I went to the grocery store today. Filled up the deep freeze with $1.25 frozen meals. Patted myself on the back for walking past the Oreos. Picked up some "app-ells" for GiGi. As I walked through the automatic doors, I mentioned to my mom on the cell phone (I'm a cell shopper--a dirty habit, but I do hang up to visit with the cashier during checkout), "It feels like a storm today. I know it's ridiculous, and we always say that, but it really feels like a storm today."
On the way home, I wanted to stop and pick up a tee-ball helmet for RJ, but (still on the cell phone), I mentioned to mom, "I'm going to get myself home. The sky just doesn't look right."
It wasn't right.
I turned off Elmo and turned on the news, and for the next hour, we watched a tornado ravage homes just south of mine. Most of the time, the 22 miles from my house to Moore seems like a million. Put a two-mile wide tornado on the ground, and the gap gets a lot slimmer.
Back in 1999, I was in Ponca City when the tornadoes hit Moore, and I was terrified. Today, I wasn't terrified. We kept the t.v. volume low so that we didn't scare RJ. I kept my cell phone close and my radio weather and flashlight closer. I found my tennis shoes and made sure the kids had shoes nearby. But I didn't panic. I didn't really expect the storm to stop by my house.
I don't know why.
Yesterday I watched a smaller tornado pass by the intersection next to my house from the comfort of my parents' living room. It is an unusual comfort to see a tornado aim at your home when you're not there. Comfort in knowing that your family is safe. I never understood how people can stand in the middle of a pile of bricks and tell you that they're fine, that it's going to be okay, because their dog is sitting beside them holding their little boy's muddy hand on his leash. Now, I think I could understand that. (We are fine. The house is fine. We have, fortunately, survived the past two days with absolutely no damage). But, you'd think that the storm today would have terrified me; had me running for shelter; putting helmets on the kids.
The terror didn't come until later tonight when I held GiGi in my lap while she colored, when I scrubbed RJ's grubby fingernails, when he asked me to tickle his feet to help him fall asleep, when he told me we should pray for those kids whose houses got hurt. I didn't tell him the whole story. How could I? We prayed. We prayed that the storms would be quiet tonight and that the people who lost their houses would have a warm place to sleep.
But really, how do you pray for this? What do you ask? Do you pray for a miracle? Do you pray for comfort? Do you pray for the lost cats and dogs? That families and photos will be reunited? That family photos will be reunited? Do you pray for sweet childlike dreams of play dates and evenings coloring in their mommies' laps? Do you pray that memories of play dates and coloring books will bring comfort? I guess the answer is simply "yes."
I struggle with days like this. Because pray is all I can do. And in my belief, the God that I pray to is the same God who slammed his hand on the elementary schools this afternoon. The same God who tossed cars like RJ's Hot Wheels. The very one who I ask to protect my babies is the one who devastated so many others today. It's a tough reconciliation.
I went to the grocery store today. And for some inexplicable reason, I bought two cases of juice boxes. So, I guess I can do more than pray. I can donate. My WalMart is undamaged, and I can buy gloves, and cases of water, wipes and sunscreen. Because tomorrow will dawn, and millions of prayers will have been lifted. We will have miracles. Families and photos will be reunited. And, Lord willing, family photos will be reunited tonight too.
Do what you can to help. The devastation is real. It's close. It's home.
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