The Taking of Land

The diaper bag threatens to burst if one more item is crammed in it. Weary from lack of sleep and the three hour drive to celebrate my sister's thirteenth birthday, my body begs for the comfort of home and bed. Weather warnings beep on the television again. They've been irritating background music throughout the party. A lifetime in Oklahoma dulls your senses to such alerts. You're aware of the possible destruction, but previous false alarms strengthen the belief that it can never happen to you.

It is my mother who first mentions waiting out the storm. She does so with trepidation, not wanting to instigate another lecture from me. I am a mother now, responsible enough to make decisions for my son and myself. My eyes bore into her as she wipes the clean table. Part of me knows she’s right, but it wrestles with my pride and exhaustion.

My father, usually not one to interfere, speaks up. “What would it hurt? Thirty more minutes at a party?”

A glimpse of my sleeping boy and no more coaxing is necessary. I'd never endanger him. I sit down for a game of dominoes with my sisters while my mother rocks my son, and Dad examines the brewing storm.

We're in the safest possible place. My parents designed an underground home two years prior. Built into the side of a hill on their one-hundred-sixty acre farm, only the front is open. This provides protection from tornadoes the same way a cellar does. Fear of twisters isn't the reason my father created it; he loves his land and desires to be close to it, plus the fact that the good earth provides both warmth in the wintertime and coolness in the summertime.

The screen door slams open. My father barks for us to get against the back wall. No one utters a word as we scramble to obey. I grab my sleeping three-month-old, help my mother up, and rush to huddle with my sisters. My mind moves faster than my actions. But it isn’t dark outside; bad things only happen when it’s dark.

The attack is not gradual. A roar is upon us as if a freight train is passing on our roof. The house shakes. It feels like one of those old jerky roller coaster rides that you know don't live up to safety standards. My sister is squeezing my arm, digging her nails into chilled flesh. I kiss her forehead. Guttural screams of nature echo in our ears, and yet my son sleeps. Silent tears drip onto his perfect face as I tremble in fear of the tornado's fury. I look to my rock for reassurance. My father's eyes don’t meet mine. His head is bowed, no doubt in silent prayer for his family and the land that is his home. Mother clings to my other sister; all eyes squeeze shut as if to block out the living nightmare.

How does my son sleep in such peace while the world crumbles around us? The realization that he is the savior from this monster is too real to grasp. My prayers are jumbled, full of pleas and thanks for shelter. With each second of the attack, the urge to hold my son closer increases. I seek, somehow, to be one with him. The rush of emotions topples one on top of another landing in a pile of disorganized chaos. Fear for the future and gratitude toward my son are the most prevalent. Before being a mother, I would have taken the risk and left the safety of shelter. My arrogance of invincibility toward nature would have been the death of me.

And it is done. As quickly as it came, it has gone. The silence is eerie as we unwind ourselves from each other. For a moment I wonder if I am deaf. I hear nothing; no sound from the television, no radio blaring, and then the baby sighs. It's lack of electricity that has dulled our senses. Unbelieving eyes gaze around at a house that's the same as it was just three minutes ago - leftover strawberry cake, presents, a diaper bag by the door, dominoes awaiting the next play.

My father pulls on his boots; fear in his eyes tells me the nightmare is just beginning. I ache knowing the pain he'll experience at any destruction done to the farm. Money, though not plentiful, is not the issue. It's about passion and respect for God’s earth. Kissing my son, I hand him to my sister. Without words, I join my dad.

Our eyes are stunned as we step from our refuge. This isn't my home! It's a war zone. Where are the trees? We begin a slow march up the hill, our minds not comprehending. At the top we can see for miles. I recognize nothing. Where are the landmarks? The old farmhouse? My childhood home is gone. I see no remnants of it. It's as if God's taken a broom and swept it from existence. A house that weathered more than a hundred years is wiped away with a single twister.

For the first time since childhood, a rough, calloused hand encircles mine. I dare a glance at my father. He is crying; this is something I have only seen when he watches Where the Red Fern Grows. I am at a loss of how to console him.

Staring at an unfamiliar horizon, he whispers, “I'll work the rest of my life to repair this land, and never have the joy of seeing the trees again before I die.”

My mind is like that of a child, wanting to be able to help, but lacking the vocabulary to express feelings within. Psalms 23 runs like a scratched record in my mind. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death.

"Did you hear that?" My father has tightened every muscle as if this will heighten his hearing.

It is a faint, deep cry. We begin a treacherous walk through debris. I’m stopped in mid-step at a sight I've never seen on our farm – a horse grazing on the wet grass. We have many head of cattle, but my father's belief is if you wouldn’t eat it to survive, we aren't feeding it.

Dad's lips curl into an ornery grin. “Guess you finally got your horse. Must be from the Davis’s farm.” I hug him close for I know his attempt at humor is to abate my worries.

We continue navigating over pieces of houses and barns on our trek toward the cries. It's darker now, making each step more perilous. As many times as I explored this farm as a child, nothing seems familiar to me. Lost in my thoughts, I don't realize my father has stopped until he grabs me roughly, yanking me back.

“We aren't going any further.” It's a command, one I don't understand.

“But, Dad, the man. . .he needs help.” My father's never turned his back on anyone in need, doing so from the good that resides in his heart, not for attention or out of obligation.

“See those power lines on the ground in front of you? Who knows if they're live? They'll be down all over the farm. We can barely see as it is. It’s not worth the risk. He'll get help from others closer. We'd be no help to him dead.”

Returning to the house, we're met with eerie candlelight and sleeping children in the living room. Having them in the same room with us seems right. We attempt to describe the damage to my mother, but it is a case of seeing is believing.

When nature has taken you on a roller coaster ride of emotions and destruction, sleep ignores even the most tired bodies. We begin to share memories of times on the farm. Somehow, talking about them now in this dark time, wins a small battle over the tornado that waged a war upon us.

The morning brings sunshine. I find this cruel. Why should a beautiful day illuminate such destruction? We leave my teenage sister in charge of the kids as my mother, father and I venture out.

Reaching the top of the hill, it seems different from last night already. We are met by voices, trucks, and life everywhere. People have come to help, some we don’t recognize. They weren’t asked; they just did, because that’s what good people do. My father's a proud man, used to giving not receiving. My heart skips a beat with fear. I’m afraid he'll send them away. Instead, he looks up, feels the sun on his face, and I know he's thanking God for the grace given to him. He takes pair of gloves from his pocket. Putting them on, he walks with purpose and hope toward a teenage boy struggling to upright a tractor I've never seen.

The land will never be the same. We'll never find all our childhood belongings from the old farm house. For that matter, we may never find the missing stock trailer. But we have found that disaster does bring hidden blessings. Sometimes they are subtle, but they are not forgotten. This one has taught me blessings of motherhood, the vulnerability and wisdom of my parents, and that in your darkest hour you are not alone. You may truly walk through the valley of the shadow of death and fear no evil.









Actual footage from the May 3 tornado of 1999. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DG1z_llxOFo&feature=related