Texas Tornado

The chill released its grip on Texas and gave way to unsettled skies. Thunderstorms rolled across the flat landscape, bringing with them black clouds, lightning and worst of all tornadoes.

At school we’d practice for these disasters by walking into the hall in a single file line and curling into a ball by our lockers. I used to wonder what good this would do; at each end of the hall were double glass doors, but according to whoever was in charge this was the safest place for us to be.

There was no plan at home.

I was with my parents one sunny spring afternoon when a need for tornado preparedness arose. The news reported a storm in our area, then the television lost connection. With my nose pressed to the family room window, I watched . . . and waited.

We lived in a trailer in the middle of an open field; we were asking for trouble—tornadoes are notorious for plowing through poorly constructed homes.

My insides trembled when I saw the first signs of the storm front.

“Mom, come look,” I said.

She stood on her knees next to me on our dingy yellow couch and stared at the sky. With very little trees and no mountains, we could see for miles—and what we could see wasn’t pretty.

“Ken,” Mom said, voice lined with concern.

My father sat on the other side of me and the three of us watched what was sure to be our death coming straight for us.

“What should we do?” Mom asked.

“There’s no time,” Dad replied.

Outrunning the tornado would have been impossible. We didn’t have a bunker, no ditches, no bridges, nothing that would have provided an adequate hiding spot.

My parents prayed.

While they asked God to protect us, I cried. I didn’t just cry either--I threw an all-out temper tantrum as the rain hit the trailer so hard looking out the window became useless. The aluminum ceiling popped and the walls breathed in and out with loud groans.

I wanted to leave, wanted to get in the car, wanted to be anywhere but in that God forsaken place in the middle of nowhere.

The wind knocked our home side-to-side.

Tears rolled down my face in a steady stream. “We’re going to die.”

My parents ignored me, continuing their fervent prayers in a language I’d rarely ever heard.

The pelting rain stopped long enough for me to see the twisting clouds in our field coming straight for us, ready to pick us up and lift us off. Ready to kill.

“No,” I screamed, pointing out the window.

Mom and Dad got off the couch and wrapped their arms around me. I was sure they knew we were doomed. The three of us whispered I love you’s and waited.

As if abandoning its plan for destroying our home, the tornado lifted off the ground, passed over us, then set back down. The corner of our barn wasn’t as lucky, but no animals were harmed and we were alive.

Tears of joy fell down my mom’s face and hugs surrounded us. Whether God is the reason we were all spared that day or whether it was just a break in the storm I may not know until after I die, but whatever the reason I’m thankful.

The next day I went on a mission, one that involved discovering every potential hiding spot on our farm for a future storm--then prayed I’d never have to use one.