A Chicken Little Week

Do you remember the story of Chicken Little, who thought the sky was falling? The drop of an acorn precipitated the little bird’s hysteria. Today, as I raked piles and piles of hickory nuts from under two of our trees, it was impossible to ignore the competition the old oak tree was having with the other nut trees.

            In the gentle stillness of the late morning, only the notes of the nearby high school marching band filled the air along with the rhythmic strokes of my rake. Then all of a sudden, the oak released an acorn that dropped to the roof of a neighbor’s shed. Crack! Not to be outdone, another nearby oak followed. Whack!  As more dropped, I wondered if I might be joining the Chicken Little Club. Fortunately, by the time I’d finished raking, I’d dodged the acorns again this year.

            While Chicken Little falsely predicted disaster from the drop of one nut, I couldn’t help but think, as I raked, that this week had had its share of calamity greater than being bombarded by a nut on the head. A coworker experienced the tragic death of a young family member. My daughter was in a car accident. While she is relatively unharmed, her car had to be replaced, and finances for all of us became a point of stress, as did the unpleasant task of finding a vehicle. A few other surprise “acorns” dropped down, too.

            A long time ago, I would have said, “Where are you, God? Your absence seems conspicuous.”  Then there was a time in my life when I would have defended God, as if God needed me to defend and excuse him to anyone. Now I’ve arrived at a different place in life.

            I don’t know why the little one slipped away seemingly too early in life. I don’t know why my daughter’s car was totaled when she was hoping to make it last until spring. I don’t know why someone my husband knows is facing liver cancer or why my mother’s neighbor lost her husband. I have no explanation for any of these things. By the end of the week my husband’s heart and mine were heavy and aching, and we were saying: “No more. No more!”

            I had to look for them, but out of all these tragic events there was love, grace, provision:

Many different people, in many different ways, extended tender love and support to a grieving family.

My daughter’s car, old and increasingly unreliable, was replaced by something much safer. The driver who hit her car was a Christian, and so was the salesman who set her up in another car. (That’s another blog.) Both were kind and helpful.

The gentleman with cancer is grateful for all the years of life God has given him, and he is still able to tell jokes, in spite of his uncertain condition.

My mother, recovering from shingles, reached out to her grieving neighbor with chicken and noodles and blueberry muffins, although her nerve pain flared afterwards.

Beauty amidst the ashes of life. And God is there. Still loving us, reaching out to us, calling to us in every sorrow and distress of life. What is he calling? “Come know me, let the shadows of this life fade as you learn to know me. Your ways are not my ways.”

I don’t expect to understand these kinds of things while I’m here. But I do know that God hurts with everyone hurting, distressed, and sorrowful. One day all those things will cease to be. So for now I want to continue trusting God and my Savior, who was a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief.