Day 4- Stompin' around the old neighborhood.

Day 4- Florence- 12 May 2011

            Last night (Wednesday), Mom and I had dinner on the terrace at our hotel. The special drink was sparkling peach juice with whiskey, which I thought I would hate. As it turns out, it was shockingly good. The pizza was excellent as well, but the mixture of a little alcohol and a warm pizza increased my jet lag to a dangerous level. I struggled through it to introduce my mom to gelato—I am coming to believe that this is the singular reason she wanted to visit Italy—at my favorite gelateria in Florence: Coronas Café. Afterward, we came back to our room to plan our last day in Florence (today). Sadly, I wasn’t much help. For the first time in a while, I absolutely couldn’t keep my eyes open, drifting in and out of conversation. I’m not sure when Mom caught on, but the next thing I knew she was turning lights out. Sadly, with the nature of jet lag being as it is, I was wide-awake again around 2 am, staring at the ceiling for an hour or two. It’s in these moments that I think about things like what I’ll wear to an upcoming engagement party or what Italian recipes I might try to recreate. So at least I’m using my time wisely…

            This morning, we got up for breakfast on the terrace, a perk of our hotel. A slew of pastries, toast, prosciutto, eggs, fruit, juice, and coffee… although the juice and coffee is not served Americana. The orange juice is actually red, and the coffee is like espresso. After breakfast, we struck out on the town.

            Our first stop of the day was the Palazzo Pitti, where the Medicis and other powers-that-be in Florence have lived previously. Well, we went over the Ponte Vecchio to get there, but that’s not really a stop so much as a stroll… But anyway, behind the palace, is “the garden that started it all.” That is, supposedly other dynasties copied the Boboli Gardens at their palaces. The gardens go up a steep hill to an eventual panoramic view of Florence. The view was breathtaking, but we walked up about a thousand steps to get there. That’s good though, since I’m consuming about that many calories at every meal. The grounds at the Palazzo are home to two cats, which obviously sought us out within minutes of our arrival. Typical. After a little time with the cats, we headed upstairs (Italians LOVE stairs) to the costume museum, where they housed dresses from the early 1700’s up to the 1990’s.

            Feeling like we had conquered the Pitti Palace, we decided to seek out lunch. I thought it was high time Mom experienced authentic Italian street pizza, so we ducked into a tiny pizzeria for a couple of slices. It was easily our cheapest meal yet at 6 Euro, and obviously delicious. Next, we strolled along the Arno on our way to Santa Croce, the epicenter of Florentine leather works. It took some searching, but I finally found my way back to the Florence School of Leather, a gem I was introduced to when I was here years ago. It’s a leatherworking school based in the monastery of the Santa Croce church. You can watch the leather workers creating their masterpieces: jackets, purses, wallets, bracelets. You want it, they can make it. We picked up a souvenir or eight.

            On the way home, we stopped for Mom’s gelato fix. Obviously, I’m a repeat offender with the Nutella gelato, but she’s experimenting with the fruity varieties. She hit a particular favorite today with peach. If I’m going to have a dessert, I want chocolate, but even I will admit that the peach gelato was perfection.

            And speaking of perfection, our dinner tonight was the best yet. We toiled over where to go, and Mom did some research and finally landed on a highly recommended place called The Porcupine, although it sounds much more eloquent in its Italian form. Our waiter, Franco, immediately asked us where we were from and from there asked us if we were ‘Roll Tide’ or ‘War Eagle.’ I thought that was pretty incredible. He said he had friends from Birmingham—we soon found out he has friends EVERYwhere—and that they’re Republicans; I also thought it was funny that he figured that would win our approval.  Of all the restaurants in all of Florence, of all the waiters… ours knew about the greatest rivalry in all of college football. Even if he considered himself a Longhorns fan, I had to admire his SEC prowess. He called us “y’all” for the remainder of the evening, which is actually one of my personal pet peeves but he was too kind to correct. It was especially hard to correct him just after he patted my cheek kindly and corrected my pronunciation of “bruschetta.”

            I have found that my pronunciation of Italian words is oftentimes better than my actual English. That is, my English takes on a decidedly British accent when I’m speaking to Italians. I suspect something in me thinks that’s prettier and easier to understand than a Southern dialect, which I’ve never particularly cared for and always tried to eliminate in myself. I first noticed my British back-up plan my senior year of high school; I was on a cruise with Lauren and ordering room service, when I got off the phone Lauren reprimanded me with a quick, “Who ARE you??” So yeah, I’m a wanna-be. Whatev.

