Written a few days over a year ago. Some things have change, but many things remain the same…
Tuesday night, May 28th, 2019 an EF4, mile wide, tornado devastatingly tore through the outskirts of Lawrence, Kansas. Initially, like most, I was so thankful. It was the first time I actually went down to the basement with my 2 kids, 2 dogs, and the hamster. My husband was watching the path of the tornado on the news, as we were in fear of what may be coming. It passed, just a few miles from us. We were all okay, and in reality, for everyone, no one died. “It could have been so much worse”. I’ve heard that statement so many times this week, and although it is true, it falls short. It gives a breath of gratitude, and it’s missing the recognition of the tragedy that did happen. There is loss, and lots of it. But if I stay in “it wasn’t that bad” then I don’t have to feel the pain of what did happen. I can reject my heart and the hurt and sadness I feel in it. “It wasn’t that bad” keeps me okay, but it’s not really true.
My family starts the drive to our friend’s house, as we get closer we start to see the trees uprooted and broken in half, not one or two, but all of them. We pass the road closed sign, my heart is heavy and my stomach is aching, houses without rooves, chunks of houses missing, RV’s overturned. Lives interrupted and lives that won’t ever be the same again. We get to our friends house, the stone entrance is now a pile a rubble. What is up ahead is indescribable. The house is covered with smattering of mud and what looks like cotton. It took me a bit to figure it out. The insulation from other homes, outbuildings and their own house is now like webbing on the outside of the house. Tarps, blue and green are on the trusses trying to be a make shift roof, broken windows, and stuff everywhere. The wrap around porch we had enjoyed many 4th of July’s was now partially hanging off the house and on the ground. The shops out back are mostly gone leaving what may be valuable exposed to heat now, and rain coming soon. The force of the tornado thrust unwanted plywood boards through car windshields, the living room wall, and bedroom. The house is uninhabitable. Not only is it uninhabitable, but it can no longer be the safe, in-home daycare that so many kids and families have grown to know and trust. Those kids are now displaced as well. And the man of the house, well, his income was an auto shop from home. A husband and wife, now in their 60s, both, homeless and jobless overnight. The thought of rebuilding, at this point, overwhelming. The next decision, overwhelming. Dark circles under their eyes, worn faces, exhaustion.
Amongst the wreckage is black Monte Carlo, a car I loved, and in honesty, at times, hated. It was my husband’s race car. I was in shock and disbelief, and in my husband’s pain, he utters, “it just needs a new fender”. Every window in it was broken out, one side mirror hanging off, interior torn to shreds, dents everywhere, and a daycare, stuffless, toy bunny was plastered and crunchy from the dried rain and debris wrapped around the other side mirror. The car, lifeless. We will never see dad race down the track in it again. And my fear, I’m not sure when he will race again. It’s not easily replaceable. And it’s not really about the car, it’s what the car did for our family. It reawakened my husband, Tony, to his passion. It took us to the track as a family. The kids especially loved to go and be a part of it all, the roar of the engines, the smell of burnt rubber, the night lights. My daughter would ride the moped around waiting for dad to race and just giggle. Laughter. Fun. Memories. Loss.
Some would say it is wrong for me to grieve the loss of the car in the midst of the greater loss around us. It felt selfish to grieve something so material and small in comparison. What I have come to know though is sadness allows us to grieve what matters to us. This mattered to me. It didn’t matter what it meant to anyone else. It mattered to me and needed to allow myself space to grieve it. I still do, just as I need to grieve the other losses and sit with my friends as they grieve theirs.
“It could have been so much worse”. Yes, you are right, and what has happened is devastating and life altering too. Grieve well, and in time, be able to hope again.
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