Inches from catastrophe
Awakening to Whatcoms our way and wrestling with incomplete theology
The hum and whine of chainsaws has become our background music. With so much freshly cut pine and fir all around, the air smells oddly festive, like Christmas has come early. But the neighbors out walking their dogs know the twinkle lights and stockings will have to wait. Now is the time for gratitude and reaching out to help one another.
“Hey. How’s it going? Did your home survive?”
“Thankfully, yes. Just a little damage to our eaves and gutters, but nothing major. Thanks for asking. How about yours?”
“Oh, we’re so grateful we didn’t have any direct hits—plenty of clean-up around the property, but the structures and our cars are all fine.”
“What a relief. But did you hear about the folks on the next street over . . .”
By the third day after the tempest hit, most of the roads had reopened. Enormous cranes and arborist’s trucks still linger in parking lots, though, awaiting their next call. Clean-up from a storm of this magnitude takes time.
A “bomb cyclone” Really?
Initially, I thought clever TV weather reporters had invented the cataclysmic-sounding term, looking to boost viewership. I was wrong. It’s a thing.1 A “bomb” cyclone (aka bombogenesis) is a meteorological phenomenon that occurs exclusively in middle-latitude zones in the early spring or late fall when layers of arctic air from the north and warmer air from the south collide, while simultaneously, the air pressure drops like a bomb—falling at least 24 millibars within the span of 24 hours. This combination forms a sudden and particularly violent vortex of strong winds. When coinciding with the presence of an atmospheric river, a long plume of moisture over the Pacific Ocean, it creates a wild windstorm with an intense deluge of precipitation, akin to the formation of a hurricane in tropical regions.
The night the big storm hit the Pacific Northwest, Andy and I were tucked snugly into a Bavarian-themed alpine town2 on the east side of the Cascade Range, celebrating our 32nd wedding anniversary while Walter, our big yellow truck, patiently tolerated all the gawkers in our hotel’s parking lot. On our side of the mountains, the bomb cyclone resulted in very little wind, just a fresh foot of lovely snow and some pretty pictures to show for it.
The next morning, before driving west over Stevens Pass, we waited a few hours to allow the snowplows plenty of time to clear nearly all of the road. It was a beautiful drive through a winter wonderland, and we smiled the whole way, admiring the heavy-laden trees and singing along to travel tunes as we passed the miles.
We were ill-prepared for the chaos that lay ahead of us at our next destination.
Sudden devastation in Whatcom
Andy’s sister and her husband live in Sudden Valley, a densely forested and steeply faceted emerald in Washington’s Whatcom County, sparkling with hidden lakes, streams, and waterfalls. Despite its mysterious name3, Sudden Valley is a strange and magical place—an enormous middle-class country club-esque enclave with streets so steep they defy gravity.
But Sudden Valley suffered more damage from this storm than its better-known neighbor, Bellingham, or anyplace else in the county. Gale-force winds swirled around and struck from the east this time, surprising the old-growth trees accustomed to coastal breezes. The atypical wind direction, combined with the shallow root systems often found in places where precipitation is plentiful, plus the recent removal of some trees to make way for new construction created a deadly combination that left already unstable trees in a vulnerable state.
Dozens of homes were struck. Walking the steep and winding streets, we saw many red-cheeked residents in hoodies and work gloves hauling tree limbs of various sizes from their yards to big piles along the street.
We paused to look at a home with a For Sale sign out front and a lockbox on the door. A tree had caused obvious damage to the roof. Peeking inside the front windows, we could see long, heavy cracks in the ceiling where the trusses had borne the impact.
We met one family who has lived in the area for 27 years but now needs to relocate for the next 4-6 months while their home is made livable again. The damage was severe.
Another family had just recently moved into the neighborhood. Thanks to the storm, a distinguished middle-aged giant, perhaps three feet across at the base and 150 feet tall, had uprooted right next to their new home on a typically narrow, steep and winding road. The thickest part of the tree teetered precariously on a diagonal, looming mere inches from the edge of the roof, the thinner end swaying gently in the breeze. A small section of the root system still clinging to the earth kept the tree from toppling over completely.
Along with several other neighbors, we watched as an enormous crane—leveled with stacks of timbers to create a stable platform on the hill—extended its long arm above and parallel to the leaning tree.
A brave arborist in spiked boots and a climbing harness scrambled cautiously up the trunk, hoping against hope not to upset the delicate balance. He secured it with cables and cut free several protruding limbs with the chainsaw dangling from his waist.
When the arborist climbed back down, he and the crane operator then engaged in a lengthy conversation we couldn’t hear, punctuated by hand signals and gestures and monitored closely by the homeowners. The removal of this tree—without damage to the house—was an engineering puzzle.
We watched, entranced, as the slow-moving suspense movie played out before us in real time.
What was the plan? How would they attempt to remove that tree?
Would it go as planned, or would it crush the house?
But this wasn’t the time to settle into a comfy recliner and munch popcorn. This was someone’s reality. A tree weighing several tons was dangling menacingly over someone’s life.
What to reach for upon awakening to a startling new reality
What was it like to awaken the morning after the storm, thinking they’d survived the worst of it, only to walk out onto the porch and see that enormous tree trunk leaning over the house, only inches away from catastrophe? Did someone yell a warning? Did the family evacuate immediately? Did they stop to gather a few belongings first? If so, what did they grab? Electronics? Heirlooms? Clothing? What were the essentials?