            Catch you on the flip side.  Or Rome. Whichever. Cheerio!

Day 3- I lived here once.

Day 3- Florence- 11 May

            The alarm went off at 8:30 this morning in Venice. Our room had no air conditioning so we slept with the window open; between the street noise and the general disorientation, I got about 3 hours of sleep. Needless to say, the alarm was not a welcome noise. I finally tore myself from bed, though, just in time to check out and catch a water bus to the train station. By just in time, I mean we got to the train about 5 minutes before it left the station.

            Mom and I sat across the aisle from each other, and Mom had the misfortune of sitting in front of a real chatter. You know when you get stuck on an airplane next to someone who just talks your ears off regardless of your noncommittal “mmhmms” and “yeahs”? Just like that, except she was talking to the other couple in their forced foursome, a French Canadian couple celebrating both of their 50^th birthdays. Apparently, Chatty Cathy lived in Italy for a year 20 some-odd years ago, and she was more than willing to let the French Canadian couple what she would and wouldn’t do, thoroughly dismantling the planned itinerary they had mentioned. Anyway, evidently she was able to tune it out as I looked across the aisle just in time to see her jaw drop in sleep. Likewise, my neck snapped up from overwhelming sleep multiple times… like when I would go to my grandmother’s country church when I was a child and my chin would gradually drop to my chest as the preacher drawned on and on to the elderly crowd.

            A little over two hours later, we arrived in Florence. We de-trained and hit the streets to find our hotel. Just two American girls lugging giant suitcases down the crowded streets of Florence, no big deal. After we checked in and freshened up—mainly complaining to one another about how our hair never looks right on vacation and how our eyes are puffy and raccoon-lke—we hit the streets again, this time unhindered by luggage.

            Our first stop was my old apartment in Florence. It was such a bizarre feeling to walk right up to it without having to consider at all where I was going. I was flooded with memories of waking up just two stories above where I stood today, eating gelato with Morgan and adamantly skipping her afternoon run. Maybe that’s why I gained ten pounds and she didn’t… hindsight is 20/20.

            After a montage of , “I ate lunch there everyday… I sat and sketched the Duomo from there” and the like, we headed to the Galleria del Accademia, the home of the David. There is lots of other artwork there as well, mainly paintings of the Madonna and Child that just made me angry at the Catholic Church. That’s righteous anger, though, right? But I digress… Michelangelo’s David is truly breathtaking. I know you think it won’t be a big deal because you’ve seen pictures of it all your life and it’s just some statue anyway… at least that’s what I thought. This thing is incredible; it’s larger than life and so perfectly detailed that you expect to see his diaphragm lift with breath at any moment. At some point, I made an aside to Mom about the intricate details of the statue down to the veins in David’s hands. Later, while we were admiring the rendering from the rear, Mom mentioned that David was supposed to be young and it didn’t make sense for him to have so many veins at the peak of his physical form. She continued on to say that David was much too young to have so many broken veins, “old granddaddy legs.” It was then that I realized she had thought my comment about the veins in his hands was in reference to the natural “veins” in the marble. The whole time we had been admiring Michelangelo’s masterpiece, Mom was disgusted by his placement of varicose veins all over the young man’s body. She was considerably relieved to find out otherwise, and Michelangelo’s good reputation in her mind was blessedly recovered.

            Tonight we’re having a small dinner on the roof terrace of our hotel and then going out for the main event: gelato. Ahhh, gelato… my blessing, my curse.

Day 2- Venice is sinking.

Venice—Day 2—Tuesday, 10 May 2011

            Well, we arrived in Venice at 9 this morning (that’s 2 am in the States) after having slept right around 30 minutes total on the 9-hr flight. We successfully gathered our luggage—this in itself was a major victory—and headed to catch a water bus. In America, we would have a shuttle going from the baggage claim to the vaparetto stop. Here in a land less lazy, you just walk the 8 minutes. This seems trivial until you’re pulling a 46-lb piece of luggage behind your already zombie-like body. The water bus is at least a scenic route from the Venice airport to the Venice of tourism; however, the slow pace and gentle rocking is the perfect recipe for falling asleep on your feet.

