“Every flood has its ebb.”–variation of an old expression
The rains began in the dark of the night, like so many foreboding events. At times, the light showers seemed harmless and a normal part of spring. Unfortunately, there were the dark underbelly periods too, with intermittent downpours spewing from inky, looming clouds determined to demonstrate their dominance. Within the confines of the classroom in which I teach, instructional flow was periodically interrupted, as my students and I turned towards the wall of windows to stare with wide-eyed wonder, due to the showers thunderously pounding the roof above. Rain reverberated as if threatening to break through with the strength and precision of a military special operations force.
Lunch came and went, then one by one, like a slow trickle of water, students began to be called for an early dismissal. The trickle turned into a steady stream of children leaving school as flood warnings resounded throughout the local area. Rumors began to circulate among the staff that waters were rising rapidly. Young children, I was told, in one local day-care school were all being moved from their first floor classrooms to higher levels, and parts of town near and around my beloved park were completely submerged under water. A state of emergency had been declared by the mayor’s office.
As my school emptied, my mind drifted to those young day-care children trapped at school, but safely remaining on a higher floor until the waters subsided. I was reminded of a nearly-forgotten event of my childhood. While I do not recall my exact age/grade level, I know I was quite young. At the time, the creek that ran beside the main road leading to the tiny subdivision on which I lived frequently flooded. There was a day, quite similar to this past week’s event, when during the school day, the road was completely flooded, and all of the kids who lived along that bus route were unable to get home.
We were all taken to our elementary school’s tiny gymnasium. I remember it was a bit loud and chaotic at first, and I felt very fearful, in the way only a young could, worried that we would be stuck at school all night. I vaguely recollect a few adults with us, most likely the principal and a teacher or two. Eventually, a few of the older students became too loud and raucous, and we were made to stop talking and asked to sit still. For whatever reason, it is the image that is imprinted in my mind. In kid logic, if the adult was angry, there was something out of control about the situation; therefore, I should be really afraid. I could not quell the heat of fear rising within me, and I leaned my head back against the blue cushioned mat that hung against the wall closing my eyes in hopes of making it all go away.
Eventually, of course, just as it happened a few days prior to writing this piece, the waters did subside, and I was able to be picked up by my dad, still in his suit from his day at work. He looked tired, the growth shadow of a long day was lining his face. Looking out of the car’s window as we traversed the wet roads home, I vaguely recall seeing debris–gravel, branches, leaves, and trash–all tumbled and messy, spot-lighted by the car’s headlights. It is more of the feeling that I recall rather than precise imagery, but in that moment I felt relief, fatigue, and the remnants of fear still gnawing around the edges of my gut. What if it happened again?
And, of course, it did, and it does.
Looking at those recent images of Ritter Park and the entire area surrounding it, I am astounded and wonderstruck. I understand the basic science of the connection between watersheds and weather events. Nonetheless, it was an unimaginable event, one that is often described as “a once per generation event.” Many of those homeowners/renters, I am sure, never dreamed of, much less experienced, flood damage. It seemed unthinkable, and yet, it happened.
The ebb and flow. Today, as I write, the sunshine is luminously abundant, a light breeze is tossing about newly formed spring leaves, and the skies are a brilliant blue! Isn’t that life? As it was written in the book of Ecclesiastes, “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens . . . .”
Looking at those images of the Ritter Park area, I am reminded of the pedestrian path below the waters that cannot be seen. Instead, the lens of the camera could only capture the murky brown waters filled with floating bits of flotsam that covered it over. Bottom portions of vehicles, fire hydrants, mail boxes, park benches and so forth can be seen submerged in the rising waters with no visible way through.
How often in life do those times occur? Times filled with fear, wondering how much higher the waters of trouble will rise. Moments spent wondering if the showers of bad fortune will ever stop? Day upon horrible day, moment after nerve-wracking moment, fear, like a vice, squeezing your gut, and anxiety, like a noose, threatening to cut off your breath.
Somehow, in due time, the clouds begin to shift. Not quickly, it seems, but enough to allow a glimpse of hope for tomorrow. The path is there. You cannot see it, as I cannot see Ritter’s path in those on-line images, but you know it is there.
Like the child I once was, flooded in at school, I had to bide my time, sit with my fear, and wait for the waters to recede. Sometimes, that is all we can do. In those dark moments, life requires that we tread water, and sit with our fear. Our legs get tired and our bodies ache, but faith beckons us to stay afloat.
It will happen. It may take longer than ever dreamed, but the waters will recede, and the path will emerge, albeit still covered with the remains of the havoc that once was. It takes work and effort to clean it up, piece by piece, part by part, and step by precious step, but eventually, you are free of the wreckage and strong enough to forge ahead.
Dear Reader, if it looks dark now, if your path is hidden, if it is buried deep below the rising flood waters, keep treading, keep the faith. The path ahead is still there–just temporarily covered over. It’s not easy, it never is, but every flood has its ebb. One day, it may not be soon, but one day, the path will be revealed once more. May you be reunited with its peace soon.
Steph Simply 