As the taxi pulled to a stop, I could feel my throat tighten. I stepped out of the taxi, and the lump grew larger, and my eyes instantly welled up with tears.
This place. Here.
I don't feel afraid, but the intensity of it--of the last time I was here, in this place--it feels like I can't quite catch my breath as I approach.
This place. Here.
The last time I was here was Saturday, April 25. I won't ever forget that date. As we stood with visiting friends, the earth around us shook, and we watched as the structure on which my son had been standing when the shaking started, collapsed in a heap of rubble only seconds later. The air filled with dust so thick we couldn't see anything. Couldn't see my other boy, my baby. The earth still shaking and me grasping for my boys. Utterly helpless, I heard our friend shouting, "I have him! I have Ezekiel!"
Here. In this place.
Parenting has broken down many layers of my illusions of control, but never have I experienced anything that shattered that illusion so completely and so quickly. As much as I may sometimes (sadly, still) believe or act as if I, on my own, can protect my boys or take care of my family, as if I am enough to meet their needs, in that moment, there was nothing I could do. I could not protect. I could not save. I could not even SEE.
Here in this place.
And, yet, they--WE, ALL of our family--were protected. We were saved. We were SEEN.
Here in this place.
So, what can I do but come back? To worship. To give thanks beyond what any words can express. To praise the One who saw us and protected us and saved us.
This place. Here. It is a reminder to me of a goodness and a grace we in NO WAY deserve. It is a reminder of mercies far beyond my understanding. I may not place a physical stone there, but HERE. Here I "raise my Ebeneezer"--my help stone. "Thus far has the Lord helped us."
Here is my place of remembering. To tell my children, Here in this place. We have seen God's radical protection and mercy on our lives.
This place. Here.
I don't feel afraid, but the intensity of it--of the last time I was here, in this place--it feels like I can't quite catch my breath as I approach.
This place. Here.
The last time I was here was Saturday, April 25. I won't ever forget that date. As we stood with visiting friends, the earth around us shook, and we watched as the structure on which my son had been standing when the shaking started, collapsed in a heap of rubble only seconds later. The air filled with dust so thick we couldn't see anything. Couldn't see my other boy, my baby. The earth still shaking and me grasping for my boys. Utterly helpless, I heard our friend shouting, "I have him! I have Ezekiel!"
Here. In this place.
Parenting has broken down many layers of my illusions of control, but never have I experienced anything that shattered that illusion so completely and so quickly. As much as I may sometimes (sadly, still) believe or act as if I, on my own, can protect my boys or take care of my family, as if I am enough to meet their needs, in that moment, there was nothing I could do. I could not protect. I could not save. I could not even SEE.
Here in this place.
And, yet, they--WE, ALL of our family--were protected. We were saved. We were SEEN.
Here in this place.
So, what can I do but come back? To worship. To give thanks beyond what any words can express. To praise the One who saw us and protected us and saved us.
This place. Here. It is a reminder to me of a goodness and a grace we in NO WAY deserve. It is a reminder of mercies far beyond my understanding. I may not place a physical stone there, but HERE. Here I "raise my Ebeneezer"--my help stone. "Thus far has the Lord helped us."
So, here I stand. In this place. I take in the true miracle of it as I see it clearly. The tears flow, but the tightening fades away. I worship Our Protector, Our Savior, The One Who Sees Us, and I give Him thanks. And I remember. In my heart and my mind I will always remember this place.
Here I raise my Ebeneezer.
