It was unexpected. At least by most of the people I spoke with. The sky turned charcoal gray and the clouds let loose a deluge that seemed to fly horizontally. My daughter rushed to close windows and saw the recycling spewed across the lawn, and a deer sprinting by the driveway.
The tornado thrashed our town and who knows where else for a ferocious few minutes, and then was gone as abruptly as it appeared.
Then people timidly opened their doors to assess the damages. Fifty foot trees were upended, power lines dangled like spaghetti, and sticks lay willy nilly. Without electricity everyone seemed drawn outside. To connect. To inquire of their neighbors. To help tug limbs off of cars. To hear voices and feel the comfort that lilting sound
affords.
Neighbors shared stories of blocked roads and ripped shingles, which somehow helped us process the event.
It echoed the images of people around the country who spent the morning after recent riots clearing the streets. Comraderie emerged like the birds that even now find reasons to sing. Where were they when the winds howled? What protected their soft feathers from relentless rain?
I know not.
Mixed in with the twittering there is the growl of chain saws, taming torn branches into firewood for a December snowfall. Is this how reconstruction works? The storms that have ripped through our world of late have interrupted our plans and broken our hearts.
Still it seems just barely inside the realm of possibility that one day the light will return and we too will sing.
Sing unto the Lord for He has triumphed gloriously. Exodus 15:2
Love,
Lori
