Sometimes signs are warnings. Other times they are descriptions.
This is one of those signs. A number of my friends are seeing this sign in their lives right now. Their response? “Duh!”
The water is creeping over the sides of their boats almost as quickly as they can bail it out. It is rising step by step up the cellar stairs. It is sluicing down the street in front of the house. It’s dripping through the rotten spot in the roof.
The water is high and still rising.
My response? I tell them that I am aching with them, because sufering never makes me happy. I look for a bucket and try to help, either scooping out pain or pouring oil on the waves.
And I talk to God.
Because I have this funny notion that even if they haven’t met him, that doesn’t make him not real. Quaint, I know. Old-fashioned. And somehow unjust, because if he knew about the rising water, he could stop it somehow, right?
And that’s why I’m talking to him. Because that’s what I do when I don’t understand what someone is doing.
And so, dear friends, I’m asking.