I love the reflection off Basement Lake in the morning.
“Wipe that smug look off your face” was one of my father’s go-to sayings. I hated to be humbled. Still do. But my heavenly father is also in the humbling business, so I’ve learned to, well, not like it, but at least learn from it.
This spring was one of our area’s floodiest ever (if “floodiest” isn’t a word, it should be). Still, we chuckled complacently when civic alarms went off because we live on one of the highest hills in Cincinnati (named for Cincinnatus, hero of Rome, city of the seven hills). So, no flooding, right? Wrong. Because, unlike when we lived in Southern California, we now have a beautiful…
After the umpteenth major clean-up, and sending our immutably drenched carpet to that big carpet pad in the sky, we finally hired someone to do expensive, permanent (?) repairs: a new sump pump and an elaborate French drain system (“Sacré bleu! Thees should feex eet!”). Because the funds were finally available to do so.
So what’s the take-away? Well, for starters: compassion. Our little inconvenience is infinitely small compared to what those who experience real disasters endure, the sudden erasure of everything they thought was permanent: their homes, their livelihood, their community, their lives.
I hate to be humbled, but I know real life experiences teach us more than any TV or internet coverage ever could. God, help me to never lose my empathy, my connection to others. Prompt me to step up and inconvenience the hell out of myself whenever the need (sorry, make that privilege) of helping others arises. Thank you for the reminder, God.
And sorry about the smugness.