Blessing is a word that is tossed around casually by many, yet held in high regard by others. What is a blessing? Who can bestow blessings?

Some years ago, when I lived in Chattanooga, a tornado roared right over Missionary Ridge, where I lived. It knocked over a bunch of trees. One of those trees, an oak more than 70 feet tall, came down less than 30 feet from my house.

I lost power for nine days, but I survived. First-world problem, I know. For nine days, I did everything I could before sundown. I learned to cook one-pot meals on a camp stove. I took cold showers. I endured instant coffee.

I was blessed to have a battery-operated radio. I was blessed to have a battery-operated lantern. The mail was delayed a couple days until the drivers figured out how to drive around the fallen trees.

I was blessed to have a cell phone, and a way to charge it, although burning gasoline just to charge the phone made me feel guilty. The cats were OK. I had a mechanical can opener so I could still open a can of cat food.

So there I was, unable to connect for nine days, hauling my laptop to Starbucks to get online and communicate. With no connection, I was in agony, just like I was trying to kick a nasty drug habit. I rolled on the floor, made promises to God, and thought seriously about spending a thousand dollars for a generator — if I could find one.

I was blessed that the temperature and humidity were comfortable for human habitation for nine days. Nonetheless I was frustrated, annoyed, irritated, exasperated, irked and vexed.

And why was I vexed and irked and grumpy? Only because I had no lights, no refrigerator, no TV, no hot water, no coffee, no dishwasher, no oven, no washing machine, no dryer, no internet, no e-mail, and no hot showers. And I had to open and close the garage door manually.

But I was blessed, wasn’t I? I had my home, my car, my cats, some food, clean running water and my own bed at night. My spouse and I had each other. Reflecting on it now, we really had no right to be vexed or annoyed. We were blessed.

There were moments of grace. A couple of women showed up with a chainsaw and began to cut up the tree next door. They just parked their car, took out a cooler of water and went to work.

When you can plainly see the devastation wrought by a disaster, it’s tempting to ask, “Why did this happen to my neighbor? Why didn’t it happen to me?” It’s tempting to ask, but we must resist that temptation.

Part of this is due to proximity and a shared culture. In 2011, when the tornadoes ripped through the southeastern United States, 324 people lost their lives. And some people in Tennessee asked, “Why?” In 2004, when a tsunami hit Indonesia and killed 230,000 people, I’ll bet no one in Alabama asked, “Why?” Not that they should. It’s a natural human response to be more moved by the disaster next door than the disaster on the other side of the world. You can see it. You may know the people. It’s personal.

Some time past, I would have said that everything happens for a reason, but I don’t believe that anymore. I believe some things just happen. No reason. I believe some things defy reason, but can be explained. We know how tornadoes form, but there is no “why.” It just happened that way.

It’s chaotic, isn’t it? And humans have the damndest time living with chaos. We want to explain everything so that we can control it.

We are not in control of everything. In life, there is an element of chaos, and I’m glad of it. We humans are curious creatures and chaos stimulates our imagination. Imagine how dull the world would be if we had everything figured out. Imagine that we learn how to control the weather, so that we can bring the right amount of rain at the right time to every farmer on earth and let the sun shine forever on every beach and swimming pool and picnic and county fair everywhere. Imagine that we can make storms happen, but only for our own amusement, and probably only at sea, away from shipping lanes.

That would be a pretty boring world. Better, I think, to learn to live with chaos. Then we’ll have something to look forward to. I am not suggesting we become complacent and let Mother Nature have her way with us. We ought to protect ourselves as much as possible. But if we do get knocked around, we can indulge in a moment of self–pity and then get to work. If our neighbors get knocked around, we can be thankful we’re still in one piece and then get to work helping our neighbors.

And it’s out of chaos that blessings emerge. When we humans are challenged, when we cope with the suffering from a disaster, we have an opportunity to bless the world. Our best coping mechanisms and our best hope and our best charity come out of chaos.

The Rev. Jeff Briere is a retired Unitarian Universalist minister.

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