I admit I’m particularly freaky about thunderstorms, and when the tornado sirens go off, my blood pressure tends to rise precipitously as the barometric pressure falls.
I was raised in Jonesboro, Arkansas in the 1960s and `70s. That was during the time that CB radios were the rage and Jonesboro was referred to as “Tornado Alley.” As in, “Yeahhh, I’m headed up ‘ere to Tornaduh Alley to git some dinner.” Not everyone in Arkansas talks like that, but some do. And most of them used CB radios in the `70s.
Jonesboro Tornado 1968
So one night — it was May 15, 1968, the weather got really bad. I mean bad. And in 1968 in Jonesboro, there were no tornado sirens. We knew it was storming, but there was no Dave Brown, no polygon, radar, or sirens. But my daddy had taken flying lessons and from that, he knew enough about the weather to know that when the lightning is constant, it’s time to hit the basement.
So we did. I remember how loud the wind and the thunder were, and how scary. I had read in my Encylopaedia Britannica that you should be in the southwest corner of the basement, so I was nervous that we were in the wrong corner. Mostly I was just scared out of my 10-year-old wits. I knew if Daddy was scared, then it was really, really bad.
It seemed like we were in the basement forever. The next day, Daddy and I drove around town and I saw houses completely gone, with nothing but the foundation left. I saw weird things, like one roof sitting on top of the neighbor’s house, or a house with nothing left but the front steps and a toilet, and I couldn’t believe the devastation. Then I heard that 34 people had been killed. From that time on, I was terrified of thunder and lightning.
Again in 1973
It happened again in 1973. There were three people killed this time and even more property damage than in 1968. It completely destroyed the high school, so when I started high school, it was at the fairgrounds in a portable building. The band and choir met at a local church, and everyone drove back and forth. It was my junior year when the new high school was finally finished and we left what had come to be called “Heifer High.”
Our high school, destroyed. Photo: Jonesboro Sun, 1973
I guess the images and the memories stuck with me, as I tried to protect my girls when the sirens blared. They have spent entire evenings in our small half bathroom (our only inside room). I tried not to scare them, even as they complained about being in the bathroom, but I wanted them to be safe.
Still today, I text them when there’s a weather warning, just to be sure they are watching and that they are on the ground floor somewhere.
Experiences like tornadoes shape us forever. I’ll never forget our friends who lost their house. And the fact that if their son had been home in bed, he’d have probably been killed, as his room was blown to pieces. I’ll never hear thunder that I don’t jump, or a tornado siren that I don’t have the impulse to take cover, even if it’s not a real threat.
Perhaps irrationally at times, fear persists in the absence of a real threat, because of the memory of the threat. It has abated a bit through the years, but it’s still with me. I can’t go to sleep until I see on the radar that the storm has passed and only rain remains.
Thank Goodness for Social Media
So I thank God for Twitter’s #memstorm hashtag, which makes me feel like I’m not alone when I’m crouched in the half bath. For the social media community that cracks jokes, sends updates about the weather in other parts of town, and just generally comforts me.
Thanks, Twitter for being there for this neurotic, storm-phobic old lady. And always, always respect the polygon, y’all.
In 20 days, my youngest daughter, Sara Ann, leaves for college. It’s the most significant life change since I first became a mother in 1988. I’ve been counting down the days, not to be morbid, but because it’s easier for me to process if I’m aware of what is happening.
We spent this past weekend at my family’s lake house on Greers Ferry Lake in Arkansas — the setting for some of the best times of our lives. It was our last lake weekend before The Empty Nest and my first inclination was, don’t think think about the fact that it is the last, just enjoy the time.
Except … while thinking about it certainly brings tears, do I really want to look back on these days and remember nothing special about them? No — I want to savor every moment; I want to be fully there. Tears are a small price to pay for the memory of:
The last dinner at the table at the lake. Steak, baked potatoes, garlic bread and peach cobbler. A nice bottle of Cabernet.
The last day on the lake. An idyllic sunny day with a pleasant breeze, screams of joy on the inner tube and time to relax and enjoy the clear water and unspoiled beauty of the foothills of the Ozarks.
The drawer. As we packed to leave, she showed me “her drawer” in the master bedroom. I hadn’t known about this drawer. It contains things she has kept there since she’s been old enough to open a drawer. Books, markers, hair clips, coloring books, rubber bands, some small toys, pencils. Little girl things, not college girl things.
The drawer took me back to a time when college would happen someday, not in 20 days; when many more dinners, sunny days, skinned knees, broken bones and broken hearts lie ahead.
I’ve never believed that to display emotion is to show weakness, that it’s necessary to deny what we feel in order to be strong. In my experience, it requires more strength to face that which is painful; to walk through rather than try to walk around and pretend to be unaffected.
