There is a time for everything,
and a season for every activity under heaven:
a time to be born and a time to die,
a time to plant and a time to uproot,
a time to kill and a time to heal,
a time to tear down and a time to build,
a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance...
Ecclesiastes 3:1
The other day on the way to Sadie's dance class, we took a left on to 20th street, and then a right on to Indiana and past the old site of Joplin High School, still a mountain of bricks and glass and metal, waiting to be cleared. As we drove by, Sam pointed at the rubble and cried with great purpose and intensity, "Uh-oh! Uh-oh! Uh-oh!" Almost a year later, it is clear to even an eighteen month old that something very bad happened here
A year ago today, something unimaginable happened in this town. As the anniversary loomed inevitably on the horizon, my thoughts began to turn inward and I have unwittingly returned to the horror of that day. I have returned to mourn, and mourn deeply. For individuals, for families, for the collective pain of this city. And to mourn properly means to also acknowledge the depth of our own feelings, our own experiences, even if we bear the burden, as I do, of immense guilt because my family and my home were left intact.
Intact, but not unchanged.
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Dave was at youth group at the church, so it was just the girls, Sam, and me, hunkered down in a canvas playhouse under the stairwell of our basement. Four years in Alabama had taught me to immediately heed the wail of a tornado siren, but with more annoyance than fear. It was dinner time and now we had to go sit in the basement. I was annoyed. I brought the computer down with me so I could monitor the storm and entertain the kids with a movie if I needed to. Most of the time, these things didn't last long, but occasionally, it took hours for a warning to be lifted.
We hadn't been down there long when a second siren sounded. I remember from living in Alabama that a siren meant that a tornado had been spotted on the ground. I could only guess that a second siren meant more of the same. I immediately called Dave at church and asked him if he knew what was going on. He hadn't even heard the siren, but had since received calls from me and many worried parents and was now headed across the street to the church basement. Concerned, but not yet scared, I quickly ran upstairs to grab snacks for the girls, and a few jars of baby food for Sam. It was past their dinnertime, after all, and they were hungry. I thank God that I had no idea what I was looking at when I arrived upstairs and looked out my kitchen window. If I had understood then what I understand now about the character of tornadoes, I would have panicked. It was only a little past 5:30pm, but the sky was as dark as night, with a eery greenish hue. Hail was hammering the roof with full force. Thunder and lightening were crashing incessantly, shaking the entire house. However, it was the rain that I will never forget. It was blowing sideways. I grabbed what I came for and hurried back to my children.
The four of us huddled down there, safe in our musty basement,and waited out the storm. I fed Sam pureed turkey dinner and sweet potatoes. The girls ate their crackers. I had been going back and forth between checking facebook and weather.com, though I still had no idea what was happening outside of our little canvas cocoon. Finally, the rain lessened, the thunder and lightening stopped, and the warning was lifted. At a little before 7pm, it was finally safe to go upstairs. I checked facebook once more before heading up and I'll never forget that first post, indicating all was not well. It was made by Sadie's preschool teacher, who lives on the other side of town. I hear sirens.
The kids and I went upstairs, and I told them to get ready for bed. "You have school tomorrow and it's getting late," I told them. I tried calling Dave but no calls were going through, though I could send and receive texts. Are you ok? I heard there were sirens. He immediately responded that everyone was fine. He hadn't heard anything yet, either. And then the texts began pouring in, from California, Alabama, Arkansas: Please let us know you're safe. We saw Joplin on the news. Are you guys ok? I've been calling your mom to see if she has heard from you. If you get this, please text me! I turned on the television (thankfully, we hadn't lost cable). On every station were images, unfamiliar and devastating, of flattened homes, broken buildings, and shattered lives.
And so it began. There are so many stories to share, and I struggle to find the words to express what those first few weeks were like. We sent the kids to Springfield for the week. I didn't shower. I could hardly eat. I barely slept. I would go to church early in the morning and stay all day answering phones because I needed to feel useful and productive. Though mostly I felt useless and in the way.
I didn't take pictures of what I saw. Not one. Not because I didn't want to remember, but because it felt like an invasion of something incredibly personal and intimate and tragic.
I didn't publicly share any of the stories I was hearing, stories of incredible suffering and loss, nor stories of miraculous survival. Not because these stories didn't pierce me to the depth of my soul, but because they were not my stories to share.
And I didn't share my own story. Not because I don't have one; we all have a story, but because my story was peripheral. And there was so, so much to do for those who were in the center of this storm.
Now, finally, I feel free to share my story.
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Something very bad happened in Joplin. But today is a beautiful day, so unlike last May 22nd. The sky is blue and cloudless, and the morning air is cool, crisp, and free of humidity. Today we will walk the partial path of the tornado in memory of those who lost their lives, and in solidarity with those who are still recovering from their loss. We will walk with our neighbors, our friends, with those we love, and with those whom we don't always see eye to eye. Last May 22nd was a bad day. The worst day. But for as bad a day as it was, today will be as good. A good, good day.
It is a time to mourn, and mourn deeply for what we have lost, but it also a day to celebrate how far we have come, and how we have been transformed by and through the storm.
There are tears of joy mixed with tears of grief.
