Shining Light
a poem born in the aftermath of Hurricane Helene
Five days after Hurricane Helene ripped through our yard, my husband went to the store to buy more chainsaw oil and returned with tulip and daffodil bulbs. “An act of resistance in the face of destruction,” he announced. One of the many reasons why I married this man. Hope would still push up through the soil of our patch of earth.
We would donate to organizations on the ground in WNC, reach out to neighbors, buy food to restock our local food panty, and pray for the devastation that followed the storm. All the while, we would hope. Hope for rescue, for miracles, for open doors to share about Jesus, for laughter, for redemption. As we sat in darkness without power for eight days, we would hope for light- physically and spiritually in our world. Interestingly, Helene means “shining light.”
I resisted despair by marveling at all the tiny creatures and parts of creation that were not destroyed- how did the zinnia petals and cardinals and hydrangea blooms survive? A poem was born out of my marveling. It was originally longer, but I didn’t love the second half. When EXHALE, an online writing group of mamas, posted a writing prompt to end a piece with a question, I decide to nix the second half and end with the question I had written in the middle. After all, my inspiration for the poem began with that very question.
Every time I step outside,
I am confronted with the mass destruction of our backyard-
majestic oaks ripped up by their roots,
their crowns lying tangled, twisted, sideways
stumps and logs, debris and branches
strewn across our lawn.
A wake of violent sorrow left by the hurricane.
But I am also
confronted by this-
the chickadee’s melody and her nest,
balanced and intact on an outermost limb,
the squirrels scampering and leaping,
tucking tiny acorns away for winter,
the lemon yellow butterflies, two of them,
playing chase upon the breeze,
the ants carrying ten times their weight
disappearing into a sandhill,
the cricket, his wings rubbing songs
into the twilight to find a mate.
They have all withstood the storm.
What primal instinct, what sacred wisdom
must these delicate creatures hold?
