March 2, 2012. The day of our tornado.
Most of our community's collective memory centers around other storms. There was a horrific tornado in 1989. Then there is the woebegone neighborhood known as Anderson Hills, hit at least three times since 1995. And more recently, the major tornadic outbreak of April 27, 2011 that left hundreds across the state dead and all of us around here in the dark for a solid week. But the one usually not remembered is the one that hit too close to home. A direct hit, actually.
It was a Friday morning. The boys were at school, my wife and I at work at our respective employers. The day was very warm and muggy, somewhat unusual for an early March morning. There may have been a weather watch, of that I'm not sure. But there were a couple of storms about, and one cell in particular had my attention as I tracked it on internet radar. Various reports were coming in, and a phone call from my brother-in-law (who was on his way to work) confirmed that it looked pretty serious. It wasn’t long before a spotter reported a funnel cloud on the ground, and the projected track was taking the storm on a direct path to my neighborhood. I knew my immediate family was safely out of the way, but my in-laws live in the same area, and I found myself desperately praying that the cell would weaken or shift direction.
Suddenly, everything turned surreal. We have internet voice mail, and around 10:15, I got an email with a hurried, cryptic message from our next door neighbor: "… it got your house. Wait, are you there? Hello?" My first thought was simply that a tree had crashed through the house (we had a lot of trees). I called my wife, who had moments earlier gotten a text notification from our alarm system, an error indicating that the basement door had been opened. Our initial conclusion was that changes in air pressure caused the basement door to bulge and break the signal. At least, that is what we were hoping. Not knowing what to expect, but knowing that I needed to know, I left work and took off for home.
I don't remember what I was thinking on the drive home. There was another phone call from my brother-in-law, who was en route to the area. As I approached my neighborhood, a feeling of dread began to settle in. Dozens of trees were strewn across the road, and there was no immediate access to the area. I parked the car next to a block house (incidentally parking next to my brother-in-law), and ran up the hill into the war zone. Several of my neighbors were outside, already cleaning up, in shock, taking stock. Everyone seemed okay, for which I was very grateful. I asked one in particular how they fared, and the response was "Better than what happened in the cul-de-sac up there." My breath caught for a moment, but then I steeled myself and walked toward my street. I stopped at my in-laws, who were deeply shaken but okay. From there, I made my way to where my home once stood.
Standing over the rubble, I remember feeling strangely calm. Perhaps it was some level of shock, evidenced by the fact that in my report to my wife, I kept saying "the house was completely gone", creating a false picture. In fact, we salvaged a good deal more than I would ever have expected, looking at the destruction. But in a larger sense, I also knew that my Father in Heaven had a very tight hold on me right in that moment. For I knew, even in the moment, that it was just a house. My treasures, the people I love more than anyone in the world, were alive and safe. Ours was the only house in the neighborhood that was destroyed, and no one was home when it happened. Many of my neighbors were taking cover inside their homes when the tornado came through, and every one of them was safe. We had lost nothing that could not be replaced, and we would recover.
For the next week, it was a massive salvage operation. Slowly and steadily, we picked through every corner of the pile, pulling books, computers, files, and more. We found clothes and pictures, covered in drywall dust and insulation, but salvageable. We climbed through the collapsed kitchen to retrieve whatever wasn’t broken (excepting a memorable moment of fatalistic whimsy, in which my brother-in-law and I took turns hurling a set of old Corelle dishes down the hill like Frisbees). We rented storage units and filled them to the brim (in the end, even most of this would be hauled to the dump). We rented a house, and did everything possible to keep the boys in a normal routine (they did not miss any school). We were surrounded by people - family, friends from work, church, school, Scouts, and more, all of whom came alongside us in those first weeks. That memory, being the recipient of such great grace, is one memory I will always, always treasure. In fact, I want to be sure that if I hold on to anything, it is that experience of God's loving hand through the kindnesses of others.
That isn't to say it wasn't difficult or draining. Once we had picked through everything, it was time to clear the property. I remember well dealing with the emotional emptiness that people say so often follows traumatic experiences. Some days, it was very hard to soldier through. But we weren't really alone, no matter how we felt sometimes, and we did come through it.
I could go on, I suppose. But I am mindful that this was supposed to be a quick look back. With that, and knowing that I have chronicled our experiences with this storm and others before on this blog, and I suppose it would probably just be easier to point you, the reader, to these posts to read at your leisure. So let me list them here, after which I'll get on with my closing thoughts.
"When the Lights Can't Come Back On"There's more of course, just scan any of my posts March - August 2012. But moving on now, to the present. Nearly four years have passed since we moved into the rebuild. It was certainly disorienting at first, and even a year after moving in, it was weird. Today, I still catch myself looking in cabinets for things that we no longer have, or looking for them in places where they would have been in the old house, instead of where they are now. Fortunately, this is happening less often, but it still happens. It is the ultimate cliché, I know, but life really has moved on. The boys are older and thriving. We are older, working as hard as ever for our respective employers, going to church, and simply trying to keep up with the pace of life. I walk around the house and the yard, and as always, marvel at the number of projects still on my to-do list. The scars from the storm still mark our property, and to an extent our hearts. But they are healing, and they are not holding us back in any way.
"One Year Later, Or Last Month"
"The Future Remains Unwritten"
"One Year"
The Rebuild Process (Chase Manor 2.0)
Yes, we lost much. But 5 years later, there is no question in my mind: we have gained more. The worst did not happen, and to compare our experience with those who have lost so much more than a house would be a grave disservice. To this day, I remain humbled by the grace and mercy that has been extended to me and my family by my Father in Heaven. And if ever I should fail to remember this, I merely have to walk outside and turn my eyes to the east, to the rising sun. I testify to this simple truth: if not for the storm, I would not have the view I have today - literally, and spiritually. His mercies are truly new, every morning.
Five years. The more I dwell, the more I remember. But - and I cannot say this enough – I will (and must) be intentional about remembering the love and the grace we have received, and that we experience to this day. And most of all, I choose to look forward to the new day, where hope rises and affords the possibility of joy, of new life, of new dreams. For there is still more life ahead to be lived and to be embraced, whatever may come.
1 comments:
Beautiful, Jim.
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