I went to Corinth, Mississippi this past Tuesday, as a passenger rather than a chauffeur, which allowed me to actually look at something besides the highway that stretched before me and all the dogs and cats and squirrels standing at the edge of the road, just waiting to jump in front of my speeding vehicle. As we traveled through the country outside of Shiloh, I began to notice all the storm shelters—nothing new-fangled or high tech, just the good, old-fashioned kind that burrowed into a hillside with only a bit of wall and a small portion of roof visible enough to announce their location. Oftentimes, even the doors were hidden from sight, recessed into a mound of earth to protect them from the ravages of whatever storm might be approaching. And they were always close to the house so their safety could be quickly reached when needed. As I reflected upon the metaphorical nature of said shelters, I also began to notice that the newer homes were shelterless. Maybe they had basements or interior rooms their owners trusted to protect them in the event of a tornado or other severe storm, but the original, dug-into-the-side-of-a-hill shelters could only be found coupled with the older homes along the road.

The occupants of generations past understood the need for a safe place. There were no storm sirens or emergency weather broadcasts then, just the roar of the approaching funnel cloud and the rising wind to declare that all material possessions must be abandoned in order to preserve life. At that moment, priorities had to be in order or survival could not be assured.

There are so many times today when we need a safe place, one that protects and shelters us from the storms of life—not the frequent thunderstorms or the devastating tornados, but the storms of loss and grief. Whether they are generated by death or simply the disturbance of life as we know it, one cannot survive those storms without a safe place to which they can retreat when it becomes too much to bear. That shelter may be the shoulder of a friend who will hold you as you cry and listen as you pour out your heart, or a quiet corner of the house where you can hide with a favorite book and a cup of hot tea. You may find your solace in the darkness of the woods or the lapping of the water against the shore. Perhaps your peace is found in reaching out to others who are also hurting. Wherever that place may be, whatever that place may hold that offers comfort, each person must find their own and embrace it.

Unlike tornados that wreak their havoc quickly and with little warning, life storms slowly devastate their victims, often taking months or years to wear away the fortitude of those who try valiantly to weather their effects. But those safe places, those places of comfort and peace, can renew you; they can afford you the opportunity to refocus on the beauty and the blessings of life instead of being mired down in all that is wrong. Take a lesson from those who traveled before us. Find your safe place. Keep it close. And use it when the storm becomes too great.

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