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June 11, 2007
windows
I realized as I tried to post this group of photos earlier that there is a hole where a fourth picture is supposed to go. I thought that the program I used (Flickr Toys) would just modify the design to have three pictures, but it didn't. And now I'm about to go all metaphorical on you: that blank spot is as fitting as anything right now. We don't know yet what the next picture looks like, and though we are not without hope, I admit that "blank" feels about right.
I keep thinking of a friend who once said, "Just because we don't know the future, that doesn't mean it's bad." Wise words, ones that I very much need to be reminded of. I fear change (and, yeah, to say that this is a "change" seems like a cruel understatement). I fear uncertainty.
I know that we will move forward. I know that good will come of even this. I know above all else that God is in control and that he is good. I do know that. I know it in my head, certainly, and I even know it in my heart, in my gut.
And yet, while I am not wanting to be swallowed by grief or to grieve disproportionately, I also have to admit that I am not yet ready to be done with mourning this great loss. Like Rebecca, I feel a disconnect with the fact that it's Monday and that life moves along much as did before. I can see the twisted girders and ruined windows and scorched bricks from every window in my kitchen, from my upstairs balcony, and from the window in our bedroom. I can still smell the smoke every time I step out my door.
I do know that at some point the time for mourning will pass, but strangely I do not necessarily long for that day to come more quickly than it ought to come. This is not my first experience with grief in this fallen, broken world, nor will it be my last. For some reason, I am reminded today of two things I know to be true, lessons I have learned from times past when I have felt great loss--that there is much grace and peace to be found in the process of grieving and that it takes as long as it takes.
So today, Monday, I am trying to get back to it--still have deadlines to meet and all that--but I am also letting my tears flow as freely and often as they will.
Posted by Renae at June 11, 2007 12:32 PM
The blank fourth slot is so fitting. Accidental, but fitting nonetheless.
Posted by RT at June 11, 2007 12:44 PM
i took some pictures last night that i will hopefully get posted tonight of "that hole".
perhaps the process is all more than just four steps. maybe its going to be like 12 steps.
hard to say when we're at the beginning of it all.
hang in there dear block of Zion. viva la Zion!
Posted by jared at June 11, 2007 01:25 PM
Renae,
I am so sorry about this. I feel grieved about it myself and it wasn't even my church. I like what you said about grief taking as long as it takes. That's something I've learned, too, but it's a hard thing to remember, because I always feel like I have to put some arbitrary deadline on how long the grieving process should take and that after that, it should just magically be over and I should feel better. But that's not how it works. I will be praying for Zion as you all grieve and plan for the future.
Posted by Haley at June 12, 2007 10:04 AM
I am very very sad. I think about it everyday when I wake up. I keep walking through the building in my mind remembering all the little parts of it. The worst thing is that I don't think I want there to be a fourth square. I don't want anything newer or more slick or just constructed for Zion, I love our old humble, beautiful building.
Wish I could be there with you all.
Posted by Nathaniel Thompson at June 12, 2007 12:50 PM
thanks for this, renae. it is encouraging to read that "it takes as long as it takes" as i am still sorely aching...
Posted by sarah k at June 13, 2007 12:25 PM
Francis Schaeffer wrote that art has a way of getting to us pre-cognition. As one of the Elders in the Church who typically sat on the left half of the pews (the West side), I generally ended up on the west side of the table at time for the communion meal. As a result, I became fond of the stained glass window located on the East side of the building, closest to the organ pipes.
The window, for those who may forget, was a stained glass rendering of the cross, with small red panes in the location of the nail wounds on the hands and feet of Christ.
I am guessing that I must have tended to the table about 300 times or so, and most of those times, I was reflecting on that window. I will probably continue to think about it during communion, wherever we end up.
Gary Young
Talking about his feelings
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