Unintentionally, it’s been a month since my last post. Pre-Milton. Pre-election. Gulf Coast residents have had a month.

I came back to Bradenton October 13th. For me, not much had changed. A few inconveniences. For my community, layers upon layers of change. Some visible. Some yet to be unearthed.

I’ve been struck by this image on my cul-de-sac.

It typifies how it feels to navigate response and recovery. Like the vegetation on the right, those in the line of work to lead response stand tall and strong, seemingly untouched by the winds of change. Those on the left, completely different. At least visibly.

They’re still here, but not the same. They’re bent but not broken. Their roots are exposed. They are vulnerable. They are in need. Recovery is a hope, but can feel untouchable. They lean in the direction of the tall and strong.

My neighbor who lives in the condo behind the leaning vegetation didn’t evacuate. She now leans also. She endured the long, uncertain, and terrifying night. She’s bent but not broken. The exposure of her roots is uncomfortable and has left her scurrying in the fog.

The night of October 9th, many may have felt like Jacob in Genesis 32. That night in Peniel changed him-he even got a new name. He said when it was all over, “I have seen God face to face, and I am still alive.” He left with a limp. He also left processing a life-altering encounter.

Disasters come in our lives. They limp us. We’re tempted to focus on the changes in our world to the point that we don’t stop long enough to notice and tend to the changes to our minds, emotions, spirits, and bodies.

It’s okay to pause. It’s okay to gaze. It’s okay to tend.

Take all the time you need.