The next 20 months were our 40 years of wandering in the desert. And yes, we were often wondering while we were wandering—wondering what was next. I attended more meetings during that time than in all my previous life put together. We had meetings with the insurance people. We had meetings with architects. We had meetings with city employees and local television news crews. We even had meetings to prepare for our next meeting.
One of the first things anyone wants to know after a disaster is: “Are we insured?” We were. However, we found out pretty quickly that we were grossly underinsured. Just to rebuild what was destroyed was going to cost far more than our total coverage. And getting a check cut for the full amount meant that we would have to prove how much our losses were. So, we all donned masks, grabbed a micro-cassette recorder, walked back into the deteriorating building, and began verbally inventorying everything in the place except the mold. Mold was growing exponentially while we were discussing the future.
After some more meetings, it became apparent that rebuilding only what was there before was unacceptable. Prior to the tornado we had already started having meetings on how to expand our footprint. We badly needed more space.
And, here’s another thing we learned in a meeting. Did you know that you have to get a permit to tear something down? Even if it’s already a pile of rubble? Even if it’s a giant petri dish threatening to overtake the world with mold spores? That seemed to me to be unusually cruel. Demolition couldn’t even start without cash and the approval of an overpaid city bureaucrat.
In the days ahead, we would meet as a staff and reevaluate everything. It was going to be a long time before we could rebuild and move back home. It was going to be a while before we even knew what we were going to build. So we had to figure out how to make the most of our exile. There would be no “business as usual.”
Immediately we felt like we were starting over. We were literally working from the ground up. So we asked hard questions beginning with, should we rebuild? We honestly asked that question, of God and to one another. Then, if we do rebuild, do we stay on the current property? What do you have to have to be a church? Do you even have to have a building? Do you have to do Sunday school? What is “Christian Education?”
The questions kept coming. Is it necessary to have separate meeting places for adults and youth and children and babies? (Babies, definitely babies.) And what if we don’t have those luxuries? If we can’t do everything we were doing, will everybody leave and go somewhere else? Were our “programs” holding the church together?
The tornado that destroyed the building created a storm in our souls that blew “normal” completely off of our map.
One of the first things anyone wants to know after a disaster is: “Are we insured?” We were. However, we found out pretty quickly that we were grossly underinsured. Just to rebuild what was destroyed was going to cost far more than our total coverage. And getting a check cut for the full amount meant that we would have to prove how much our losses were. So, we all donned masks, grabbed a micro-cassette recorder, walked back into the deteriorating building, and began verbally inventorying everything in the place except the mold. Mold was growing exponentially while we were discussing the future.
After some more meetings, it became apparent that rebuilding only what was there before was unacceptable. Prior to the tornado we had already started having meetings on how to expand our footprint. We badly needed more space.
And, here’s another thing we learned in a meeting. Did you know that you have to get a permit to tear something down? Even if it’s already a pile of rubble? Even if it’s a giant petri dish threatening to overtake the world with mold spores? That seemed to me to be unusually cruel. Demolition couldn’t even start without cash and the approval of an overpaid city bureaucrat.
In the days ahead, we would meet as a staff and reevaluate everything. It was going to be a long time before we could rebuild and move back home. It was going to be a while before we even knew what we were going to build. So we had to figure out how to make the most of our exile. There would be no “business as usual.”
Immediately we felt like we were starting over. We were literally working from the ground up. So we asked hard questions beginning with, should we rebuild? We honestly asked that question, of God and to one another. Then, if we do rebuild, do we stay on the current property? What do you have to have to be a church? Do you even have to have a building? Do you have to do Sunday school? What is “Christian Education?”
The questions kept coming. Is it necessary to have separate meeting places for adults and youth and children and babies? (Babies, definitely babies.) And what if we don’t have those luxuries? If we can’t do everything we were doing, will everybody leave and go somewhere else? Were our “programs” holding the church together?
The tornado that destroyed the building created a storm in our souls that blew “normal” completely off of our map.
3 comments:
Good. I like the inner turmoil you are stirring up!
Ah, now I see where the inner reflection you have began. This horrendous event actually caused you to step out of your box and question the purpose of the box to begin with.
Yeah, my interest is steadily increasing with each post.
The progression reminds me of the chiseling vs. molding discussion we had. Sounds like Carbondale took a big chiseling - physically and spiritually.
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