It was years ago, in Texas, that I walked into the gas station in time to hear him say, “A chimney went through my car!” And I said, “Excuse me, did you say a chimney went through your car?” And he said, “Yes,” and my day was considerably enriched. It is, after all, not every day one hears that … or imagines it. “A chimney went through my car.”
It was at that gas station that we were told we had been driving through the aftermath of a tornado, which actually confirmed our suspicions and fully explained the 18-wheeler jackknifed across the road—the three other big trucks turned over on their sides on the highway and in the median—the trailers blown over in the parking lot—the bent and twisted signs—the debris. We were told about the people trapped in the building that collapsed and the nine people hurt at the football game. And I heard people exclaiming, “I’m so glad to be alive!” Repeated over and over again. “I’m so glad to be alive!” “I’m so glad to be alive!”
There’s no arguing with a tornado. Its results are quite logical. All that power—all that wind—all that force. How could a landscape not be affected—altered? What else would one expect in the aftermath of a tornado?
So, is the aftermath of the power of God in and through our lives visible and logical to anyone passing by? Would they see the wisdom of the world picked up and turned over on its side in our living? Would they see signs of the world’s ways of being and doing torn and bent, twisted and useless? And would they hear us exclaiming over and over again: “I’m glad to be so alive!” “I’m glad to be so alive!”—affected—altered.
What else would one expect in the aftermath of God?