Times of Darkness and Shadow-cont.

All healing takes time. Serious injury or illness can take months or years for recovery. Recovery, doesn't always mean to the same health and vigor enjoyed before. My spiritual and emotional healing would take almost ten years and my spiritual and emotional exercising must continue. A very effective and powerful step was found in writing. The following portion adds to more understanding of my doubt about God's care.

After resigning from the ministry we moved to Northeast Michigan. We used our severance money as a down payment on a ten acre apple orchard. I hoped the change would clear my mind and help Donna as well. On the morning of January 22nd, I received a phone call from a friend telling me that our farm house was on fire. I drove as fast as I could, only to stand and watch twenty three years of pictures, photos, elementary school art projects, all turn to ash and mud. Donna stood by my side and watched as her precious Zambian baskets, made by a lady in a leper colony, added to the ash and mud.

Insurance would help us begin again, as far as a house was concerned. There was no insurance company in the world that could help our minds and hearts begin again. All of my praying and believing was useless, hollow and dead. The snowball continued to roll downhill, gaining speed and mass. When it hit, and hit it must, the flying snow would go in every direction. What did that really mean? Was more deep personal tragedy on its way? Would the knife of divorce cut in two, hearts already broken and bleeding? I did not know what to expect.

In the span of five years I had four jobs. Trying to find stability in my life was like catching a snowflake and cupping your hand over it to keep it from flying away. When you opened your hand all that was to be was a small drop of water. Each new opportunity afforded me brought promises to Donna that things were gonna get better, change was coming. But, the drop of water left in our hands was from a tear. Our eyes, yes, both Donna's and mine, were running out of tears.

I don't recall what prompted me to begin writing. I just remember the thought that putting experiences down on paper can be helpful in examination and in trying to understand. I did it once before in the presence of two dead parents and brother. I was compelled to write each of them a letter expressing love, pain, resentment and forgiveness. On a cold day I stood at the foot of their graves and read aloud each letter. At the end I burnt the letters and let the wind carry away the ash.

The writing was like torrents of water coming out of a broken dam. Words flew and thoughts moved in my mind so fast that my feeble attempts at capturing them was frustrating at times. Pages turned into a full tablet and the second tablet filled as well. How could I make sense of the past ten years? No rational person would believe in a personal, involved, and present God.  As I continued to write I began to hope I was wrong.