How time flies

Time flies when you ignore your blog.

I confess that I've had a hard time focusing on the blog, and thus have ignored it rather than write anything. I've had several good excuses. None worth putting down though.

It's June and I'm in Texas. Actually, today is my ninth wedding anniversary. :-) We'll have a braai and South African wine later to celebrate.

Yesterday I drove down to Galveston for the first time since Ike hit. The church is very different. The damage to the building has allowed for repair to the walls around the stained glass and new plexiglass to protect them. Other repairs have been made to the sanctuary floor, and new pews have been installed. The roof is having extensive repairs as well. Several of the staff told me that they were moving back into their homes this week. After lunch I drove around a bit to see the damage in town for myself. The homes were as expected, in various states of repair, some still down to studs inside.

But what took my breath away was the trees. No one told me that the trees would be so bare, so stark. The big old oaks lining Broadway - nearly all of them are completely bare. Oleanders were also killed off, and one intersection with several tall eucalyptus trees was empty, not a branch or tree trunk in sight. It was disorienting.

Someone told me that they'd recently been downtown on the Strand for a celebration of re-opening the downtown district. However, only one out of three businesses are back. The island is steadfastly repairing and building up again, but clearly Ike has taken a hard toll on Galvestonians.

Although it was mid-day, I stopped and went down to the water's edge. Typically I won't get outside between 11 and 3 in the summer (I'll burn in a second if I'm not covered in sunscreen) but I couldn't be at the Gulf and not touch the sand and water. It was really peaceful. Families playing, flying kites, guys out fishing, boards of all kinds in the water, and picnics under umbrellas and shelters.

The soft sand back toward the seawall was really hot, then over the dead sargasso grass, and then onto the hard pack sand near the water. Millions of tiny seashells washed back and forth in the gentle surf. The water was so warm and inviting, washing up over my ankles. Hard to comprehend that the laughter, the gulls calling, the seashells - all seem so fragile, so joyful - and yet they are all part of the wind and water that in a moment become so destructive.

So many times I've been tempted to leave out part of the Baptism ritual, because when you're holding someone's precious infant in your arms, you don't much want to talk about the destructive power of water. But water is also a creative force. Being at the Gulf reminded me of all the times I went with family and friends, all the laughter and joy we shared, such simple times. And yet it is that same water that has been spun up into hurricanes, and I've lived through eight or nine tropical storms and hurricanes in my life. Ike was the first bad one to hit the Texas coast while I was not there - and it hit the house I used to live in, hit the houses of my friends, my church members, my co-workers, hit the schools my children attended. The one news picture that has stuck in my mind is the one of little Kaitlin helping her dad to hand out ice in front of the church in the aftermath. Kaitlin was the first child I ever baptized, she and her baby brother.

Waters of the Gulf to play in. Waters of the Gulf destroying trees, homes, businesses. Waters of baptism, making us holy. Water frozen into ice, sustaining life after tragedy.

Rains fell as I drove onto the island yesterday, but it was sunny and hot there on the edge of the Gulf. Back across the hard packed sand and shells, across the sargasso grasses, through the soft hot sands, back up the steep steps to the top of the Seawall. Driving across the Causeway, I saw gathering clouds ahead, and as I left the island, the rain began to fall again.