” of this weather because we want to maintain control. We want to be able to forecast our futures and predict our demise. We want to sit in our westernized ease and expect no harm. A natural disaster is a wake up call to God’s power, His strength, and His glory.

I’m not sure there’s a better picture of our smallness than the effect of a hurricane.

So what do we do? I don’t know about you, but I am a doer. I can’t not. I want to fix. I want to be part of change. But for us fixers, we’re tiny compared to this mess.

So we pray. Cynicism doubts its power, but oh I know it works. I’ve been the recipient of what feels like thousands of prayers recently, and I’m convinced He hears and He acts. It’s who He is.

In Shannan Martin’s book, Falling Free, she points us to the cross:

“What I’m beginning to see, though, is that God doesn’t fix my weakness by making me strong. He becomes my strength in my perpetual weakness. He takes over. Constantly. He swoops in, ruffles my hair, and says not to worry, then charges to the top of the mountain I’m facing—the king of every hill I’ve ever stood upon with shaking knees. I am weak, and he is strong. He’s all the strength I need, and my weakness doesn’t have to flee in order for His presence to reign.
“God is enchanted by my frailty. It’s why I need him. It’s why he showed up and never stops.”

One of my very favorite children’s books, Last Stop on Market Street by Matt de la Peña, has my charge following this storm. The main character, CJ, gets off the bus with his grandmother in a rougher part of town.

“How come it’s always so dirty over here?”
She smiled and pointed to the sky.
“Sometimes when you’re surrounded by dirt, CJ, you’re a better witness for what’s beautiful.”

Let us follow his grandmother’s instruction and see the beautiful in the dirt. Watch for the helpers, as Mr. Rogers once said.

And pray. Pray expecting God to show up, because He never stops. Because His glory is the beautiful in the dirt. We’ll see it soon—I’m sure of it.