            We got to our hotel around 11 am (4 am Stateside) in hopes of checking in. Hope is the operative word there, and ours went unrealized. We were able to check our luggage into a storage room, but our room wasn’t ready yet. At this point in the jet lag, the misery becomes almost laughable. You can’t help but be amused by your bad luck. We wandered around the streets of Venice, looping through the Piazza de San Marco more than once… and not on purpose, until we settled on a place to eat. Our number one prerequisite for our dining experience: peace and quiet. Apparently, the perfect weather here in Venice has drawn unseasonable crowds, and every sidewalk and alley is jam-packed. If you’ve ever experienced my road rage, you might appreciate that it translates on land. It seems no matter how desperate I was to get around the meanderers, there was always a wheelchair or goo-goo eyed couple taking their time just ahead. Everyone has the right to their own pace… I would just prefer that they take their pace out of my way.

            At long last, we made our way back to our hotel where we were able to check email, take a much-needed nap, and shower before dinner. The built-in hair dryer in our bathroom is little more than a hose that leaks out warm air, so you can imagine that Mom and I are both having a fantastic hair day. You won’t have to imagine for long though, as it is evidenced in our pictures.

            Showered, napped, and feeling much better, we headed out on the town once again. This time around, our mission was to find a  traditional gondola ride at a less-than-traditional price (you wouldn’t believe the price for a 45-minute ride!). I tossed my blonde hair and smiled my best smile and may have even shown a little cleavage—which I’m not proud of… but am kind of proud of—and managed to shave 50 Euro off the price of a trip down the Grand Canal and through the tiny canals winding throughout the ancient city.  It was basically the perfect way to view the city—relaxed in a boat with our feet propped up. I wish all sightseeing could go so well.

            We had dinner on the Grand Canal, which was ripe for people watching. Having read that the city’s specialty dish was cuttlefish, Mom took the plunge. The waiter, Maurizio, repeated her order to her multiple times to make sure she knew what she was doing, but I suppose she just chalked it up to her Southern drawl needing clarification. Twenty minutes later, a plate of polenta cakes and squid was brought to our table… topped in “black sauce;” that is, sauce made from the ink of the cuttlefish. Mom muscled through a few bites like a champ, but I almost lost my appetite altogether as the pungent smell assaulted my nose.

            It’s funny how it takes the Italians about 20 seconds to realize that they should be directing their conversation to me instead of Mom. I guess their initial reaction to us is to speak to the adult—the older adult—but they don’t get very far. Occasionally Mom will toss out a phrase like, “Mucho bueno!” and I just beg her to say no more. Even in the squid incident, the waiter smiled at me like we were in on some inside joke.

            In sum, Venice was the perfect start to our Italian vacation. The weather was perfect and the sight-seeing wasn’t too intense for our sleep-deprived bodies and minds. Everything seemed to come together perfectly with few exceptions, namely our lack of air conditioning and jet lag preventing us from a full night of sleep. But now, on to Florence!

Day 1- The Lost Day

            It’s incredible how you can seemingly lose an entire day.

            This morning, I woke up to find Macy staring at me and purring contentedly before pouncing onto my chest and settling in—just as I needed to get up. After I permitted her the 8-minutes my alarm awards me with a tap of the “Snooze” button, I hopped up, cranked up my iTunes, and hit the shower. It’s a big day, after all: Mom and I are headed to Venice, Italy.

            We arrived at the Huntsville airport around 9 this morning (Monday), checked our bags, and said our goodbyes to Dad. At the security checkpoint, I was pulled aside and had my hands checked for trace amounts of explosives. They swabbed my hands and inserted the swab into a machine, like they were checking them for Strep throat. I suppose something about my short stature and beach blonde hair is threatening, who knows.

            After an uneventful flight from Huntsville to Charlotte, things started getting a little frantic in the Charlotte terminal. First of all, our boarding pass said Gate E31; however, Gate E31 informed us that we would have to look elsewhere—she was sincerely that specific. We chased down an agent who, as luck would have it, directed us back to Gate E31. The fourth person I asked was finally able to tell me that our flight would be leaving from Gate E35B, in a tone that made it sound like it was so obvious, and would I please step back from the podium until they call for boarding. I mean, really, I don’t know how I wasn’t able to put the pieces together that E31 was really code for E35B, and the signing saying “Charlottesville” should have conveyed to me that my flight had a stop in Charlottesville on the way to Philadelphia. Duh.

