First Visit to the House

Nate and I watched as Dad backed the jon boat into the water by the Big Ditch, the very spot we should be driving on. We slowly took off, over fields of what was flourishing corn and soybeans. Two weeks ago the crop was green and gorgeous. Now, even though it can't be seen, we know it is brown and limp, suffocated by the rushing water. Dad watches the depth finder and notes when we have gone over a drainage ditch, as the water depth jumps a few feet.

We turn down the road that leads to our house - 250th Street. We go by electric posts, which only look like twigs sticking out of the water. We slow down as we approach our neighbor's house. The line of trees in their yard tells the story of the water simply from the water line distinguishing live, green branches from dead, brown ones. We gasp as we see their house, several feet in water, crippled from being off the foundation. We know they will not be our neighbors again.

Continuing down the road, we pass the sign alerting us there is a left turn in the road ahead. The only way you can tell there is a turn is by following the electric lines - and by seeing our house straight ahead. I remark that the house doesn't seem as blue as it was, like the water had stolen the paint, too. We made a right turn into the south driveway, the driveway I was always ecstatic to pull into after a long twelve hour day of driving from Texas. As we turn, it is obvious the huge, front bay window is gone. Inside, we catch glimpses of insulation and ceiling hanging down. Where a picture of my siblings and I was is now just a smear of ugly, brown mud.

We coast by the apple tree, a tree we have gleaned fruit from for as long as I can remember. Years of Grandma's applesauce has been lovingly been made from those apples since I was a little girl. A few green apples survive in the top branches, but the expected bumper crop this year will not be. The lilac bush, my favorite, is unseen in the muddy waters.

Slowly, we approach the house closer. We stop right above the deck, a place we should be spending our summer evenings. The sliding glass door is in jagged pieces; the vertical blinds are permanently stained brown. Nate looks closer and views a caved-in kitchen ceiling. The doors of Mom's dream cabinets - barely two years old - are missing. Dad picks something floating out of water. It's a cabinet door, in shreds.

Floating around the house, it is obvious all of the glass windows have been broken, freely allowing the water and other creatures to pass through. Built-in cabinets, standing tall since the house was built, are now helplessly crumpled. The back door, the one we always used, is barely on the hinges, appearing uninviting. Thirteen days ago that little blue rancher was a sturdy, cozy house for so many that called it home. Now it sits, wood rotting, walls sogging, unfixable, never to be lived in again.

We turn down "the lane," creeping through farm buildings. Amazingly, the barn looks decent, although it would need repairs. Three of the four bins have fallen or are tilting. The other, the newest and biggest, appears to be slightly tilting, but water has the opportunity to play tricks on the eyes. We pray it isn't, as that will cripple the farming operation.

Continuing down the road, we grieve for our neighbors. A garage is torn off. Windows shattered. Walls missing. On one house, the only thing standing on the front wall is the studs. Propane tanks float around like a water bottle in the pool. Hogs, legs raised to the heavens, attract flies and let off a pungent smell.

Utter devastation. Life altering affects. The very thing that so many in this area enjoy recreationally in the summer has now cost homes and livelihoods for those very people. Nature is cruel, but God is faithful.

"I’ll praise You in this storm
And I will life my hands
For You are who You are
No matter where I am
Every tear I’ve cried
You hold in Your hand
You never left my side
And though my heart is torn
I will praise You in this storm."

~"Praise You in the Storm", Casting Crowns