When the Dumpster Fire is Lovely
On tending to disasters (plus a video about God's joy)
Our oven went out the morning after Halloween, coincidentally the same morning time retreated and we all woke up too early. I’d pulled cinnamon rolls from the fridge for a Sunday morning treat, but the oven refused to heat.
I scheduled an appointment with the oven repair company, a special Covid-19 appointment (all ordinary things are special now, with masks and cleaning products and sanitary distance), but the appointment would be too long in coming and the renters we’d scheduled to inhabit our home the next weekend would have no oven.
We messaged them:
Dear Sir,
Very sorry for the inconvenience, but our oven is not working. Will that be a problem?
They messaged back:
We did plan to have a ham, but we can microwave the ham.
Thus, Justin drove to Walmart an hour before their arrival to procure a microwave big enough for a ham. In his haste, he forgot to procure a shopping cart and instead walked around Walmart with a ham-sized microwave on his shoulder.
Ten minutes after he dropped off the microwave, while I finished cleaning and packing up all the things we’d need for a week of living not-at-our-home, I got a series of texts from Justin:
I’m in immense pain.
Carried microwave weird.
Can barely breath.
Took Advil.
I text back that Advil seems like too small a reaction. He texts: Can’t move so can’t do anything else.
Ten minutes later he tells me he’s having a co-worker drive him home (the home I’m preparing for guests). Three minutes later the coworker texts and asks me to meet her at Urgent Care.
Urgent Care gives us drugs, and we feel better (they give Justin drugs and Justin feels better but we are one flesh in this). Our friend drives our car home from the office; he’s a helper. As he’s pulling into our neighborhood the tire blows out. He parks it by the model home in the parking pad, because he’s nervous it won’t make it three more blocks.
I haven’t moved it yet.
Did I mention all this happened in an election week during a pandemic? Did I mention we went out of town with friends in the middle of it all (thank you, pain meds) because we’re leaving the country soon and couldn’t imagine not getting these last few days of laughter and connection? Did I mention I sat next to a family celebrating Trump’s inevitable victory on Friday morning at the pool? Did I mention I sat next to a family celebrating Biden’s inevitable victory on Friday evening? Did I mention I didn’t vote for either Biden or Trump, and I can’t remember a time I felt more opposed by people I love?
Also a hurricane is hitting my hometown. Also I forgot to attend the Bible class I teach every Tuesday night. Just forgot. Also taxes.
And then yesterday, the cat ran away. We didn’t know she’d left until we’d searched the house to find her to put her in a carrier to go to the pet-friendly hotel we’d booked with her in mind. We opened closets and looked under beds and combed through the garage. Eventually we’d tromp through the woods behind the house yelling “Luuuuuunnnaaa,” and trespass in homes under construction on our street. I’d ask the guys installing stone at the neighbor’s place, “Has visto un gato negro?”
No.
No gato.
Eve cried in the car as we pulled away Luna-less for yet another week of living somewhere other than our house to enable other people to live in our house so that one day we can live somewhere other than our house permanently.
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This (my cat-less, oven-less, surviving on fast food, living in hotels, saying goodbye to everyone I love, hiding from social media LIFE) is my personal dumpster fire.
dumpster fire, noun
: an utterly calamitous or mismanaged situation or occurrence : DISASTER
This is not exactly a mismanaged situation. It is surely utterly calamitous.
Do you have a dumpster fire of your own burning close by?
It’s 2020; so I’m thinking, highly likely.
What are you doing with it? Asking for a friend…
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My friend Brad wrote a poem about a dumpster fire a while back, a lovely, true poem about walking away from the dumpster fire and tending to our gardens, about refusing to contribute to the disaster or become enamored by calamity. Brad encourages us to make a choice: Will we feed the fire? Or tend the garden of good things?
It sounded like Philippians 4 to me:
Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.
Think about such things. DO such things.
It’s good, holy advice. When the flames of sloppy disaster lap at your heals, walk away and look for the good, cultivate good, pursue good.
Amen.
And.
When I heard Brad share this poem at a conference I couldn’t help but notice a trace of resistance in me. When the little girl first sees the fire she feels warm. The flames are beautiful. She stares entranced. My reaction, out loud, was “Yesssss.”
Later when Brad made the turn in the poem, and I realized the dumpster fire was something bad, I felt embarrassed, like my attraction to the fire was evidence of some failure in me.
Today, standing beside my very own blaze, I’m wondering what I saw in that fire, and why I didn’t want to walk away.
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Some of us stay close to our dumpster fires because we like drama. Because chaos seems fun. Because interesting people have dumpster fires. We like the “cares” on Facebook and the 200 comments.
Some of us set up camp beside the dumpster because standing beside the fire with the pundits and lookie-loos makes us feel important. Look, I’m close to the disaster! I have thoughts about the disaster! I matter! Maybe a reporter will come by and interview me about the dumpster fire, and I’ll say something super insightful like “It’s really a big fire, man” and then maybe I’ll be a meme.