            A bit miffed but happy to move on with the second leg of our journey, Mom and I boarded our plane to Charlottesville (and later to Philadelphia). My first concern was that there were ashtrays in the armrests on this plane, immediately suggesting that it’s a mite antiquated. Clue number two was that the plane had propellers. I immediately felt like Ilsa boarding a plane to escape Casablanca—only we weren’t fleeing from Nazis; we had boarded this death trap voluntarily.

            I was no less assured of my safety as the propellers cranked up and filled the tiny vessel with a sound like a combination of a weed-eater and a dial-up Internet connection. At some point I wondered if the noise would ever die down, but I quickly realized that should the mechanical grinding stop, the silence would surely be immediately followed by a free fall from 10,000 feet.

            Our two-part flight was punctuated by dips and shaking and other disturbing bits of turbulences, causing my mother to close her eyes in what I assume was silent prayer and me, the considerably less silent of our duo, to audibly gasp from time to time. Here we are trying to go on a great adventure, and there’s Death… waving in a black tuxedo. I couldn’t help but think of the things I’ve made it through lately just to be dropped from the sky in a flying cracker box, circa 1964: outrunning a tsunami, a legit earthquake, the most devastating tornado our state has ever seen. I wondered if my dad would remember to feed Macy after I was gone, if my last text to the new boy was funny or sweet or sarcastic, if Auburn would win the Iron Bowl this year, if I remembered to turn my straight iron off this morning… you know, very important life or death stuff.

            Mercifully, we came to a shuttering halt on the landing strip at the airport in Philadelphia before I had time to scrawl out the details of my funeral, should any of my personal effects be found in the wreckage. Shaken but no worse for wear, we emerged onto the tarmac and onto land—glorious land.

            After a quick stop in an airport gift shop—bargains!—for a $12 pack of gum and a neck pillow, we boarded our final plane, an enormous vessel many years removed from her maiden voyage, and were at last on our way to our first European destination: Venice.

            As I write this, I’m somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, though I couldn’t say if I’m closer to home or Iceland. I’ve had dinner—TV dinner-style chicken with rice, yummm—and a sleeping pill, though both have done nothing more than make me lethargic. I thought if I got these things off my mind, I might sleep better… More likely, I’ll drift off about 20 minutes before we land on Italian soil.

            My game plan for Venice is to claim our bags (fingers crossed), take a water taxi to our hotel, check in, shower and freshen up, and hit the streets of Venice for Mom’s first genuine Italian meal, a gondola ride, a frenzy of pictures at San Marco’s, and casual ambling through the Venetian streets. Lousy flights or not, life could be worse.

for Mom.

            My mom and I are often more different than alike. Pragmatic and realistic, my mother’s days are planned-out and purposeful; romantic and eccentric, my life is ruled by emotions and whimsy and, while I almost always have a plan, I rarely have a reason. The books she reads are about real life: Ann Rule’s retelling of  a crime committed and tried or Barbara Walter’s autobiography; meanwhile, I’m drawn to Austen’s lyrical love stories and the fantastical world of Harry Potter. Neither introverted nor shy, she appreciates time removed from others, alone with her God and her pets on her deck. I’ve always admired this, though never understood it, because I think it says a lot about a person to be so self-sustained. She is keenly aware of her blessings and takes great pleasure in quiet moments of contentment. Me, I’ve never been one for entertaining myself: my energy is based completely on the presence of others, whether I’m entertaining or being entertained. Often blind to my own richly blessed life, I seem to always be looking for the next best thing.  My mom has this incredible talent of finding true delight in the simplest things: the first round of strawberries from her garden, a sunset over the lake, my dad’s worn-in jokes, time with her parents and siblings, a warm chocolate chip cookie and ice cold Coca-Cola. Contentment is so rare, it seems…

            I often think of my mom having some extra-special hotline to the Lord—I’ve accused her more than once of praying perfectly suitable men right out of my life—because her faith in her Creator is sometimes more than my mind can comprehend. When I would resort instantly to questioning and railing against God, she waits patiently for His word, ever sure that He will come through in His own time. I haven’t seen Him fail her yet.