My mind flashed back to 2010 when my childhood friend’s home was one of many that fell prey to the whims of a serial arsonist in the Grand Rapids, Michigan area.
What do you grab when your life is in danger, and you have to get out immediately? What do you reach for when the adrenaline is pumping, and your brain is scrambled?
When my friend and her husband awoke to smoke alarms in the middle of the night, they reached for their most precious possessions; their three kids, a friend sleeping over, and several pets. They ran out into the dark night and stood in their pajamas and bare feet, watching as firefighters tried in vain to save their home. It was a total loss.
I snapped back to the present and watched in awe as the engineering challenge was solved and the tree was safely removed from its precarious position.
Thank God. We walked away, stopping here and there to gawk at other downed trees and chat with other neighbors we encountered. All were grateful. It could have been worse.
The problem with incomplete theology
As I walked back in silence, a song I never really liked—even when it was first released in 1984 on Amy Grant’s Straight Ahead album—popped into my mind and I snorted a bitter laugh. The song, entitled “Angels Watching Over Me,” featured a cheesy and downright bizarre music video (below)—a classic peek into an idealized version of early 1980s Evangelical youth culture.
The song praises God’s protection in the form of unseen angels:
“Near misses all around me
Accidents unknown
Though I never see with human eyes
The hands that lead me home.”
It was a nice idea, but I always found it so incomplete. What about the millions of people who did encounter tragedy? What about the homes that did burn down or were crushed by trees? What about the families who prayed for healing and their loved ones still died young? Did God not hear their prayers? Were their angels caught napping on watch? Did God wring his hands and cringe and issue a heavenly court martial—too late—in response to their derelict of duty?
And what about the families whose former unity and togetherness has been shattered by political ideologies and culture wars and even divisions in the Church over who is allowed to be accepted and who is supposed to be rejected? What about them? What about us?
Is an intact roof, physical or metaphorical, a sign of God’s special blessing on one family versus another?
The pretty pastel 1980s theology of my youth, with all its argyle sweaters and pithy platitudes and rhyming lyrics, didn’t play out very well when times got tough—which they invariably did. It didn’t teach us how to deal with adversity. It completely left out the biblical books of Job and Ecclesiastes.4
The problem lies in the implication that God’s care for us is transactional. If we believe we deserve God’s blessings and other people don’t, then we have undercut God’s goodness. If we believe we were spared calamity because we prayed for God’s protection, then that implies that either a) others failed to pray/didn’t pray hard enough, or b) God just chose to not protect some people even though they did pray.
And yet, God instructs us to pray and gives examples throughout Scripture of God responding directly to specific prayers. I don’t have any easy answers or good one-liner comebacks to apply here. I would love to hear your thoughts on the topic. Any wisdom or insight to share?
A season of gratitude and work gloves
Yes, we are grateful our family’s home in Sudden Valley wasn’t hit by falling trees in this past week’s bomb cyclone. Yes, we are grateful that we traveled safely over snowy Stevens pass. And yes, we are so very grateful that we will get to spend a few days with both of our kids for a holiday weekend only a few days away—the first family holiday in four years. We truly have so much to be grateful for.
But so many of our neighbors, both near and far, are struggling.
In the midst of our celebrations, friend, let’s remember to be on the lookout for those who are hurting. Do they need help clearing branches after a storm? Do they need a hot meal, or a hug, or just a genuine smile? Could they use a place to stay for a couple of nights, or a ride to the grocery store, a cup of coffee, or a seat at our holiday table, or perhaps an encouraging note left on their desk at work or in their inbox? Would a cookie help? How about an invitation to come for leftover pie? Maybe just noticing they are going through a rough time and letting them know you see them and care would be huge. You never know.
Can we offer our thoughts and prayers? Yes. Can we also pull on our work gloves or our oven mitts and get to work? Also, yes. Absolutely.
Let’s remember to stop and chat with our neighbors this season, and when they speak, let’s listen. The damage to their homes, to their hearts, might be obvious, but it might not. Let’s raise a glass with those who have something to celebrate, and let’s, at the very least, sigh with those who are hurting.
The holidays are upon us. Let’s be the hands and feet of Jesus. Let’s put our faith into action.
Until next week,
Sherry
P.S. I am always looking for new readers to join our little community of friends. If you know of others who would enjoy following our nomadic adventures, here’s a link to share Diesel & Dignity with them:
Here’s an article further explaining bomb cyclones, for all you meteorology nerds.
A NOTE TO ALL MY PAID SUBSCRIBERS: The postcards I promised you from our quaint and scenic location last week have not yet been mailed out. I had intended to write them upon arrival here in Sudden Valley, but we have been so busy. I plan to mail them this week. If you have not yet messaged me with your home address, please do so right away. You can simply reply to this email, if that is easiest for you.
The name Sudden Valley intrigues me, but I can’t seem to find a definitive answer for how or why it was chosen. This article written by a local comes close, and—bonus—I find it highly entertaining.
The remnants of that simplistic platitudes-cure-all mentality still linger in today’s social media meme culture. Here, just click ‘share’ on this handy little one-liner and everything will be ok. Type ‘amen’ to show you believe it without question. Comment with the praying hands emoji to imply you are praying. Or share this and everyone will know where you stand—and where they stand in your estimation. Yuck. Certainly, our faith is more robust than that.
You speak to a dilemma I’ve often puzzled over. And am still left puzzling over.