Some of us want to yell about the dumpster fire because yelling feels great. The dumpster fire becomes the focal point of every bit of our anger and disappointment. We point. We share forty two articles about what a dumpster fire the dumpster fire is. The heat of the dumpster fire fuels our disdain.
Some of us like our dumpster fires because calamity provides an excuse for inactivity. Dumpster fires attract cynical memes and too much wine and six bags of reese’s cups. It’s a dumpster fire; what can you do? Nothing, right? Pull up a camp chair.
This year I’ve noticed multiplying varieties of dumpster connoisseurs gathered around a host of blazing dumpsters. I think these are the folks Brad’s addressing. Move on, friends. Nothing to see here. Go tend a garden. Make something bloom. It’s wise, wise counsel. Exactly what so many of us need to hear.
But none of that is what attracted me to the dumpster fire in the story or the dumpster fire I’m sometimes living. I’ve realized, watching that girl stare at the flames, being that girl staring at the flames, I was drawn to the fire because the fire is my painful partner, the destroyer and the clarifier, the end and the beginning, the force God’s used again and again to transform me into a woman of perseverance and peace.
Every dumpster fire, attended, is an opportunity to be forged.
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I’m in the car with London headed back from an unsuccessful trip to look for the cat when London says, “It doesn’t make any sense, but I have complete peace about this.” She talks more about how she would expect to be distraught—she loves this cat more than she loves most people, this cat was going to be such a balm as she moved to England with no friends, other cats of ours who’ve run away didn’t ever come home and so she doesn’t have much hope for a reunion…
And yet, peace.
She says, I trust God, and I feel good. Sad. But good. Then she looks at me and asks, “Why am I good at this?”
I say two things.
I say, “You’ve been praying all day to a God who promises peace that passes understanding.”
Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.
Philippians 4:6-7
And I say “You’ve done this before, and practice makes perfect.”
For a while we talk about past trials. About pets we’ve loved and lost. About transitions. About hard relationships. About all kinds of difficulties and pains. I point out that all those trials have made London sturdy and hopeful.
Suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.
Romans 5:3-4
I notice, as I sit beside her, carrying my own load of troubles, that I also feel remarkably at peace. I feel the flames close and hot, but I’m not afraid of them. I know they can bless me if I’ll let them.
This lost cat is bringing me closer to my daughter.
My husband’s injury has turned my attention to his needs in a way that’s making me appreciate him like I never have before. His for-the-moment fragility is making me gentle and teaching me deeper love.
The Airbnb situation (and all its upheaval) is loosening the soil, enabling me to emerge whole, roots in tact, when we ultimately say goodbye.
COVID is teaching me to respect the people around me, to make sacrifices for the greater good, and to be more creative with connection.
The election is stretching my muscles, growing me as a listener, enhancing my capacity for empathy.
There are times with our kids when my husband and I encourage them to look away from the pain or the hurt, the momentary dissatisfaction or lingering disappointment. We say, Go tend the garden. Make something bloom. Whatever is true, whatever is noble… think about that.
But there are also times when we encourage our children to wade in, to feel the warm, soul-shaping sadness or pain or confusion. We help them assess the fire—What started it? What’s keeping it ablaze? How might we stop it? How might we get it under control? Even if He didn’t start it, what might God accomplish with this fire?
Together (and together with God) we endure the heat and tend to the disaster.
When the next dumpster fire sparks, we’ll be even more accustomed to the heat, even more capable of endurance leading to hope.
Some dumpster fires need attention. Mine. Yours. Ours.
Some dumpster fires follow us when we try to walk away.
Most fires (if handled with God and care) can, in fact, be handled.
Sometimes the decision isn’t, “Will I feed the fire or tend to the garden?” Sometimes the decision is, “Will I feed the fire or will I tend to it and in it let God tend to me?”
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God bless you as you walk away from the fire, and God bless you as you walk deeper in.
-JL
Fresh Start. Fresh Strength. Reading Nehemiah
Thank you to everyone who jumped into our six week Bible Book Club! I’ve loved reading Nehemiah with you. This book has changed the way I understand work, joy, and celebration, and it’s made me more empathetic toward God.
Exciting news for those of you who didn’t jump in: I’ll be turning this Nehemiah study into a workbook available for you to use personally or in a class in 2021. You’ll also have access to six weeks of teaching videos!
We’ll share all the details this coming Wednesday night (8:30pm central) via Facebook Live on the JL Gerhardt page.
If you participated in the study, I’d love it if you’d write a review and send it my way. Later when we put the study up for sale on Amazon those reviews will come in handy!
Here’s a look at one of the teaching videos. This one’s about the phrase “The joy of the Lord is your strength.” It might not mean what you think it means.