About a year after my dad had his stroke, my mom called my sisters saying that she was ready to move. They had been driving two to three hours back and forth every weekend to help Mom, and the strain was getting to all of them. They found an apartment for my parents, and so the great sorting party began.
This house was my parents’ second in a forty-six-year marriage, and they had been there for thirty years. My sisters had started the sort before I and my children arrived. There were a variety of items sitting along the side of the house ready to be put into a dumpster. Their one-car garage was filled with stuff good enough to donate, and their house was still full. Day after day, family and friends helped sort, pack, and stack. I went to bed exhausted and sore every night, and I got up the next day to start again. I have no idea how many times I asked someone to walk through the basement to see what I might have missed. My dad was notorious for storing things like fishing poles on the rafters of the basement ceiling.
As I was packing up my brother’s Hardy Boys books to ship to him, I called and said, “I’m sorry you are missing this.” He scoffed, thinking I was being sarcastic and that I was probably wishing he was there to pack up his own damn books. I repeated sincerely, “No, I mean I really am sorry you are missing this.” I had lived in that house for ten years—the end of my growing up. He had only lived there for four years before joining the Navy, but I knew that he still had good memories of being there. There were family parties where we had to carry everything downstairs because that was the only place to serve as many people as we were serving. We had a make-shift table my dad made by putting a piece of ply wood on top of our pool table. One of my jobs was to roll silverware into napkins (once only to find that one of my little sisters had unrolled each and every one). With each item I packed or put out to discard, there was a memory for one of us. My sisters did not remember living anywhere else growing up. Despite all of the work and the sad reason behind the move, I was grateful to be there.
These last couple of weeks, I have been remembering that feeling. My family dodged the proverbial bullet by moving out of Texas prior to Hurricane Harvey. I watched the news as often as I could. I checked Facebook constantly to see if my friends were okay. I felt like a nag texting our tenants in the house we still own there making sure they and the house were not flooded. Every day of the hurricane, and every day since, I am grateful to God that we were not there, but now that they are in recovery mode, I feel almost as if I am missing something good. My friends keep posting about how they are helping friends, family, and strangers. The students I taught are back at school, and I am not there to hear their stories. I do not for one minute wish I lived there again. It was not the place for me. However, I wish I could do more for everyone there.
As I post this, Hurricane Irma is barreling toward Florida, the American West is burning, and there was an earthquake in Mexico. The world is a turbulent place, but it is important to remember that for every bad thing that happens, something good can come from it. Romans 8:28 says, “And we know that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to His purpose.” I enjoyed the experience of clearing the memories from my parents’ house, I pray for those currently in harm’s way, and I am heartened by the camaraderie shared by those recovering from tragedy. Love and hope will prevail.