Sketching the Kingdoms Topography
By Andrew Goins
Watauga County
On September 26th, Hurricane Helene dropped over thirty inches of water that demolished the lands of Western North Carolina. The senior trees, whose majesty matched the respect of our local elders, were snapped like a toothpick between a thumb and index finger. Our lands became a dead rabbit in the hands of a hunter—its skin peeled by the risen rivers and its belly cut open by the waters spilling down the ravines so that all of its rocky guts tumbled out. Pine groves became battlefields cluttered with wooden corpses. Roads were swept away. Bridges washed out. Homes ruined. The water caused a topographic change. And we all became foreigners in a foreign land.
The morning after Hurricane Helene came through, Avery County flew into a mad scramble to clear the roads, check on neighbors, and assess the damage. My wife and I walked to the town hall and saw eyebrows furrowed by frustration and eye corners crinkled by gratitude; other faces paled by shock and others still smoothed by relief. We greeted acquaintances like long-lost loved ones. No one was a stranger. There was no small talk either. All conversation plunged into interrogative depths: “How did you fare?” “Any damage to the house?” “How many trees?” “Family okay?”. The first two days were crammed with this sort of interaction.
On the third day, the community rose into the work of restoration. The first stage required organizing all of the stuff that was delivered to the town. We received enough water to recreate the flood and enough diapers to soak it all up again—that’s what people said anyway. Crates of food had to be distributed, gallons of water allocated and, most challenging of all, everything categorized and properly placed. Hands no longer clasped acquaintance’s backs in relief but were smearing peanut butter onto tortillas to pass out for breakfast and moving the granola bars to the snacks section. There was a palpable shift on this third day.
This shift was amplified in the following days. We transitioned out of gratitude and shock and began tending to the basics—food, water, shelter—not only for ourselves but for the community. Helene not only transformed a land’s topography but also a community’s topography: neighborly resentments nursed over the years were washed away with a gallon of water and a bag of bread. Strangers became friends and acquaintances became family through a shared task with a common love.
The second week after the storm we all felt a dove carrying an olive branch signifying a sense of normalcy. But things weren’t normal. The land’s topography was still a stranger to me. Homes have been ruined. Lives have been lost. The topography of this land, indeed, of our very lives, had been lost.
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In the hustle of crisis and the atmosphere of grief, I needed to sketch a spiritual topography. I read Psalm 104 over and over, sketching God’s tender power that “makes grass grow for the cattle” and causes the “waters to flee” because God’s mercy is often invisible in sorrow—but it is there. I needed to sketch this invisible mercy to see it. Psalm 104 helped me to see God’s invisible mercy that was at work, even amid the devastation.
Another passage helped me sketch the topography of grief and hope as I pondered it, turning it over in my mind again and again: “Blessed are they who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” Jesus makes a promise in this beatitude—the mourners shall be comforted. The comfort takes place in the future. Jesus is communicating that mourning can only take place when we believe that there is a blessing on the other side. Likewise, hope can only take place when we acknowledge the present impoverishment of divine blessing. In this way, hope and mourning go together.
The people of God have always been tempted to hope in a way that eclipses mourning or to mourn in a way that eclipses hope. To commit the first temptation is to pluck out the eye; to commit the second temptation is to stab the heart. Hope without mourning turns into cliche optimism; mourning without hope turns into despair. Hope without mourning turns into willful ignorance; mourning without hope turns into a stiff heart.
When we hope without mourning, we tend to hope indifferently. Why do I need to hope that all shall be well if – in my willful ignorance – I am content with the present state of things? Therefore, our suffering is the pathway to an oceanic desire for New Creation. Mourning amplifies our hope. Likewise, when we mourn without hope, our mourning plunges into the abyss of despair, an abyss that suffocates all joy, however weak or quiet that joy may be. Hope tilts the chin of our grief.
We must hope because hope makes the heart malleable in God’s hands. After all, grief does not have to be different. Mourning makes hope palpable as we long for our heavenly home. It is only when hope and mourning are joined together that we can apply ourselves to both properly.
This is the kingdom’s topography. Sketch it. Examine it. Search it. Get out the glass through which you “see dimly” so that you can remember your future.
Blessed are you, grieving people of Western North Carolina, for you shall receive comfort. May your heart be whet by God’s Spirit and formed by God’s Word according to the purposes of the Father. Amen.
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Andrew Goins is on staff for a campus ministry at Appalachian State University called Ratio Christi. He also works as a youth leader and worship leader at Arbor Dale Presbyterian Church in Banner Elk.
Andrew is committed to simply and thoroughly loving his wife Bethany, growing in his bible nerdiness, delighting in good books (theology, poetry, and select fiction), music, photography, creation, and in gathering people together for bible studies, a shared meal, or making music.
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