The following was originally posted on August 6, 2016. It has been edited:
As we looked across the vulcanized valley we could still see the wreckage of nature's fury. Thirty three years after the eruption, forests of dead trees lie in the direction of the famed blast. Volcanic debris covers like a funeral pall across what once was a lush arboreal garden. At the Johnson visitor's center, Mount St. Helens looms large. Even though clouds crowned the summit, we could see well into the crater that bears evidence to the magnitude and raw power of that moment when the mountain awoke.
It was a solemn and quite place where the wind speaks strong. In the very place that I was standing, it took only forty seconds for the blast to reach on that fateful morning in 1983. Forty seconds after the Mountain belched, this place, which is five and a half miles away, was forever changed. Forty seconds before that, the mountain was 'dormant' or to use common parlance was in 'remission'.
"Remission" is a uneasy word. Those who suffer from chronic illness know this. Even though they might long to hear it when the word 'cure' is not able to be spoken. "Remission" means that for the moment there is an opportunity to live unfettered. There is also a chance that the moment might extend for a few years. When in remission, one lives in the wishful hope that maybe a cure will be found or maybe the volcano has gone dormant forever.
The sad truth is that volcanoes remain active below the surface. One of the lessons from St. Helens is that there is movement before eruptions. Under the surface, steam and lava are in cycles of building up and releasing pressure. Information gathered by scientists from the volcanic activity on this summit has sharpened the predictive tools of those who monitor these resting giants. Next time that St. Helens explodes we will be better prepared for the unstoppable blast, ash, and destruction. Even so, diagnostics can not hold eruptions at bay. The volcano will eventually do what it is that volcanoes do. Remission does not last indefinitely.
But life goes on... Therein lies the hope that is woven into even the most destructive portions of creation. Even though it might be changed forever, life goes on in the tiny delicate flowers that desperately cling to the side of barren hillsides. Life continues in the crunchy moss and lichens. Life goes on, beyond the time when remission and destruction ends. For life belongs not to the disease or the eruption but to the maker of heaven and earth.