My heart is full tonight. This week marks yet another deployment with Disaster Relief — my second in the three weeks since Hurricane Isaac made landfall. The people, the stories — like the land itself — are devastated. I wish I could recount everything I have seen and heard and felt and learned. But I can’t. Not right now. It is still too close to my heart.
Pray for us — we desperately need it. We are tired and worn in every way. The strain is taking a toll on us all. Devastation is all around — written in faces, traced in the very landscape itself. There is never a moment we can escape it. Even a casual drive takes on a surreal quality as crypts line roadways where the hurricane carried them. It’s all so unreal, and so terribly, terribly painful.
Charles Spurgeon once described the sea as a sympathetic prophet of redemption; perhaps it is true after all.
“As if in sympathy with the woes of earth, the sea is for ever fretting along a thousand shores, wailing with a sorrowful cry like her own birds, booming with a hollow crash of unrest, raving with uproarious discontent, chafing with hoarse wrath, or jangling with the voices of ten thousand murmuring pebbles. The roar of the sea may be joyous to a rejoicing spirit, but to the son of sorrow the wide, wide ocean is even more forlorn than the wide, wide world. This is not our rest, and the restless billows tell us so. There is a land where there is no more sea—our faces are steadfastly set towards it; we are going to the place of which the Lord hath spoken. Till then, we cast our sorrows on the Lord who trod the sea of old, and who maketh a way for His people through the depths thereof.”
The book of Revelation tell us that the sea will be no more. For the people of New Orleans — a people devastated by the sea — that means hope. It means redemption and a time when grief will be no more. How I long for the day; how I look for its appearing. But “until then there will be sorrow on the sea.”