Theology of a Leaky Roof

While the immediate threat of blizzards and consecutive weeks of sub-zero temperatures seems to have subsided as we slip into the latter parts of April, I am still tormented by the memory of one especially frustrating episode.

We got a ton of snow this winter. I can handle that. A little here, a little there, it piles up, and all of a sudden we're at 40 inches for the year. It happens. We got a blizzard in March. Okay. Wet snow, ice, more snow, all packed together; so be it. A week or two of negative temperatures to follow? Why not. Spring is around the corner. Beaten down by a nagging string of frigid months, I gritted my teeth, put my head down, shoveled away the frustration, and resolved to take it in stride.

Then I got sent over the emotional top.

First I noticed just the tiniest hint of a water stain on my living room ceiling. It was at night, though, and I had been reading. I hoped it was just shadows on the ceiling, and my hope led me to refuse to investigate any more closely. My fears were realized in full the next day when I came home to find a steady, pulsating drip. An ice damn had formed on my roof, rerouting the snow melt through a leak, through my ceiling tiles, and onto my couch. A few PG-13 words and a bucket later, and the drip stopped. I thought that was the worst of it. Foolish, foolish man. The next day's return from work revealed a soaked wooden floor threatening to warp under the expanding pool and an ink blot patterned water stain on my ceiling tiles for my dog to study during the slow afternoon hours. The next Saturday morning found me on the roof, trusting my footing to ridges in the snow and ice pack, beating the hell out the ice with a hammer.

During this process, on a drive to school one morning, my daughter Elise randomly piped up from the back seat, "Dad, the leaky roof might be a good thing." It was all I could do not to park the car in the ditch, dive into the back seat, and shake some reason into her right then and there. This was during her "advice" period, during which she offered daily guidance on driving, regarding in particular route, speed, and volume of radio. Now she wanted to tell me to be positive about the roof?

Rather than anger, I chose to follow the rabbit down the hole to see where it led. "How's that, Elise?"

"Well, God often turns bad situations into good." Game-set-match: Elise.

She was right. And how was she right? How did she think to say this foundational theological truth in a time when I wanted instead to stew in my own frustration? She knows this because she's spent hours in our living room chair, on my lap or Emily's, reading Bible stories. She knows it because of all the Sunday school classes and AWANA meetings where her teachers volunteered their  time to teach this and many other Biblical lessons to her. She knew just the right thing at just the right time from being around enough stories and people that at the minute she (or I) needed it, she had the truth.

If we want the truth near when we need it most, we need to keep people and stories of our faith near. Wherever you place your faith, whether it be in hard work, your family, God, or all three, immerse yourself in stories that remind you what it's all about and what you believe. And then tell those stories to a friend, or your spouse, or your kids, or your students, and they may just remember them when the roof is caving in.