In moments like these, even small kindnesses begin to feel like gifts from heaven—a neighbor
      who shows up with a chainsaw, a friend who sends a thoughtful text, an unexpected laugh that
      catches us by surprise, a cool evening breeze after days of oppressive heat, or the simple
      reassurance of someone asking, “How are you holding up?”
     
      The current pastor of Westminster Presbyterian Church, 119 Stadium Dr., is Rev. Adam Rodgers. He penned the following in ‘The Week We Didn’t Play following a macroburst storm that caused havoc in Boardman Township on July 5 when many trees were taken down by extremely high winds, forcing road closures, damaging homes and a lengthy clean-up.
      The Week We Didn’t Plan
      This has been one of those weeks that reminds us how quickly life can change. Just a few days ago our community was doing what communities across the country were doing. There were cookouts and fireworks, parades and family gatherings. My own family spent part of the holiday enjoying good barbecue and the quiet beauty of a lakeside afternoon. Our sons spent the weekend doing what grocery store employees often do on holidays—working while everyone else celebrated, helping neighbors prepare meals and family gatherings.
      Then Sunday, July 5 arrived. A tornado. A macroburst. Trees across roads and rooftops. Homes damaged. Basements flooded. Electricity gone for days. Paul, our maintenance director, ended up with a tree in his dining room. Our own church’s lower level filled with water. Our friends at Poland Presbyterian Church saw flooding damage force the postponement of Vacation Bible School. Beyond the storm that blew through our community, there were folks otherwise occupied with hospital admissions, anxious families waiting beside loved ones, and the news of a newborn beginning life not at home but in a NICU.
      And then there was one moment that, looking back, almost feels like the chaotic week in miniature. After riding out the storm in my office bathroom, I ventured over toward the church’s entrance/exit door to inspect the damage outside. Standing there was an angry, soaking-wet skunk staring directly at me as if to say, “Go ahead. I dare you.” Having only recently survived my dog’s encounter with a skunk, I decided wisdom was the better part of valor and stayed inside. Sometimes even pastors know when not to take the next step.
      Life is strange like that. One moment you’re watching fireworks burst overhead. The next you’re negotiating with a wet skunk while wondering how much damage the storm has done.
      But beneath the memorable stories that we’ll laugh about someday lies something much quieter. Weeks like this have a way of draining us in ways that aren’t always obvious. Even when the winds die down, life does not. The alarm clock still rings on Monday morning. Children still need breakfast. Dogs still need to be walked. There are shifts to work, bills to pay, doctor’s appointments to keep, laundry to fold, grass that somehow keeps growing, and dinners that still need to find their way onto the table. We don’t get to press pause until life feels manageable again. We carry disruption alongside responsibility, grief alongside routine, exhaustion alongside expectation.
      That is why so many people feel unusually weary after a week like this. We aren’t simply cleaning up after a storm; we’re trying to do it while still living the rest of our lives. In moments like these, even small kindnesses begin to feel like gifts from heaven—a neighbor who shows up with a chainsaw, a friend who sends a thoughtful text, an unexpected laugh that catches us by surprise, a cool evening breeze after days of oppressive heat, or the simple reassurance of someone asking, “How are you holding up?” Those ordinary moments don’t erase the weariness, but they remind us of something we desperately need to hear: that we are not carrying all of this by ourselves.
      That is one reason the Bible speaks so honestly to the human condition. It never assumes that life arrives one emotion at a time or that faithful people are spared exhausting seasons. Instead, it gives us words for those moments when celebration and sorrow, gratitude and fatigue, hope and uncertainty all find themselves sharing the same week.
      One page celebrates weddings, another grieves funerals. One chapter sings songs of victory, another cries out, “How long, O Lord?” The Scriptures assume that joy and sorrow, gratitude and exhaustion, celebration and heartbreak often occupy the very same week—and sometimes the very same day.
      Maybe that’s why the words of the psalmist continue to sound so honest: “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.” Notice what the psalm does not say. It does not promise that storms will never come. It promises that God is present when they do.
      I have seen that promise lived out in ordinary ways. I have watched neighbors clearing limbs from one another’s yards. Church members checking on friends whose power was still out. Volunteers hauling debris, delivering meals, offering generators, making phone calls, praying together, and simply showing up. None of these acts made the storm disappear. But every one of them quietly testified that no one has to weather life’s storms alone. That may be one of the holy truths we learn in weeks like this. God so often comes to us wearing work gloves.
      For some families, the cleanup is mostly finished. For others, it will take months. Some losses can be repaired with time and insurance claims. Others leave memories that linger much longer than broken branches and damaged roofs.
      As the church, we do not rush people past those experiences. We simply keep walking together. We keep praying. We keep helping. We keep trusting that even when life feels interrupted, God has not abandoned the story he is writing.
      Jesus once told his disciples, “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart; I have overcome the world.” He never suggested that faithful people would be spared life’s disruptions. Instead, he promised that trouble would never have the final word.
      As we move into another week, may we continue caring for neighbors whose cleanup is not yet finished. May we reach out to anyone carrying burdens that the rest of us cannot see. And may we give thanks that even in weeks filled with celebration and chaos, sunshine and storms, fireworks and flooded basements, God’s steadfast love remains wonderfully, stubbornly present.
      We are loved. We are held. And by God’s grace, one faithful step at a time, we always find our way forward together. That is good news worth holding onto this week.