God Did Not Leave Us

"I will put the cedar in the wilderness, The acacia, the myrtle, and the olive tree; I will place the juniper in the desert, Together with the elm tree and the cypress"...

I imagine that as he looked across the vast landscape wonder and awe overtook him. How could it not? Nothing but sky and sea lay before him. A vastness that makes one feel small, but yet not alone. Except the sea was not water and only in the violets and pinks of the dusty sunset could one demarcate between the sky and grassland that lay ahead.

Coronado took a moment to journal this grassland and compare it to the way the wind moves water into waves and ripples. He said it was a "sea of grass", in the way the wind hits the native buffalo grass. "I have arrived at some plains so without landmarks that it was as if we were in the middle of the sea," were his remarks to the viceroy of New Spain. While much of this landscape has changed since that letter in 1541, much remains the same.  It is wild and beautiful and delicate, as though God himself leaned in and gave His breath on the mighty grassland as evidence of His presence. And if you ever sit and watch it, that's what it feels like.

I envy Coronado's view of the untouched land. So pure, serene, and open. I cannot imagine the sound of wind in the tall prairie grass so beautiful that he would compare it to the mighty Atlantic. And if one never saw the ocean, never watched the wind lightly drag her fingers over the surface of the deep, blue water to create ribbons of movement as far as the eye could see, well, surely God would let them see the vast grasslands of the Great Plains at some point in their life.

Our beloved plains is on fire. Mother Nature is as drastically awful and beautiful as ever in her fury. We are back into fire season, coming out of a dry and uneventful winter, and on the doorstep of tornado season behind an El Nino year. Even with climate changes and weather pattern shifts, we know that wild fire is a natural hazard. Always has been. Always will be. What does that mean? Only God knows. But, thankfully, God knows.

Today, and many days from now, a rancher will ride out to survey the damage. As he looks out across the barren land, he'll step down and touch the earth. Dust will blow against his weathered skin. His knuckles will feel dry and cracked in the arid breath of the day. The relentless wind and will of the changing seasons will blow sand and ash against his face and neck. As he kneels into the dry earth, it will feel barren and empty as the remnants of grass stalks disintegrate in his calloused hands. It will sift into pockets and hat brims, saddle bags or truck doors. It will blow and float and find its way into every window, every crack, every door frame and eave and edge. It will be hard to see beyond the devastated landscape. But it's the country we live in. And it's a given even during times of rain and grass and growth - but more so during times when the vegetation is gone and there is nothing left to hold the topsoil in place in the wild land that even Coronado loved.

Hearts across the nation are hurting with the pictures and stories. Lost homes, dead cattle, burned hay supplies, so many people suddenly plunged into the desert of their own lives as they face the starting over, starting from scratch, from the beginning, or "from random" as my Grandmother called it. While the wind is a constant relentless beast, it will calm as the heat of late spring and summer move in and take residence for the season. One challenge for another.

But in this season of loss, one constant remains. 

God did not leave us. 

He did not leave us without hope or resources. When God looked out over the Plains region I can't imagine what He said. But I think maybe it was this...

 I did not make you a wasteland. I did not leave you. It will be hard to make it year to year on your own. But I did not leave you alone. I gave you each other. And your land will make you strong. Your land, in good times and bad, will teach you about my promises.

When the summer sun finally warms the ground, you'll understand Mercy. When the light rains fall on your spring wheat, you'll know Grace. 

When the mighty storms fill your rivers, you'll feel Abundance. 

When you work the land sun up to sun down, you'll understand Peace. 

When harvest is over, you'll know Gratitude. 

When fire and wind take everything you have, watch as my promises are revealed and bloom like the Indian blankets. When people show up with hay, and food, and clothing, when they give you shelter and pray with you in the remains of your devastation, you will understand the Body of Christ and its purpose.

Texas will recover. Oklahoma will recover. The people will share and help and struggle together until they are restored. The grass will grow again. Even as all seems lost, and all seems futile - the grass will grow again. That beautiful grass will explode in abundance now that the dead and dormant growth is gone. Renewal is sometimes like that. 

Homes will be rebuilt. Resources will be shared. Hearts will heal.

He gave us this land.

He gave us each other. And in loss, He taught us the value of both.

Today, we don't have answers but for this... 

God did not leave us. Not for one moment.