We’ve been without power now for three days. The governor declared today that our little rural county is in a “state of emergency.” Even my candles seem tired, flickering in the last bit of wax. And the birds flit about in a state of confusion, finding no branches on which to roost.
This morning, I curl up on the chair with my iPhone and my Bible, tapping a few words onto a tiny screen, like I might be able to reach somewhere warm through these tiny letters. Are you out there?
We are warm. We have blankets and bodies and a gas-powered generator that brings flames to the fireplace. We have books and board-games, and even the boredom is a gift.
A storm will make you realize how small you really are, how all your ideas of personal power were a flimsy facade anyway. And at night, you sit in the dark thinking about how fragile we all are. Rick and Kay Warren bury a son. My friend sends me a message that her father-in-law has leukemia, and the next day, he’s already gone. Another friend is in ICU with her Daddy, the man who always told her, “Jesus loves you, this I know. It doesn’t get more complicated than that.”
All around us, the world cracks open with pain. And I hear her groaning with every ice-laden tree limb whoosh-snaps to the ground. We know it on paper, and we might even have it underlined in our Bibles, how Christ’s power works best — BEST — in our utter weakness. Down through the annals of history, God has shown a preference for swooping in on the scene to bring super-power to the somber and the sick and the sad and the sullen. I want to stay close to the power source.
Power doesn’t always come the way we prayed for it. But every dark corner and weak moment — every despairing thought and powerless situation — can be molded into something new, inside the hands that created Resurrection power.
Can I always plug into this one enduring truth:There is no one — or no thing — beyond His power.
“You see, at just the right time, when we were still powerless, Christ died for the ungodly.” — Romans 5:6
(Written from iPhone screen. Trying to process so much pain in the world this week — of which ours is so small in comparison– and the cross is always the lens by which I try to see, especially in the dark.)