In The Aftermath of the Floods

After nearly four-and-a-half days of rain, a rainbow shone over the skies in Austin this evening.

Since Wednesday, it has rained almost nonstop in Austin and Central Texas. The precipitation vacillated between torrential and gentle and was often accompanied by thunder and lightning.

Of course, our personal discomfort was nothing compared to the horrific devastation brought about by the incessant rains. Beginning Friday, the downpours caused flash flooding in various cities in the area, including Kerrville, Georgetown, and Jonestown. Over 80 people have been killed, including 21 children, and more people are still missing. Homes and property have been destroyed, and pets are gone.

I am blessed that nobody in my family or my sphere of friends was endangered or harmed by the flooding. However, the news of the dead has weighed heavily. There have been devastating floods around the world, tsunamis which have brought death and destruction in higher magnitude, yet none have affected me as acutely as this one.

There is something in our makeup that allows us to read about tragedy in far-off places without sinking into despair. We can shrug it off, hearing the news with almost the same emotional response as we might have to a particularly compelling novel. Sure, it’s sad, but it isn’t real. This is both a flaw and a feature of humans. Perhaps we should be in constant pain over the amount of suffering in the world. Yet, if we allowed ourselves to succumb to such despair, we would never accomplish anything, either personally or in the broader sense of helping the world.

However, when the tragedy is closer, either relationally or geographically, it is harder to “move on.” It is not only the knowledge of “it-could-have-been-me,” which requires us to confront our own mortality. Rather, when it happens in our neighborhood, it is simply harder to avoid the truth that tragedy is a real part of life.

It is precisely in these moments of deepest despair and confusion that God speaks to us. In this case, through an ancient symbol of the rainbow which suddenly felt intensely personal.

“You are still alive,” God reminds us through the rainbow. “Now, go do something about it.”

In the story of Noah’s Ark, God makes a promise to Noah after the flood waters have subsided. He vows, “never again shall all flesh be cut off by the waters of a flood, and never again shall there be a flood to destroy the earth” (Genesis 9:11). The symbol of God’s promise is a rainbow, and ever after, a rainbow represents this promise from God to every living creature.

God does not promise never to bring a flood again. This covenant is only partially reassuring. His promise is only that He will not destroy the whole earth with a flood. (In a similar vein, God has promised the continuation of the Jewish people, but there is no guarantee that we, personally, will be the ones to carry on the heritage.)

However, if we believe that God runs the world with a plan, then our survival and existence must be for some purpose. Seeing the rainbow this evening, after so much heartache, brought that point home.

This is not to suggest that those who survive tragedy are more important or better than those who die, God forbid. We cannot understand why one lives and another dies. However, we can know that since God does everything for a reason, if we survive, then there must be something good we can accomplish.

The rainbow has been a sign for humanity; it’s also a personal reminder. “You are still alive,” God reminds us through the rainbow. “Now, go do something about it.”

Our thoughts and prayers are with all the families reeling from this terrible tragedy.