Sometimes life gets
the better of us…or so we think. As the
hurricane of change sweeps across our lives and brings the destruction across
our glassy seas of perpetual peace, we find ourselves clinging to the reality
that we all live in glass houses and in our obliteration comes a phoenix on the
rise.
Anyone who sees my
calendar these days or knows about the perpetual state of change I have found
myself in, knows that a hurricane is still blowing here in Southern
California . I have found
myself sick in bed these past week as my body rebels against all I have put it
through these past few weeks. From
changing roles in relationships as people move away (will miss my long lost
brother and sister-in-law…be safe in the rampaged disaster that is the East
Coast), friends get married, jobs change and friends battle health problems, we
learn who we are and who our real friends are.
In this tumultuous
time I found myself reminded of a long lost friend, Miss Jane Eyre. Anyone who has known me for any real length
of times knows I met Miss Eyre at age ten.
A friend from high school inquired if I had had the privilege of reading
this brilliant book, and I fondly remembered my long forgotten amiee.
As I have been sick in
bed, once the book I had been reading was completed I picked up my old friend
and began rekindling the fire between us. Within the first few pages I came
across a poem about a poor orphan girl and it spoke to me in a new way. I felt I should share the brilliant words of
Miss Bronte with you:
My feet they are sore, and my limbs they are
weary;
Long is the way, and the mountains are wild;
Soon will the twilight close moonless and
dreary
Over the path of the poor orphan child.
Why did they send me so far and so lonely,
Up where the moors spread and grey rocks are
piled?
Men are hard-hearted, and kind angels only
Watch o’re the steps of a poor orphan child.
Yet distant and soft the night-breeze is
blowing,
Clouds there are none, and clear stars beam
mild,
God, in His mercy, protection is showing,
Comfort and hope to the poor orphan child.
Ev’n should I fall o’er the broken bridge
passing,
Or stray in the marshes, by false lights
beguiled,
Still will my Father, with promise and
blessing,
Take to his bosom the poor orphan child.
There is a thought that for strength should
avail me,
I hough both of shelter and kindred despoiled;
Heaven is home, and a rest will not fail me;
God is a friend to the poor orphan child.
Never have I felt so
weary and sore (both figuratively and literally). Sometimes we find weariness in change and
continuity alike, and right now, I feel this weariness creep into the depths of
my bones, giving a chill of exhaustion.
I see the journey to purpose and completion long and tiresome. And yet, God has brought me comfort and protection
through friends and family, through small poems, and grand tableau vivant.
Looking at the
obliteration of Irene and the paralleling swirling sea that has captured my
life, I see how true this poem is to even those of us with parents. For are we not all strangers in this
land? Are we not all in a land lonely
and far from our true home? I am
reminded once again, as oft I am, that my Friend and Father will show protection
to me in this frenzied and chaotic time, guiding me on the path to Home where
rest will encircle and caress these weary eyes.
I pray those caught in
the damage of Irene see the beauty that is around them, the hand of God in the
helpful neighbor who helps remove a tree from the road, in the city worker who
is helping to clean the streets instead of his home so that the people can
begin getting about, in the sheer beauty of the transition of change that may
open doors to incredible opportunities never before seen.
Hurricanes, proverbial
or otherwise, teach us of the mighty power of Him who created us; but also of
the gentle heart that leads us home. I
pray now that though we sometimes are ungrateful and angry, that our Father
will still, with promise and blessing, take to his bosom his ungrateful child.
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