Savage, rushing water sounds like city traffic. And it can be just as deadly if you are caught unprotected in it’s eye.

Was she screaming? Did she try to claw her way to higher ground, hungry and even weaker in her frail bones than normal? Did she grip the backs of her ears with stiff, aged fingers to try to block the sound of what was coming? When it finally found her feet, was the water frigid, muddy, and full of pieces of her neighbor’s front porch furniture?

She was born somewhere around 1933, Roosevelt’s inaugural year. She would live through 13 president’s in all, including the first black leader of our country. Is that what went through her mind as her living room became a pool? Her best friend in grade school, her mom’s famous casserole, the kiss her lover gave her on their wedding day, WWII and it’s end, Tom and Jerry in black and white, Jackie Robinson breaking the color barrier in baseball, the Civil Rights Act, a new baby boy or the constant emptiness of her arms, fighting and bills and anniversaries, Neil Armstrong walking on the moon, Elvis dying, the economy swinging up then down a thousand times, grandbabies, death and loss.

 A life. A legacy.

At a certain point that day, she had to know how it would end. That it would end. And in all the ways we go did she ever guess that this was going to be her journey?

Maybe she was in her Sunday best. Stockings, pearls, and heels that clasped at ankles. Her hair perfect and sprayed stable, maybe she wore her favorite cotton dress with pearl buttons and the earrings she got for Mother’s Day one year. Maybe she sat peaceful, pretty, clutching her tattered Bible and family albums, waiting for Him to take her home.

However she died, whatever she was thinking, she is now dearly missed. Everyone is someone’s, someone.  

This is based on a news story of a woman who died in the Colorado flooding last week. Please join me in praying for the families who have lost loved ones and homes in this devastating event.