Storm, Soup Kitchen, Funerals and more

It's been a remarkable week, one that has surprised us with the unexpected and taught us much and  blessed us through everyday experiences.

The most unexpected event was the storm that someone named Hermine. It's a rather odd name, isn't it? Do you actually know anyone named Hermine? I certainly don't. I'm not sure how they decide on these stormy names, but in recent years they have definitely changed, become far more exotic. Most people don't realize that earlier -- much earlier -- major storms were named after saints, most often the saint on whose feast day the storm first appeared. And then, for many years, storms went unnamed. For example, I was born in the midst of a storm that was called simply, "The Great Hurricane of September 1944." It wasn't until the early 1950s that the National Weather Service began to assign female names to hurricanes and major tropical storms. I remember well some of the storms that roared up the East Coast when I was much younger -- for example, Carol, Edna, Diane, and Donna -- all given rather common female names. It wasn't until the late 1970s that nascent political correctness led to the assignment of both male and female names to major storms. This change actually surprised me. I would have thought that the more radical feminists would approve of these impressive, mighty storms being given feminine names as a kind of metaphor reflecting the power of women. But no, political correctness trumps all and male storminess must be recognized as equal to that of women. But I digress...

Hermine made its appearance in the Gulf of Mexico early last week as the cleverly named Tropical Depression #9. It wallowed about in the gulf for several days before it began to display some organization and direction. By Tuesday the weather-guessers called for it to strengthen into a tropical storm and ultimately a hurricane, predicting landfall on Florida's west coast sometime early Thursday.

This forecast was particularly disturbing because Diane and I are the Thursday cook and captain at the Wildwood Soup Kitchen, and Wildwood, Florida was on the storm's predicted path. On Wednesday morning we finally decided to close the soup kitchen for Thursday, not wanting to subject our drivers who deliver meals or our walk-in guests to the dangers of a major storm. As it turned out, Hermine changed both course and speed, drifted to the north and west, and finally made landfall early Friday just south of Tallahassee. We were, therefore, spared its most damaging effects. We experienced gusty wind and heavy rain but nothing too exciting. Hermine has since moved up the East Coast and once again is wallowing about, this time in the Atlantic. And so we are able to share this storm with three of our children, who live in coastal New England.

In the midst of all this storminess, I have been asked to conduct two funerals, one vigil service, and one committal service, all in the space of four days. The committal will be at the National Cemetery in Bushnell, Florida. As you might expect, because of our large retired-age population in central Florida, funerals, vigils and committals are common, much more common than baptisms and marriages.

Most funerals are celebrated in the church during Mass, but sometimes, for any number of reasons, a family wants a funeral outside of Mass in a funeral home. Because no Mass is celebrated we deacons are usually called on to conduct these funerals. I have always considered them among the most important liturgies I am privileged to conduct. For most people this is a time of real need, a time when confusion, emptiness, and doubt overwhelm the mind and heart. It is a time calling for the affirmation of faith, a time for the proclamation of God's Good News in the midst of man's bad news. But most importantly, it is a time to listen. And in the listening I have found these difficult times to be wonderful opportunities for evangelization. It's not unusual to encounter family members who have drifted away from the Church and are simply awaiting a call to return.

Anyhow, because of all this, I spend a considerable amount of time preparing for funerals and vigils and committals. I always try to meet with the family in advance, not only to learn about the deceased as a person, but also to get a sense of the relationships within the family. Out of this, the family's  spiritual needs become more evident, important considerations when selecting the Scripture readings and preparing my homily.

I conducted two of these services -- a funeral and a vigil service -- yesterday, while the other two are scheduled for early next week. I am truly humbled by the remarkable faith I encountered yesterday among the family and friends of the man and woman who had died. Even in their grief, they were aware of God's presence and His enduring love. How often this happens! How often do I come to realize the true holiness of God's people, a holiness that often far exceeds that of the clergy, of priests and deacons.

Just as I finished writing the last sentence we suffered a lightning strike. It was the closest and loudest strike I've ever experienced. The flash was right outside our master bedroom window, and the crash of thunder, being so close, was instantaneous and deafening. The circuit breaker for the bedroom electricity flipped off, the smoke detectors all sounded, and Maddie, the wonder-dog, was greatly displeased. Our neighbor just called on her cellphone and said their telephones are out and their PC was fried. We apparently are in better shape. Telephones and computers all seem to be working. I checked the attic for signs of fire, reset the circuit breaker, and gave the house a blessing. 