            I’ve seen my mom in times that most people—I hope at least—never see their parents. Specifically, when I was eleven, I watched her lose her first-born. Watching Adam’s heart physically break, I watched Mom’s heart break in sync with his as she committed him to the Lord’s care. In what is surely the darkest day of her and my dad’s life, their faith never faltered—in God or each other.

            I have my mother’s blue eyes and Roman nose—that’s how Dad makes a nose that neither of us cares for sound better—but our other similarities are more learned than inherited. I can’t count the things I’ve learned from my mom, but I’ll give it a shot:

-       The value of a dollar. “I’ve got a coupon for that at home. We’ll get it next time.”

-       A love of animals that may or may not supersede a love for humans. Dad and I are both off-the-charts allergic to cats: our home currently houses three of the delightful creatures. “I just called to tell you that the pets just did the funniest thing…”

-       The most adorable, lasting love for a man I’ve ever witnessed. It’s nothing short of amazing how after 30-something years of marriage she is so truly amused with him, like a favorite playmate. And trust me, this is no small feat: more like my dad than my mom, we are not always so perfectly amusing.

-       An efficiently planned vacation is the best vacation. “All of the books say that we should start at Space Mountain, go straight to Splash Mountain, and double back to Toy Story when the lines are shortest. And it looks like the best restaurants are in Frontierland, so we’ll need to be there by lunch.” No lollygagging allowed.

-       Monopoly. I’ve never actually learned how to beat her, but I’ve picked up some key strategies. Meanwhile, she can quote you the price of rent for two houses on Baltic Avenue off the top of her head at any time of day.

-       Diplomacy. Mom lives in the business world, so she puts quite a bit of thought in her dealings with people. More than once she’s interrupted one of my rants with an, “I might not say it exactly like that to that person.” More than once I have wished that I had taken her advice.

I could go on and on, but I’ll stop here because she doesn’t love the limelight like my dad and I—just wait until my Father’s Day post. Mom and I don’t always understand each other, but the older I get the more I learn to appreciate the differences. She’s my confidant, my personal prayer warrior, my voice of reason, my North Star, my biggest fan, my ideal for what a wife and mother and Godly woman looks like…. She is truly my very best friend.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you to the moon and back.

good grief.

            My first verbal reaction as the news of all the damage to both my current city and my hometown was often, “Good grief.” As I typed it out in a text message, it really hit me: Good grief. Good. Grief. Good grief?? What on Earth does that mean anyway? Can grief ever really be good?

            In a city that became unrecognizable even to lifetime residents in a matter of minutes, it seems like the answer is no. I’ve driven around countless times since the devastating outbreak of tornados on Wednesday, and the devastation is absolutely senseless. Natural disasters don’t discriminate, but the massive tornado that struck Tuscaloosa this week seemed oddly biased. I live in an apartment complex that is only a few years old; it’s gated, there are multiple pools and tennis courts, and the parking lot is spotted with BMW’s and even the occasional Porsche. It’s a safe assumption that most of us in my apartment complex could rebound from property damage. Meanwhile, just over the fence is one of the poorest neighborhoods in the city. A split between Section 8 housing and houses more aptly called shacks, my surrounding neighborhood was close to destitute even when they had homes… and now, those who could afford it least are without homes and worldly possessions. And here in my apartment complex, we suffered little more than some missing siding and two or three damaged roofs.

            It’s incredible, really. My only connection to the outside world for the past week has been the Twitter and Facebook apps on my phone. Day after day I see status updates and tweets from my friends who are bummed that they’re missing the last episode of The Office or just that reading by candlelight is boring. For days, I was bombarded by tweets about who wore what to the Royal Wedding. Don’t get me wrong—there are lots and lots and lots of people trying to help out—but there are so many that haven’t really put the pieces together yet. Meanwhile, as I walked over the rubble of what had once been a neighbor’s home, the many displaced and homeless residents praised God for the little things—a family photo found high in a tree or a loved one found deep in the rubble.

            It’s such an enormous perspective adjustment. What would have been so important to me—Kate’s wedding dress, the countdown until the end of the semester, and so on—seem like distant, irritating memories. I would take a dozen finals and write a lifetime of research papers to undo the damage here, to bring back the 200+ missing, the 40 deceased.