So in 20 days, when I leave my youngest three hours away in Conway, Arkansas, I will feel it. I won’t distract myself with busyness, or try to take my mind to a happy place. I’ll curl up in a ball and cry if I need to and I’ll remember every thought, every feeling, every moment. And I know there will be a time when it hurts just a little less.
But for now, I’m going to count down the last 20 days and treasure each one. Even if it costs me a tear or two.
I am unabashedly corny at Christmas. I like baking Christmas cookies and cutting them into shapes before decorating them with way too much red and green icing. I enjoy the old traditional Christmas carols and know almost every stanza of each one.
My favorite ornaments are the ones my daughters have made, the ones that have been given to us as gifts, and the ones that have been in my family forever (which means they are not in the best shape). My tree doesn’t have a color scheme or a theme, just a jumble of ornaments and, at the top, the angel that my parents gave us when we got married.
Last night we went to the candlelight and carol service at the church I grew up in. I still love hearing O Holy Night, and I still get a lump in my throat when I sing Silent Night in a darkened, candlelit sanctuary.I’m writing this on Christmas Eve at my Mom’s house, where my family and I are about to enjoy our traditional feast of peel & eat shrimp, various cheese balls and appetizers and a nice glass of wine.
For the word of the Lord is right and true; He is faithful in all He does. Psalm 33:4
Here we are in mid-March and still no job. Back in November, when I first posted about the job situation, (We are OK) I felt confident and sure of God’s faithfulness and care in our need. I knew that He would see us through this crisis and that His plan for us was greater than anything we ever could have imagined.
And I have to admit that I hoped He would accomplish it quickly. I know that given today’s climate in corporate America, our search is relatively short. Layoffs are all too common these days at Jim’s level; in fact one colleague told him that very few executives get through an entire career without at least one layoff, particularly those who work for large public corporations.
So recently I have asked myself this question: I was sure, confident and faithful in November — am I still sure and confident when our prayers haven’t been answered as soon as we would have liked? I was sure when, by earthly standards, we were secure in our nice six-month severance package. Am I still sure when it’s now only a three-month severance package? Do I still trust Him?
The answer is — a qualified yes. Not a qualified yes because I doubt Him, but because I doubt me. Because I still freak out from time to time. When I think of this situation in earthly terms, I am insecure, because here on earth that security is measured in dollars, in my house, my car, my stuff. Stuff that could be gone in the blink of an eye anyway.
But despite my human frailty and weakness, the answer really is, yes, I am still sure, confident and faithful. Because I know that my real security is not in dollars, houses, cars, stuff — thank goodness because, frankly, we don’t have a lot of really great stuff.
My security is in God and His kingdom, and I’m up for whatever challenge He presents me with. Worst case — I lose all the stuff, and it really is just stuff. Just look what I get to keep: beautiful sunsets and sunrises, the love of my family, God’s grace and forgiveness poured out on me anew each day, and a place in eternity with Him. So I’m thinking, yes, I do still trust. What else can I do?
Jim took this photo on the Little Red River in Arkansas, near Heber Springs and Greers Ferry Lake.
Over the weekend I had a conversation that took me back 14 years to the sudden and unexpected death of my father. Although time has helped to heal the pain of loss, I could feel it again acutely as I heard this person speak of their own grief. Daddy was a man of strong Christian faith and loved the story of the hymn It is Well With My Soul, the lyrics of which were written in 1873 by Horatio Spafford. A wealthy businessman, Spafford was financially ruined in the Chicago fire of 1871. A short time after the fire, his four daughters were lost in a shipwreck while crossing the Atlantic; he received a telegraph from his wife that stated simply, saved alone.
Several weeks later as Spafford himself traveled through the same waters that had claimed the lives of his daughters, he wrote these words:
When peace, like a river attendeth my way, when sorrows like sea billows roll; whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say, It is well, it is well with my soul.
Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come, let this blest assurance control, that Christ has regarded my helpless estate, and hath shed his own blood for my soul.
My sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought! My sin, not in part but the whole, is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more, praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!
And, Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight, the clouds be rolled back as a scroll; the trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend, even so, it is well with my soul.
Refrain: It is well with my soul, it is well, it is well with my soul.
At my father’s memorial service, my husband and brother-in-law read Spafford’s story and the church choir sang the hymn, with Daddy’s robe and stole marking his usual spot in the bass section of the choir loft. Although I knew many dark days of grief awaited me, I was comforted by the hope of those words. As I rest in Christ, the peace like a river attends me, and even in the midst of earthly anguish, stress, worry and care, it truly is well with my soul.
