At 10:00 pm, Tony calls us to come outside and see the spectacle. Flashing lights and big trucks crowd the small cul de sac and line the rest of the street. He jokes about finding our life jackets because we might be swimming.
Our neighbors recently dug up their driveway to lay new pipes, and apparently the pipes involve water. After the neighbor's asphalt sunk in front of his house, and after he discovered water gushing, he called the city who promptly arrived and promptly acted when they realized it involved two pipes that run along the upper ridge. 200,000 gallons of water, every minute rush through those two pipes, one six foot in diameter, the other four. The pipes deliver water to one million people, and the pipes were leaking right in front of our house.
The concerned neighbors gathered. We laughed nervously at the worst-case-scenarios we devised. We wondered if we should be evacuating in case there was a geyser-gush, or a sudden burst. Our speculation kept us wide-eyed and worried as the night passed. We talked of flood insurance and wondered if we should spend the night elsewhere. Just in case, we moved the two cars that would most likely be swept away at the side of the house; the cars in the garage would at least be contained, that is unless the entire house succumbed to the pressure of water.
Finally, I went to bed. Nothing I could do, would prevent or hasten the improbable. I envisioned waking up in a flow of water, of bumping noises in the garage, of my daughter swimming out of the basement. Surprisingly, I slept well.
This morning, the trucks parked in the cul de sac are even bigger. Workers have started digging, the water still flows.
"I'm driving my car today," I announce to Tony. "Just in case." How I wish I were a turtle and could take the house on my back.
Life is really great--until it's not. Or when we perceive we may not be safe, when our homes are threatened, when fires rage, when the weather map is covered with swirling colors. We adjust, we pack the car, we call on friends and relatives, we hope a country will let us in after fleeing our own. We're suddenly thankful for the Red Cross, for the church that's opened their doors, for the people who've come with water bottles, granola bars, and sleeping bags.
How do we do survive? It's how we survive all threats. We find the eye within the hurricane. The place of eery stillness amidst hundred mile winds. We find the eye through prayer, faith, friends, places of refuge. The hurricane can be one of the most devastating natural disasters--how fitting that it comes with its own refuge--as does every crisis.
Our neighbors recently dug up their driveway to lay new pipes, and apparently the pipes involve water. After the neighbor's asphalt sunk in front of his house, and after he discovered water gushing, he called the city who promptly arrived and promptly acted when they realized it involved two pipes that run along the upper ridge. 200,000 gallons of water, every minute rush through those two pipes, one six foot in diameter, the other four. The pipes deliver water to one million people, and the pipes were leaking right in front of our house.
The concerned neighbors gathered. We laughed nervously at the worst-case-scenarios we devised. We wondered if we should be evacuating in case there was a geyser-gush, or a sudden burst. Our speculation kept us wide-eyed and worried as the night passed. We talked of flood insurance and wondered if we should spend the night elsewhere. Just in case, we moved the two cars that would most likely be swept away at the side of the house; the cars in the garage would at least be contained, that is unless the entire house succumbed to the pressure of water.
Finally, I went to bed. Nothing I could do, would prevent or hasten the improbable. I envisioned waking up in a flow of water, of bumping noises in the garage, of my daughter swimming out of the basement. Surprisingly, I slept well.
This morning, the trucks parked in the cul de sac are even bigger. Workers have started digging, the water still flows.
"I'm driving my car today," I announce to Tony. "Just in case." How I wish I were a turtle and could take the house on my back.
Life is really great--until it's not. Or when we perceive we may not be safe, when our homes are threatened, when fires rage, when the weather map is covered with swirling colors. We adjust, we pack the car, we call on friends and relatives, we hope a country will let us in after fleeing our own. We're suddenly thankful for the Red Cross, for the church that's opened their doors, for the people who've come with water bottles, granola bars, and sleeping bags.
How do we do survive? It's how we survive all threats. We find the eye within the hurricane. The place of eery stillness amidst hundred mile winds. We find the eye through prayer, faith, friends, places of refuge. The hurricane can be one of the most devastating natural disasters--how fitting that it comes with its own refuge--as does every crisis.
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