Ode to the Lighthouse

The log in the sea.

Heceta Lighthouse | Florence, Oregon | Deborah T. Hewitt

Lately, I have been on a supernatural surge of creating. For some crazy reason God’s got me writing flow poetry in rap style. Yeah, you heard that right. Rap style! Probably the only style music not on my radar, yet it has found me. Now my brother is creating rap names for me and says I could have merch soon to support one of my many heart interests. Insert “laughing out loud emoji” cause we all need it about now.

The world is in so much pain. Wars and natural disasters seem never ending. It is absolutely excruciating. The earth is rumbling, and I believe there is a fresh wind and fire coming for God.

Pain is the beckoning call of our spirit. It is the innate, gut wrenching cry of the soul.

Lord, help me. Why is this happening? Lord, help them. Help us. We need you.

Many years ago, with three young kids at home, we went through our first Daniel-like business battle and entered the lion’s den of what felt like tremendous evil. Small, private business can be like that. There is always a bigger, more powerful entity that is there to take you down and call what they did.. your problem. In a nutshell, my third generation, brilliant industrial electrical contractor husband, with two employees, earned a rather large FEMA allocated contract to repair/upgrade an old Hollywood theater from the 1994 Northridge Earthquake. At this point he had been moving along steady for nearly 20 years in business.

He is now at 44 years of small business.

It was an exciting project. We, ourselves, were artists. Still are. We also loved architectural history and often stopped to admire old buildings. Still do. It was not the standard, what some might consider, a boring electrical job. My husband loves his work and used to drive me around, when we were first married, to show off his artistic flare for bending PVC on jobs. Hot date. So no. Nothing was boring to him, (or me) yet this was different to the standard.

It took a few years as each individual contractor completed exceptional work on the theater. The “Actor’s Alley,” which included some famous old-timers in the industry, signed off as “all work complete,” using their 1.5 million dollar FEMA grant, stamped ALL PAID, ribbon was cut, the theater reopened.

In the aftermath, I’ll never forget hearing about the private “restoration artist” who was hired to restore and preserve the entry lobby to the theater. He was the lowest paid contractor. I believe 10k. It was a painstaking job. A big deal to his new small business. The behemoth took advantage of that and he succumbed.

A few months after the reopening celebration, many of the contractors were informed they weren’t getting paid. No one had been paid the bulk of their contracts. We and the restoration artist were on that list. There was no money for an attorney and we were extremely foreign to lawsuits. We’d never been in one. It was a behemoth. We ended up with a *pro-bono attorney familiar with construction lawsuits. My husband was ready to fight, “on principle’s sake, if anything.”

*Pro-bono, in the end,.. costs. The restoration artist would more than likely owe the pro bono attorney more than what the theater project owed him. Maybe more. And the Actor’s Alley knew it.

I, on the other hand, was the one floating on the log in the sea. Flailing with no faith at all. I wasn’t even crying out for God’s help.

You see, we were an extremely average family. I came from hard working immigrants that didn’t live nearby, and he from a single mom with nothing to her name. His dad passed away when he was 15. We were proud people, without a savings account, that did literally everything on a hope and a dream. We managed the kids, work, everything, on our own. Normal to us. We had fought to qualify for a construction loan, of a few hundred thousand, to build a home in a wooded area of Southern California, that we had fallen in love with as young married kids.

Who knew that behemoth would lead us to an even bigger one a few years later. God knew. He was preparing us. A huge California fire would come right to our back door.

When all of this went down with “the job that could potentially fulfill my husband’s dream,” he had just completed the framing. The whole process was a hands-on family affair that would last a year. As I stared at the hollow structure of our home, on crutches, with a blown-out knee, I wanted it all to stop. “Sell the land, (with a home framed on it?) sell my manual Jetta, sell everything and let’s rent an apartment,” I cried. “We can’t do this. It’s too much. I’ll quit school, get a job. We will lose to them.” Oh, and by the way, I had recently started photography classes, at the age of 39, hobbling into a local junior college, forged through a dream, and my husband’s encouragement. “Deb, you should go back to school while the kids are at school and maybe learn how to shoot a landscape. Sell one here and there. You’re good at it.”

I told a church friend of mine what I was thinking… thinking how righteous I was. Of course she’d agree. Sell everything. Shrink.

“Oh you know what you are? you’re the person clinging to that log in the sea worried about everything. No faith. But you know what your husband is? He’s a big ship out there cruising with great faith.”

I remember my throat constricting. My mind went back to the first thing my husband said to me when he took rent money to buy my wedding ring. “I’ll figure it out deb. We will figure it out. Together.” Oh the tears…

I would pack his lunch daily (still do most days), watch him go off in his truck confident and undeterred. He was my strong ship navigating the seas.

What an amazing vision my friend gave me.

The behemoth lost it’s battle. It was not a spectacle of anything more than what was rightfully earned. In fact, the outcome of that “only lawsuit” was less. We were given less than the contract and promptly paid the lawyer. It did prove, however, the principle that we can all be Daniels of great faith. What was to come later, a great fire, well that lost too.

My husband never went back to that theater built in 1926 as a Vaudeville and Silent Movie House, nor did he take me to see the completion. It was too painful to know how many people they hurt, especially the restoration artist. Every battle comes with pain. I hope he battled to stay passionate about his art.

Faith as a Lighthouse.

Not even the sting of death is possible with Him. Only Victory…

Heceta Head Lighthouse | view from the Sea Lion Caves | Deborah T. Hewitt (if you look close enough there’s a light beam)

I will end with a little rap: (cause I can’t stop! make it stop!)

Your Hope comes
Hangin' on a log ?
Floatin' in the sea?
You not with Me?
I disagree you see
cause I'm a Lighthouse
The Way who saves
through the waves
Turbulent chaos
It got no hold
when we behold,
unfold
choose bold
Cause forever ain't never
when you believe
receive, conceive
a Light on a hill
cannot be hidden
forbidden, overridden
on the path that glistens
Give up the log
push through the fog
Let go, let Be
V I C T O R ...  Y
Beacon of night
Turn to the Light
 
House.

- Ode to the Lighthouse
deborah t. hewitt

“Send out your light and your truth; let them lead me; let them bring me to your holy hill and to your dwelling.” Psalm 43:3

Praying over the helpers of the world and all who are suffering.