In the storm, Love’s calling names

The breeze, it’s fresh, and the birds, they sing as I’m walking the road in all of spring’s glory. That sky. That sun. The song of the birds, and those shouts…

Glancing across the fields as I walk, I can see the school from here. That beautiful, wonderfully unblemished roof line. The sledding hill that rises there to the back. And like music come the cries of children; healthy, alive.

It’s recess time.

Right there on my quiet country road, I see it. Just beneath an angry sky; dark, whirling clouds portending doom. Chaos, death is in the air. Bricks, boards, mortar ripped and flung, roof line no longer unblemished.

When the storm passes by, menacing clouds now blown past, I hear a different kind of sound. No more the happy shouts of children tinkling sweet over fresh-plowed ground. Now, I hear the voice of terror. Of pain. Of fear and confusion. It’s names, precious names that I hear.

Through bullhorns and megaphones. Through hands cupped ’round lips. With heads flung to sky and full-throated cries, it’s Love calling names.

Looking at our whole, unbroken elementary school in the full light of the sun, I can hardly bear it. Where my child plays, running, laughing, fully alive, another mother’s found death. Where my blue-eyed boy writes letters, hears stories, works numbers, another child’s been buried. And Love–oh, the Love that moved rubble; the Love that went calling…

What on earth do we do when it’s hell that rains down? When the sky opens up and the world, it explodes? When the ground below trembles and it all falls apart? Where’s heaven? Where’s God? How’s that love?

Outdoors this morning, chill breeze blowing and birds tweeting cheer, I thought of that walk. Thought of the storms. Remembered the loss. And this is what came: Why do we live as though dying were the worst that could happen? What makes us cling to this life down here, forgetting the life that’s to come?

And then this: What if living without living is worse yet than that? And what if death, that’s the way to a life that’s worth living? Death to self, death to sin, death to all that’s not Him? What if that?

Today, I’m thinking this–that choosing to die while alive is the secret. That real, forever, unquenchable life, that’s what comes. And I’m thinking this, too; that in every storm and in all kinds of weather, Love calls.

When hell opens up and the world, it explodes. When the ground trembles and shakes and it all falls apart, Love calls.

Through all of the rubble, Love’s looking, inviting. Love’s calling, first to death, then surely to life. Maybe this–this–is what the storm speaks, that Love’s calling, and Love knows your name.

And Love’s name is Jesus, the Christ, He of Nazareth. Rest assured, my friend, that He knows what’s yours.