Cancun was a dream for my husband, Harry, and me. Until Hurricane Wilma turned it into a nightmare. When the Class 5 storm stirred up across the Atlantic Ocean, the president of Mexico ordered all hotels evacuated. “I’m scared, Harry,” I said as we hurried toward idling buses. “I am too,” he said, clutching my arm. “All we can do now is pray.”
An old schoolhouse was our shelter for the evening—and several frightening days. When given the go-ahead to leave, I was shocked to see our ravaged hotel. The staff handed us candles; the power was still out. I took one onto the balcony and set it on the little table there. “I guess everybody’s got the same idea,” Harry said.
I looked out over the U-shaped courtyard, each balcony with its own small, flickering glow. I heard someone sing: “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound…” Other guests joined in. “I once was lost, but now am found…” Harry and I added our voices to the choir. Somehow God felt present to me there, even among all the wreckage and loss.
The next morning Harry and I took the first plane home. Our vacation wasn’t the dream we’d planned. But when I think back on it, I don’t remember the devastation as much as I remember the sweet sound of the calm after the storm.
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