"Really Quick" Story

The "really quick" in quotes in the blog title has nothing to do with my story.  I include those words in homage to Jason Dyba, Long Hollow's media mad man. As one of his volunteer team, I am compelled to pepper my speech with those words.

But I digress.  No time for rabbit chasing if I'm truly going to be "really quick."

Wait. One more rabbit trail. I. Ran. Today. My family, who knows me very well, may have actually gasped aloud at those three words. Let me explain. I HATE to run. Truly. I've always been active, to a point, but I do not run. Walk fast Jeff Lemmonds style, yes. Run, no. I played softball from an early age until I left home for college. Loved it. But I would literally groan if I hit more than a double. Run three bases? Help us. No. And by the way, this has nothing to do with my story either, other than telling you why I found myself on this beautiful Sunday afternoon at Moss Wright Park.

Okay. I live just up the street from Moss Wright Park. As a matter of fact, my home backs up to the park. Can't get to it that way, but in the summer, from my deck I can hear the umpires and cracks of the bat from the very back ball field.

"Really quick" background. Last spring, when much of Nashville and surrounding area found itself under water or affected by flooding, my home got flooded.  On Sunday, when the dams were released, the water in my back yard rose from a few inches to four feet in about an hour.  I only say that in case you don't know this so that the rest of my "really quick" story will make sense. All is well now, but that is a whole nuther story which is an amazing God story that is not "really quick" in the slightest.

To tell you today's tale, for dramatic flair, I'm going to change tenses.  Awkward present tense, here we come. English teachers, get ready to cringe.

Here's the "really quick" story.

I am on the path that circles the park and goes by Mansker Creek in the back of the park.  As a non-runner, I am gasping and probably dying, so I stop running. I am walking, looking to my left at the nearly dry creek and across the banks. The trees are bare and I have an unobstructed view of...wow... that's my neighborhood.  No, wait.  That's my street.  (Yes, I know I said I know my house backs up to the park, but I don't always connect dots very well; it's a curse.)

In the distance, I spot my house. I can barely breathe. I glance down in front of me at gentle Mansker Creek, making happy noises as it flows. It's a few inches deep, at best.

My eye looks from the creek bed to the four foot line of my house. The height is ridiculous. How could this creek have risen to such heights?  Are you kidding me?  40 feet?  Maybe 50?  I'm a terrible judge of height, but it is an absurd distance from that creek bed to four feet up the side of my house. 

Then I remember once again, as God showed me a few months ago, as the innocent creek flows, I am barely a mile from the homes near JP2 that were literally under water.  Barely a mile from the portion of the bypass that was literally under water.  Those people lost everything.  Everything.  They barely got out in time and were thankful to be alive.  And they are oh so close to me as the crow flies.  In the summer, when the creek goes totally dry, I could jog up the creek to them. In fact, maybe I should.

I am thankful all over again that I didn't lose everything.

I think of the Israelites.  They were instructed to pile up stones as a reminder to their children that the Lord had done an amazing work. These stone of remembrance provided a reminder during hard times that God is near and active.  I've long since piled up stones of remembrance on this one, for sure. God is near, and wow, He is active. But I have often wished I had a visual for my mental pile of stones. I love a good visual.

Between where I stand in the park and my back yard, on the far bank amongst the bits of flood debris still in evidence, I see a big blue Metro trash can.  Might even be my trash can.  I have no idea whose can ended up in my yard.

Ha!  I love it.  The big blue trash can.  There's my pile of stones. I hope it stays there forever.  Today I claim that big blue trash can as my stone of remembrance. Here I raise my Ebenezer!

Thanks for taking this journey with me. God is good, God is faithful, and He is sovereign.

1 Samuel 7:12 ~ Then Samuel took a stone and set it up between Mizpah and Shen. He named it Ebenezer, saying, “Thus far the LORD has helped us.”