I was curious to see what shape the park was in. Before I moved to Austin, I spoke with the Rector, Mother Lisa, at Calvary about the community and she reminded me of news articles that seemed so distant in my mind. While I was sipping coffee and reading the news in the safe confines of my Louisville bed in 2011, Bastrop County was being overtaken by the most destructive wildfire in Texas state history. My very removed memory was immediately replaced with personal stories of loss, destruction and pain. Over 1,500 homes were destroyed by the fire. Nearly 50 families in our parish alone lost their homes. The fire is something that, for this community, is a shared memory. A small Texan community came together to take care of each other. And as an outsider coming in, I have had only listening ears and words of comfort as these memories and stories are shared with me.
So when Kudjo and I took our trip out to Bastrop State Park that day, I knew what we were to find. We were greeted by signs warning about falling trees and eroded trails. We were also greeted by a happy Park Ranger, who wanted to make sure we knew what was hidden just behind the tall pines that towered at the entrance at the park. She told us of the fire, that 96% of the state park burned. She told us of the replanting efforts taking place and she also told us of a road that would lead out into Buescher State Park, just 15 miles down the road, which was more suitable for hiking and nearly untouched by the fire. I thanked her for the information and headed down the road. Within a half of a mile and with the turn of a corner, our world quickly changed from tall beautiful pines to the remnants of trees that once lined the landscape.
The site of the state park is literally breathtaking. I stood at the lookout, surveying our surroundings of tall, black, dead trees, when a light rain started to fall. I said, "Thank you for the rain, God". But then, almost immediately, I grew a little bitter. I thought, "if only rain would have fallen earlier. Why didn't this rain come before the fire? If only this ground wasn't starving for a little rain two years ago..." I hated to think of the lost possibilities that rain could have brought for this now lifeless landscape. I hated to feel that cool water hit my skin... that same medicine that could have saved the all of the life that had been lost around me. The drizzle turned into a steady rain and my bitter journey began as we walked down the trail that lay before us
As we steadily made our way down and around the hills, my mind wandered to the "why's" to God. Why this? Why that many homes? Why all of this beautiful forest? Why...? I thought about the very practical reasons fires like this happen. Central Texas has been and continues to experience one of the worst droughts in history. That year in particular was one of the hottest summers on record for the state of Texas. And heavy winds brought down power lines and then fueled the sparks that were created by those downed lines. There are very concrete reasons why this fire happened the way it did. But is still does not calm my larger why? Why, God?
Walking through the scarred forest, I found myself thinking about those practical answers to my larger questions and ultimately couldn't help but think about the systemic ways that evil or sin enter our world. Sin, for some, are things that you avoid-- certain behaviors, beverages, thoughts, or attractions. Sin, for me, however, goes much deeper and permeates our cultures, our relationships, our politics, our standards, our ecological choices, and our world in ways that are far beyond simple black and white, yes and no, easy answers.
So as I walked the trails of a land that is scarred by this fire, I think about the fact that it will be generations before the scars will be but a distant memory. This landscape, for generations, will have the visible signs of something awful. And I am reminded of the Israelites and their 40 years in the desert. I am reminded that their sin was felt for generations after them. As is much of our lives. Evil or sin or whatever you want to call the bad in the world permeates our lives and our systems and leaves scars. Some wounds are quickly healed while others may last generations. The visible sign of the brokenness of larger systems permeates that forest, permeated the Israelites, and thus permeates our own lives and tiny worlds that we create for ourselves.
I continued my journey through the trails, treading lightly so to not disturb the towering domino blocks disguised as trees and my eyes were stretched searching for signs of green. And no sooner, I found just over the hill, there were seedlings popping up everywhere. New life out of this scarred landscape.
Eventually, the scar will fade. Eventually the loblolly pines will regain their prominence in this lost pine region. Eventually Bastrop State Park will be thriving again. Eventually life will arise out of this death and this fire will be but a distant memory. It will be generation before this fire's scar fades, but already among the black of the dead trees, new life is breaking forth. And so goes our lives. We may have scars and we may create scars, but may those visible reminders also be places for new life to spring forth. May they be places where healing and forgiveness are found.
 |
| a small window into the forest. |
 |
| New life springing forth |
 |
| Miles and miles of burnt forest. |
