Bad News

February of 2013. In the annals of Sanctuary, this date will stand alongside March of 2011 – our first look at what was to become Sanctuary, and July of 2011 – the month we signed the 3-inch stack of papers and it became ours. We never expected to have the experiences of this new date as part of the history of Sanctuary. And while we did not think our beloved home in the woods would escape all trouble, our concern was for things like forest fires and burglary. Frozen water pipes and massive flooding never even made it onto our radar.

Luke discovered this disaster for us while on a quest for metal detectors stored in the laundry room. Ron took his call. Between his oh no!’s and increasing look of horror I feared the worst. Descriptions of many inches of standing water, falling ceilings – snippets of repeated conversation – were torturous. When it was my turn on the phone and Luke began to report mold growing on walls and furnishings, I told him he needed to leave so he and Nick would not breath it into their lungs.

A Sunday afternoon call to the insurance company set things in motion. They promised someone would be dispatched within the hour to begin mitigation. (He didn’t arrive until nearly 24 hours later, as witnessed on Ron’s webcam.) A few days later a construction company was sent to evaluate, and their report on the alarmingly inadequate response of the first company prompted the firing, by the insurance adjustor, of said company.

We were already planning a trip north on Friday of that week. Between a holiday weekend and telecommuting for Ron, we had eked out about eight lovely days and nights to spend at Sanctuary. By Thursday the reports from the insurance adjustor were so grim that I’d made up my mind to assume everything under (and maybe including) the roof was lost. That way anything that could be salvaged would be a gain.

As I pondered the possibility of such loss, God brought the words of a favorite old hymn to mind: It is well with my soul. And in truth, as I wrestled with the uncertainty of what was ahead, and reflected on how I’d felt during other grave experiences with loss in my life, I found that in spite of the stress and sadness, my soul really was well. This was a life ring flung to me as I bobbed at the mercy of this sudden storm.

We had tickets – purchased long before – to hear Garrison Keillor at Point Loma Nazarene University that Valentine’s Day evening. Feeling sick at heart, we considered giving the tickets to friends. Deciding we really, really needed some laughter, we kept to our plans.

We got on the road later than planned, and heavy traffic on the way to the campus (others also coming to enjoy the show) added to the stress of an already weary day. We parked on a side street and hiked up to the chapel. Our tickets were for seats in the very front row. I sent Ron ahead while I stopped in the powder room, and by the time I walked in Mr. Keillor was doing a sort of preshow while waiting for the sold-out crowd to find their seats. He led the group in acapella songs, walking back and forth on the floor at the front of the auditorium, up and down the aisles. I had just taken my seat next to Ron, wondering if all this effort was worth the extra stress, when I realized that the next song was It Is Well With My Soul.

Hearing these words surrounding me, enfolding me in an old hymn that was springing spontaneously from the collective memory of hundreds of people (I couldn’t quite manage to get them out of my own mouth for a little while) was like being wrapped in a comforting, life-restoring valentine from God. How does He do that? Time everything down to the minute? Nudge Garrison Keillor to spontaneously begin singing the very song that could bring such specific comfort to the weary, aching heart of one woman out of the 1800 people assembled there that evening?

And then I could laugh. And laugh we did as we listened to the timeless stories of a master storyteller.

When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,

When sorrows like sea billows roll;

Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say,

It is well, it is well, with my soul.

It is well, with my soul,

It is well, it is well, with my soul.

Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,

Let this blest assurance control,

That Christ has regarded my helpless estate,

And hath shed His own blood for my soul

My sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought!

My sin, not in part but the whole,

Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,

Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!

For me, be it Christ, be it Christ hence to live:

If Jordan above me shall roll,

No pang shall be mine, for in death as in life

Thou wilt whisper Thy peace to my soul.

But, Lord, ’tis for Thee, for Thy coming we wait,

The sky, not the grave, is our goal;

Oh, trump of the angel! Oh, voice of the Lord!

Blessed hope, blessed rest of my soul!

And Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight,

The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;

The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,

Even so, it is well with my soul.

            Horatio G. Spafford, 1873