good grief.

            My first verbal reaction as the news of all the damage to both my current city and my hometown was often, “Good grief.” As I typed it out in a text message, it really hit me: Good grief. Good. Grief. Good grief?? What on Earth does that mean anyway? Can grief ever really be good?

            In a city that became unrecognizable even to lifetime residents in a matter of minutes, it seems like the answer is no. I’ve driven around countless times since the devastating outbreak of tornados on Wednesday, and the devastation is absolutely senseless. Natural disasters don’t discriminate, but the massive tornado that struck Tuscaloosa this week seemed oddly biased. I live in an apartment complex that is only a few years old; it’s gated, there are multiple pools and tennis courts, and the parking lot is spotted with BMW’s and even the occasional Porsche. It’s a safe assumption that most of us in my apartment complex could rebound from property damage. Meanwhile, just over the fence is one of the poorest neighborhoods in the city. A split between Section 8 housing and houses more aptly called shacks, my surrounding neighborhood was close to destitute even when they had homes… and now, those who could afford it least are without homes and worldly possessions. And here in my apartment complex, we suffered little more than some missing siding and two or three damaged roofs.

            It’s incredible, really. My only connection to the outside world for the past week has been the Twitter and Facebook apps on my phone. Day after day I see status updates and tweets from my friends who are bummed that they’re missing the last episode of The Office or just that reading by candlelight is boring. For days, I was bombarded by tweets about who wore what to the Royal Wedding. Don’t get me wrong—there are lots and lots and lots of people trying to help out—but there are so many that haven’t really put the pieces together yet. Meanwhile, as I walked over the rubble of what had once been a neighbor’s home, the many displaced and homeless residents praised God for the little things—a family photo found high in a tree or a loved one found deep in the rubble.

            It’s such an enormous perspective adjustment. What would have been so important to me—Kate’s wedding dress, the countdown until the end of the semester, and so on—seem like distant, irritating memories. I would take a dozen finals and write a lifetime of research papers to undo the damage here, to bring back the 200+ missing, the 40 deceased.

            At times, the grief is overwhelming. Not for myself, per se, as I came out of this so completely unscathed, but for my neighbors and my city—a city I never thought I’d refer to as mine. It’s hard to believe that this grief could ever be considered good, but everyday I am shocked at the good that is indeed emerging from the grief. The community has rallied together like never before; ministries are exploding all over the city as the hands and feet of Christ are given ample opportunity to love on and care for those in need—in need of something greater than shelter, some One to hold onto in the midst of the storm. And it gets clearer and clearer that if those of us who can help do our part, we can gradually turn this grief into good… we can turn those who are grieving to the One and Only true good.