A story of mud

That night dad read you a story and sang you a song. It didn't take you long to fall asleep, perhaps you unconsciously chose to run fast to your dreams before the nightmare that happened with your eyes open.

Days ago from the window, we watched the trees that stood majestically on the banks of the river, telling us about the seasons, shedding their leaves, confirming once again the arrival of autumn, the month of your birthday.

That night, from that same window, the river seemed to grow, we saw how the water began to cover the orchard. Do you remember? Where we once planted lettuce, strawberries and artichokes.

Dad went down to move the car in the car park - just in case - we thought. It was only a few minutes, maybe seconds. There, where the car had been a moment ago, there was now only water, a huge stream of brown water carrying reeds and weeds and dragging everything in its path.

A loud crash sounded, the light tower that supplied our building broke in two, the force of the water had pulled it down like butter. The lights went out. Darkness came.

There we were, Dad and I, trembling with fear. Today I know, it wasn't just us who were shaking, it wasn't just our fear, it was the fear of our city, that night the city of light became the city of mud.

The night was long, we could hardly sleep and you slept until the rain warning alarms on our mobile phones went off again in the morning.

You woke up and there we were again, in front of our window, trying to explain to you what we had experienced. It didn't take many words, your own eyes could see it, the water was still running hard.

Our house was safe, but we still did not know what was happening in other houses, in other streets, in other garages where the brown water swept away everything.

Today's mud is a lesson for tomorrow, hard and difficult to take, but it must do more than that, it cannot be in vain.

Pain always brings learning, growth, purpose, because we do not cling to this reality.

The history of mud shouts loudly that this world is broken, stained, corrupted. But no, it's not just what we see at first glance. There is much more.

That much more is called hope. The hope that makes pain more bearable when it is accompanied, the hope of sharing a time of sweeping together to bail water out of love for our equals.

We have been receivers and givers of hope, and no one takes that away from us, we have seen the essence of the purest love in the midst of chaos.

The road is not easy, my precious little ones, there will be new storms and perhaps one day the mud will not remain only at the foot of the house, perhaps the darkness will return or the water will penetrate to the soul.

Fear, anger or sadness will invade you and unanswered questions will pile up. Where is God in the midst of the chaos? Trust, great certainties will be the medicine that will heal the wounds.

He is not far away or distant, He is near, with muddy feet and a shrinking heart, just like us.

Yes, this is a story of mud, but also of a firm anchor and a safe place for our soul, in the arms of our creator.

Remember it well my little ones, the day will come, the water will dry up and the mud will disappear, the trees will tell us about the seasons again and we will be able to admire the rainbow.

The days of peace will return, they always return, because we were not created to be helpless.

For my little girls. And for all the children affected by the floods: God is near.

The Lord is near to all who call on him, to all who call on him in truth. (Psalm 145:18)