Even after the flood, I can’t put myself in Noah’s sandals.

It’s been a weird weekend.

I’m not even sure what else to say about it.

We woke up to the sound of rushing water on Friday and our little world changed in a moment.  I have a new respect for water and I now understand what “flash flood” means.

Someone stopped my husband while he was filling up the truck with gas and asked him if he thought this flooding was God’s judgement, because no-one in this valley gives a hoot about God or church.  They know FringeMan is the “minister”, so these questions come up.  There was a flood in these parts seven years ago – seven years to the day.

“It’s a Bible number, isn’t it?” Asked this person.

Indeed.  It is.

I won’t begin to make up answers to the question why.  I don’t know why.  All I know is that there are a lot of people with a lot more problems than they had just a few days ago, and that’s saying something, because problems seem to abound in these parts.

Last night I sat on the porch and watched it rain.  I wondered when it would stop.  Then I thought about Noah.  I really cannot put myself in his sandals.  I can’t imagine how it must have been for him to be so persuaded, to believe God against all odds.

He must have felt good when it began raining.

You know?

From time to time, he probably contemplated the fact that perhaps he was crazy.

I know that good feeling didn’t last for long, because when you see your world washed away, it’s a bad feeling, even if it means being right about the rain.

As they say, the sun will come out tomorrow.

Life goes on and all.

When my aunt heard about the flooding, she called me up and said, “You have the worst luck ever!”

And it seems, we absolutely do.  If there is going to be a disaster, we’ll be there, right in the middle of it.  I don’t know why and I surely don’t know how it happens, but it does.

I’d love for there to be some tidy way to end this post, some pearl of wisdom to share or a special insight right from the mind of God to my heart, but there’s not.

There’s just three fans blowing in my mud room, trying to dry the place out.  Then there’s a garage full of mud and broken up floor, and the basement?  Well, I don’t go down there, but as soon as those fans finish their job in the mud room, they are headed downstairs.

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Tricia Gillespie