I’m back from four days in Cedar Falls. Floods threatened the city the day before the writers’ conference began. But our meeting was headquartered at a campground high above the rain-swollen river. By the time I arrived Wednesday morning, electrical service had been restored and most of the fallen trees were cleaned up. After rain on Wednesday afternoon and Thursday morning, the days were sunny and the nights were cool.
During a break on Friday, I grabbed my camera and walked over to the cliff above the river. Through a break in the trees, the high water surrounded summer cabins on the other bank. The Cedar River had crested a few days earlier, and I couldn’t imagine how high the water must have been then.
The conference ended Saturday at noon. Another ugly storm gathered in the south as I sped home. Later, it dumped more rain on Cedar Falls, and the tornado sirens went on several times in the night. By then, I was safe in my bed. Why, I wonder, did my life proceed normally while floods destroyed and disrupted the lives of others? Why was I granted such grace?
I can’t answer that question. But when I wake up tomorrow and face the month’s worth of writing I need to finish this week, I’ll be grateful for such a small problem in a dry house. And I’ll get busy.
