The Sign

Seeing the devastation of the fires in Los Angeles reminded me of a drive I took, several years ago now. It wasn’t a long drive. In fact, I drove only about twenty minutes from my home. I turned off the freeway just after I went through the Caldecot Tunnel going west toward the Oakland hills. The area looked like a war zone. Just a few weeks before, a firestorm consumed thousands of acres and thousand of homes in the East Bay hills of Oakland.

I drove through what used to be beautiful neighborhoods with lovely trees and impeccably kept yards. Street after street. Block after block. All that was left of those beautiful homes was piles of rusty metal on empty lots and concrete drives that led to nothing.

I read the signs as I drove along — many heart-breaking signs, homemade and hand-printed — about lost pets in the fire storm. There were pictures of beautiful animals on the signs; cats and dogs that had once been members of families, faithful pets now missing and being sought. Rewards offered. Laments expressed on paper — blue flyers nailed to power poles about “General,” a Black Lab who hadn’t been seen since that awful Sunday it all began.

Another sign was carefully lettered in bright red paint and wired around a beautiful, old, oak tree sitting at the entrance to an empty lot: This tree is being saved. Do not harm.

The most interesting signs I saw on my drive, however, were obviously professionally printed and mass-produced for homeowners in the area. They were white signs, about two-feet by three-feet, with bright blue lettering. There were hundreds of them throughout the devastated neighborhoods. They were nailed to posts and fences and trees. They were stapled to anything left standing, anything permanent: “This property is not abandoned. It is under the control of the owner.”

I understood, of course, the meaning of the sign and why it was necessary. Some people in our society feel that when tragedy strikes, they have the right to pick up the pieces and call those pieces their own. The authorities call that looting, and it is illegal.

But I could not help being intrigued by the wording of the sign. Not the first part. Not the part that said, This property is not abandoned. People don’t just walk off and leave a place they call home simply because a fire storm incinerated everything in its path for miles. People are resilient and defiant. Even though it had only been a few weeks since the disaster, I could see some of them already starting to doggedly rebuild their homes. I understood perfectly the first part of the sign.

The part of the sign that intrigued me was the second part — the part that said, It is under the control of the owner. I felt an eerie sense of sorrow as I read that statement.

Their property was not under their control. It had never been under their control. Eight weeks earlier, a fire storm had swept through their neighborhood. Residents grabbed the few belongings they could (if there was time) and frantically fled through the winding canyon roads. Some of them lost their pets. Most of them lost their homes and valuables, and some of them even lost their lives. They were frightened and disoriented and absolutely out of control.

Within days after this terrible happening, they returned. They regrouped and resolutely set about beginning again. And one of the first things they did was post signs — markers to indicate they were in control of their lives and their property and their future.

Signs have always been important to us. That must be why God peppered the neighborhood with them. After one particularly devastating rain, He placed a rainbow — a sign and a promise that the water would never get that deep again.

Later on, He gave a sign to the shepherds. “Here’s a sign for you,” He said. “You’ll find the Babe wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger.” Such an obvious sign, easy to read with bold lettering. Control was being re-established. It was time to announce the construction of a house not built with human hands.

A little more than thirty years later, construction was almost done, another sign was made. Crude and vile was the sign nailed over the Carpenter’s head. It was not ambiguous. It was simple and plain and easy to understand: “This is Jesus, King of the Jews.”

Priceless crown of thorns for the Prince of heaven; bleeding, dying Pauper of peace who never owned a home, putting the final touches on a new way to live. Suffering Servant with a sign over His head, proclaiming to the world once and for all that the devastation had been overcome and permanent residence for all who believe had been established. The Owner had wrapped His love-message around an old cross, sturdy as an oak:

This Property Is Not Abandoned;

It is Under the Control of the Owner. May “the God who owns the cattle on a thousand hills” bring His comfort and peace to all who have suffered such devastating loss is my prayer.