Hope and Delight

 

The LORD delights in those who fear him,

who put their hope in his unfailing love.” Psalm 147:11

It was strange watching the video, eerie. The fire looked rather ordinary, I suppose, an entire chunk of apartment complex going up in flames, smoke everywhere, the helicopter circled the blaze slowly, descending as it did, the camera coming in close. From east to west, the roof was mostly gone, the whole place a blazing honeycomb.

The last shots of the almost two-minute video were taken quite low. The camera zeroed in on the colonnades of a second-story apartment porch, where flames were lapping away at the roof, and something—I couldn’t see what—was lying on the cement balcony, in flames.

I could have sworn those final images were our son’s apartment.

Yesterday when he called, he started the conversation with a line whose relief is completely disarming, “I’m okay.” Then he told us he’d lost everything. He had his book bag, his truck, the clothes on his back—and his bike. Everything else—his Mac, his cell phone, his TV and furniture—is gone. All of it.

The Red Cross got him a motel room until Friday, when this season’s pigskin finale is scheduled and every spare room within 100 miles of the university is booked. They gave him $100 to buy clothes at Wal-Mart, told him the University would find him a place to live. Others called to offer him a bed. Some woman asked about clothes sizes, and a fraternity was taking up an offering. He not a fraternity-type—never was anyway.

He says his cell phone—he bought a new one while the smoke was still rising, and the dealer gave him a $50 credit—has been ringing off the hook, even though, he says, he never gets all that many calls. It’s his first semester at the university.

His parents are not frantic. He’s not a child, and I trust the largesse of good people. He won’t be alone. So far, he’s been shocked himself at the offers of help. They keep coming. I’m sure we’ll hear more stories today. Nothing could be better. Nothing.

His parents are powerless, however. I would have jumped in the car the moment I put down the phone if he would have asked us to come. But tomorrow he’s flying home, as planned. It’s Thanksgiving, and, yes, we have cause to rejoice.

You wonder why God doesn’t see to it that our stuff burns up more often. Maybe this fire has burned up more than his earthly goods. Maybe something new will rise from the flames.

In the last day I’ve felt closer to promise of this line than I would have, had you asked, last Wednesday, or Tuesday, or Monday, or even Sunday. In the last 24 hours I swear I understand it because I don’t know where else to put my trust. God is delighted with my faith, I think, because it’s grown, not because of anything I did but because I’ve nowhere else to go with my hope, my trust, my prayers.

Nowhere else to go but him who delights in our hope because we know his unfailing love—from frat boys, the Red Cross, friends and strangers. He’ll get it there. I trust in his love. And about that, he’s delighted. And so am I.

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Thursday, not tomorrow, was Thanksgiving. He's home again, with a spouse and family, two darling little girls. Guess what? Today, he's a fireman, a lieutenant at that. Amazing.