Mount Nebo, about thirty or forty miles as the crow flies, is on fire. The whole valley is filled with thick smoke and if the wind is wrong, our valley fills with smoke so dense we can hardly see anything at all. The air is stale with old smoke and burning. At night, from our dinning room table, we watch the glow of the mountain fire and say quiet prayers that everyone fighting it will be safe and that by some miracle the weather will change and we will get rain (there is none in sight in the next ten days) to help change the tide and lower the fire risk everywhere.
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| Fall in AF Canyon |
It has been such a bone dry year. The leaves in the mountains aren't changing, the trees are literally dying. Everything is dusty and brittle and the air itself smells dry. The fear of fire in the mountains is with each of us every day. This record heat of a September doesn't help matters. There is . . . quite frankly nothing to do but pray that no one does anything stupid and that there is no lightning strike to start a spontaneous fire, but we can't control nature.
So today as we drove up the American Fork Canyon to our friend's cabin by Silver Lake Flats, and all the reservoirs are nearly empty and the trees are all crispy and curled and the dust is everywhere, I felt sad and a little helpless. All these millions and millions of acres of forests are suffering in this drought and there is nothing I can do to help.
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| Finn on said Swing (he kicked me off) |
But as I sat on the swing of the wrap around porch of our friend's cabin, I had this thought as I looked at all the trees around me, strong gnarled trees taller than the house, you have seen ten times as many lifetimes as I have. You have seen drought. You have seen floods. And you still stand. Me and my tiny forty-three years think that I know what trouble is. I think I know the future and feel no hope for change. But you, big old tree, you probably know that rain will come. You will grow fast again, your leaves will be healthy and bright and you will not only survive but thrive.
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| Dry but so beautiful and resilient (Pip and Finn) |
I know it sounds crazy, but the rest of the day, I've been looking at trees and realizing how young I am. How limited my vision and my ideas. A few Sundays ago, two beautiful wise grandparents stood up to tell us about the cancer they have fought and are fighting. At first, with each case, I thought for sure they were going to tell us how hard it was and how horrible (and they had every right to . . .) but instead, they made us laugh and cry and both of them, in every sentence they spoke, talked about HOPE. That each day they said, Well, look at how good this or that is going. And when I get better, this is what I will do. Not IF, but when. Why not hope? Why not believe the best will happen? They said. Most of the time, they reminded us, good things come. Really. So fill your life with hope and good things.
Favorite Sunday EVER.
So Trees and Grandparents . . . I love you. You've survived wars and illness and heartbreak and droughts and crazy wind and floods and years and years of stuff and you're still laughing and strong and resilient and looking towards the rain and healing and hope.
I am going to be more like you. I'm going to look forward to the good that will come. I will believe that this is just a phase, a moment, and that really what's required is mostly holding on and hoping. I will believe Nebo, despite burning like crazy, will be better for it and that the cooling, healing, quenching rain will come.
I believe.
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