Muddy Roads and Floodwaters

We've all seen the signs. Shining luminescent yellow and black, "Road May Flood," they warn. Sometimes there are flashing lights and barricades, sometimes sandbags secure the sign at its post, a foreshadowing of the storm that is to come. Most often, we fly past the warning, turning up our radios and bopping along, dangerously and blissfully unaware of what lies ahead: the coming months of storms, the days and weeks of down-pouring. The way that, sometime sooner than we expect, the skies will open and all around us will be engulfed in floodwaters, at the mercy of the Lord and our limited preparation.

The road we live on is gravel. Well, it used to be gravel. But living amid cedars means that every year many of the fronds turn rusty-brown and fall to the ground, covering anything stationary in a layer of what will soon be earth. I'm convinced that all dirt in the entire world comes from cedar fronds, the way they break apart and decompose so quickly. It's like camping everyday living here, they stick to your boots and are soon ground into a fine, fertile and moist, deep brown dirt. Dirt that covers the roadways, the floor of the car, the steps leading into the house, the rug and the carpet, your baby's diapered little booty as she scoots around.

Needless to say, the formerly-gravel-now-mostly-dirt road is often a little formidable to traverse. Dark and narrow as it winds through the woods, it's pocked with pot-holes large enough to make you spill your grande latte all over your lap if you're not carefully braced against the abrupt dips. It weaves through the cedars and closes in like a tunnel near the end, turning and blinding you just before it opens up and the light shines again over our tiny, wooden cabin sitting on the edge of Cedar Creek.

It's easy to see why, in a secluded area like this, located in the very wet and wintry northwest, we would need to be prepared for flooding. When the rains come, we fill sand bags and get out flashlights. We tune into a news station and stand in the kitchen, carefully analyzing the water level of the creek, taking note of the forecast and all the inches of rain to come, knowing waters that rise too high can overtake the bridge and cover the road. And while there isn't much we can do about a rising creek, it is the road we keep safe and clear. Filling pot-holes with more gravel, dragging tree limbs out of the way, ensuring that our path will be clear while the storm rolls through.

And storm it does. With visible vigor, we watch the creek swell and grow both in depth and strength, gathering our babies closer and shutting locks against our fear. When our oldest daughter turned two and began to discover that she could turn locks and open doors, we installed deadbolts 6 feet up, hopeful that they would keep her from the creek and out of the soon-to-be flooded narrow and winding road. Safe inside, where waters don't rush and roads don't get swept away.

Little did we know, floods come in other forms. You don't need to be standing on our earth-covered road during a severe storm to be overtaken. You don't need to be wading through the fast rising creek to have your feet swept out from under you. It can come through a phone call or a knock on the door in a dark hour. It can come in a doctors office or a school yard. Floods are so sneaky that way, they come when you least expect them. Even when you have signs and forecasts, some storms are impossible to prepare for. And despite all the warnings, you are sometimes still shocked at the intensity of the flood you find yourself engulfed in.

Jesus spelled it out clearly for us. "In this world," He said in the NIV, "You will have trouble." There was no "maybe" in that verse. There was no "some" or "a little bit of." He told us plainly that we would experience pain and sorrow. That tribulation and misery would be a part of this existence here on earth. Like a bright yellow sing, He warned us of what was ahead.

So, why are we so surprised when it happens to us? Why do we scream at the sky and grind our teeth, kicking and wailing at the profound unfairness of it all? I suppose, it's because trouble hurts so often. Maybe it's because we haven't even finished scraping the muck from our roadway yet when another storm hits. Perhaps it's because we don't think our tiny cabin on the creek can take anymore. We are afraid the roof will cave in and our hearts along with it.

I am facing trouble. The lights on the flood sign are flashing and the sandbags are barricading the door. The phone keeps ringing, the door keeps opening to friends and family hurting and neck-deep in the raging rivers and the muck and mire of floodwaters and tribulation. Doctors keep bringing bad news. People keep making bad decisions that hurt and kill and destroy those I love. And I am at a loss in the flood.

And then I read on, "But take heart," He tells me, " I have overcome the world." And there is the peace. There is the beacon in the storm. There is the relief that I need, the Soldier with the red cross on His arm to rescue me from the tempest. He has overcome.

Sometimes when the road is flooded and the mud is deep and the pain is overwhelming, the only hope I find is the knowledge that this is all temporary. That the road will one day be clear and dry again, easy to traverse and safe to walk with my little girls. Even if it isn't until my road is no longer made of gravel and dirt from the cedar, but of pure gold. I can rest in the promise that I have a Savior who is mightier than any tribulation and who has walked over floodwaters in a storm. And that is enough to hold on to. That is enough to survive through the storm.