Fire

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"God is with us."

This is how a friend signed her email today.  The email was about the difficult situation I've been blogging about, the knothole I've been squeezing through.  


I think I wanted her to say, "God is with you."  To reassure me and me alone He is with me, the wronged party, and not with those who have done the wronging.  But that's not true.  He loves them too.  Sometimes I pray that they will experience that.  


And He is indeed with me.  In the midst of all the turmoil, I have felt his presence most in the quirky little messages he seems to be sending my way.  Perhaps these messages don't mean anything and I'm just choosing to imbue meaning into silly things like Sesame Street books and Facebook reposts.  Or maybe He knows I need the encouragement and direction and He's sending them to me in ways he knows I will best receive them.  Things like mustachioed robins. Encouraging emails from friends speak volumes to me.  I print them out and reread them periodically.  But funny little coincidences really catch my attention too, especially when I'm on the lookout for them as I am now.  Perhaps they are always there, things God scatters about with a chuckle, but I do not notice them because I am not looking.  


On Tuesday evening a significant event occurred in relation to The Situation.  I was not there, but apparently it did not go well.  That is no surprise.  As my husband recapped the event, I felt a whole new round of anger and despair.  The sort of despair that makes you wonder how you will make it through the next five minutes much less the rest of the week.  The sort of despair that keeps you awake, heart pounding, even when you're taking ibuprofen p.m. to sleep.  It is a horrible feeling to be misunderstood and misrepresented. 


Wednesday morning, when I logged onto Facebook, I found posted this article about a massive fire at St. Malo Retreat Center near Allenspark, Colorado.  A million dollars worth of damage. 


Last March, I spent a week at St. Malo as a part of a spiritual formation institute in which I'm participating.  It's a stunningly beautiful place.  The main lodge has a huge fireplace in the center surrounded by lots of comfy chairs -- places to cozy up and chat with God, others.  The big wall of windows looks out toward Colorado mountains.  Majestic.  It's the sort of place you want to sit and linger, savor.  Good things happen there.  

So do fires.  Unexpected destruction.  Despair.


The St. Malo fire feels metaphorical to me, to my situation.  I had hoped to construct a place of retreat and peace, a place where people could meet God and one another, a place where God's majesty would be captivatingly evident.  Not a physical place, mind you, more of an environment.  But I had what I thought was the perfect spot to do it.  


Then it caught fire.  Like the St. Malo fire, a whole series of events combined to create the perfect storm, or rather the perfect burn.  Destruction, massive amounts of it, occurred, are still occurring.  


One looks at the St. Malo destruction and at the estimated rebuild costs and wonders if it's even worth it.  And if it is is worth it, how can it happen?  Where to start?


I have no idea where to go from here.  No clue.  It's as if fog has descended masking the tiny amount of clarity I once had.  Perhaps it's smoke, not fog.


And is it even worth trying to rebuild?


In St. Malo's instance, the answer is absolutely.  I think God is possibly telling me my dreams are also worth rebuilding.  


Maybe I will relax for now.  Let the dust settle.  Let the winter pass.  In the Spring, when new life emerges, maybe I'll have ideas, rebirth, growth.  St. Malo could have used a bit of updating.  The restored version will be better than before.  The surrounding beauty will remain.  I hope this is true for me as well.


Have I mentioned what part of St. Malo's Center did survive?