All seems well. God is good.

Lightnings and clouds, bless the Lord;

praise and exalt him above all forever.

[Dan 3:73]

God's peace

Musing on Thunderstorms

I just came in from talking the dog for her evening walk, in this instance a stroll abbreviated by a fast-moving thunderstorm roaring in from the west. Fortunately little Maddie accomplished her mission before the rains and lightning arrived, so we hustled back home and avoided both a drenching and an electrocution. At the moment it's wet, windy and wild out there which makes one especially grateful for mankind's most advantageous invention: indoor plumbing.

Here in central Florida we're frequented by afternoon thunderstorms, especially during these summer months. This year we seem to be experiencing more than our usual share of these boomers. Indeed, Dear Diane was saying this just the other day, as we watched a seemingly endless succession of lightning bolts streak through the late afternoon sky. The wall-shaking crashes of thunder followed all too soon. It was quite a storm: lightning, thunder and torrents of rain. The only thing missing was hail. As it moved off to attack others, we agreed it was among the strongest storms we had experienced in our ten years here. 

When I was a child in suburban New York and there was the threat of a thunderstorm, I would often sit in one of the big wooden rocking chairs on our neighbor's front porch. Old Mr. Dolan, his grandson, Teddy, and I would rock away, listen to the rain pounding on the porch roof, smell the ozone, watch the lightning, and revel in the thunder crashing around us. It was all very exciting and I don't recall ever being afraid. Perhaps I should have been, but in those days, before instant TV news and YouTube and a thousand Internet sites reporting every odd event on the globe, we just didn't hear much about lightning strikes.

Then, one day, my mother told me of the time -- a few years before I was born -- a bolt of lightning zapped through the open kitchen window of our family's rural Connecticut home and melted the ceiling light fixture above her head. That sure made a believer out of her. What really changed my mind was going through Navy flight training in Pensacola, Florida. It was there that I experienced first-hand the power of these Florida thunderstorms that roll in off the Gulf. I quickly learned to avoid them when flying my trusty T-28 on those steamy summer afternoons. I also lost a friend and fellow flight student who was struck by lightning while walking along the  beach. 

A trusty Navy T-28 Trainer

Recalling that long-ago tragedy reminds me of the late great General Norman Schwarzkopf's comment:

"Unfortunately, if you've ever been in southern Georgia on the beaches in a lightning storm, if you're out there, you're in great, great danger, and you can be killed very, very quickly." 

It's pretty much the same in Florida, General. During our most recent big storm here in The Villages, one home, just a few short blocks away, suffered a lightning strike and the resultant fire caused considerable damage. Fortunately, no one was injured. 

Lightning on the Beach (not a good place to be)

And yet, despite the damage they can inflict, thunderstorms are possessed of a certain beauty. But to appreciate their beauty in its fullness, you must view them from afar. Head west into the wide, open spaces of the plains, or go to sea aboard a ship, and enjoy an unobstructed view all the way to the horizon. Watching these storms race across the landscape (or seascape) as they emit rapid-fire bolts of lightning is spellbinding, a truly amazing sight.

But to experience such storms, up close and personal, is more than humbling. They bring with them a sense of helplessness, a realization that, despite all the precautions one takes, these powerful storms are uncontrollable and largely unpredictable, striking their targets randomly. Before them, our science and technology can do little more than warn us and offer us some level of protective shelter. 

Heavenly Fireworks

From a theological perspective, thunderstorms, along with their far more destructive meteorological cousins, tornadoes and hurricanes, are simply another effect of original sin. With the fall of humanity the preternatural gifts that protected our first parents from illness and death were withdrawn and nature's laws were given free rein, leaving us open to their deadly consequences [Gen 3:16-19]. 

The present storm, raging here and now, is a reminder of our own frailty in the face of God's creation. Yes, we can send men to the moon -- well, okay, at one time we could -- but a well-placed bolt of lightning can destroy the rocket before it even lifts off the pad. God allows these spectacular displays of natural power to let us know that He remains in charge, that you and I are creatures, not the Creator. But like the pharaoh's heart in Exodus, the hearts of modern man are too often hardened by their own perceived power despite the obvious manifestation of God's omnipotence:

He gave them hail for rain, and lightning that flashed through their land [Ps 105:32]. The clouds poured out water; the skies gave forth thunder; thy arrows flashed on every side. The crash of thy thunder was in the whirlwind; thy lightnings lighted up the world; the earth trembled and shook [Ps 77:17-18].