            At times, the grief is overwhelming. Not for myself, per se, as I came out of this so completely unscathed, but for my neighbors and my city—a city I never thought I’d refer to as mine. It’s hard to believe that this grief could ever be considered good, but everyday I am shocked at the good that is indeed emerging from the grief. The community has rallied together like never before; ministries are exploding all over the city as the hands and feet of Christ are given ample opportunity to love on and care for those in need—in need of something greater than shelter, some One to hold onto in the midst of the storm. And it gets clearer and clearer that if those of us who can help do our part, we can gradually turn this grief into good… we can turn those who are grieving to the One and Only true good. 

4.27.11

            On Wednesday, April 27, I woke up around 5 am to thunderclaps and the rapid taps of hail pegging my windows.  I walked to my living room window to survey the parking lot and listen for sirens. After determining that it was nothing more than a severe thunderstorm, I crawled back in bed and let the rain lull me to sleep.  A few hours later, I woke up to a text from my cousin Rachel along the lines of, “Hey, are you okay? My mom told me about your parents…” My immediate instinct was to go into panic mode, but I tried to stay calm as I called my home phone, my dad’s cell phone, my mom’s cell phone, and then Rachel. Eventually, Mom called me back:

Mom: Well, our house was hit by a tornado.

Lindsey: What do you mean our house was hit by a tornado?

Mom: Our-house-was-hit-by-a-tornado.

            Apparently, when Mom got up for work Wednesday morning and turned on her ritual morning news. When the local weatherman said that there were tornadoes heading in the general direction of our neighborhood, she woke my dad up to head to the basement. Just like a man, Dad piddled about—a quick stop in the bathroom, a leisurely shuffle to the stairway, and then an analysis of the situation. He was at the glass doors that lead out to the downstairs deck when Mom said she heard the sound you’re always warned about: the rush of an express train, headed straight for your home. Quickly, she, Dad, and the pets, got into our “safe place” in the basement. After the “train” passed, Dad went out to assess the damage. Our decks and parts of our roof were gone. They quickly found out that this was a very familiar scene throughout our neighborhood: trees down, roofs damaged, windows busted, power and water long-gone.

            That morning, I had a hard time reconciling that my home wouldn’t look the same when I returned. That morning, I scrambled to find out news for my parents’ sake of the damage done to my hometown, as I was their only connection to media and the outside world. That morning, I had no idea what was coming my way.

            Predictions of bad weather come through my neck of the woods quite often this time of the year. A tornado siren isn’t scary so much as a nuisance—or at least that’s the way it used to be. Under threat of bad weather, I got in touch with my professors and found out that I didn’t need to come in for supervision or work, but I should be checking my emails in regard to class that evening. Satisfied that I had a few hours to spare, I settled down on the couch and flipped on the news. My local weatherman frantically warned his audience to let anyone they know in Guntersville to take cover, especially around Marshall Medical Center North, as Round 2 was on their way. Of course, I started calling my parents to tell them what was on their way: Mom had to hang up on me right away to go into a disaster response meeting, and Dad assured me that he was safely tucked away in the basement. I paced my floor and tried to warn as many of my friends in Guntersville as possible and simultaneously keep my blood pressure from peaking. Meanwhile, many of my friends were beginning to contact me. Some were checking on my family while others were warning me of the bad weather coming in my own direction.

            The familiarity of it all coupled with my growing concern for my family and hometown made me brush off the warnings, but eventually I made my way into my closet—my second story closet, by the way. Cozied in with my laptop, my cat, my pillow, and my Diet Coke, I was ready to ride yet another storm out, whatever. After the first couple of text messages from my friends asking if I was in a safe place and telling me that the tornado was coming straight for me, I started to take things a little more seriously. The power shut off, and my phone stopped sending and receiving phone calls and messages, and then it was just a waiting game.

            Looking back, it’s hard to explain. It’s hard to differentiate how much of the shaking was my building and how much of it was just me. I can say that it is the first time in my life that I have genuinely thought I was about to die. Suddenly, I wanted to tell my mom and dad how much I loved them, and I was wishing I could rewind and go to a safer place—it occurred to me how unfair it had been to my family for me to stubbornly stay put, that they would be left grieving because of my stupid decision. After a few minutes that seemed to go on forever, the storm around me quieted. It took multiple tries, but I was finally able to get a phone call through to my mom and let her know what had happened. Aside from genuinely wanting her to know I was fine, I was stalling. I wasn’t sure what was waiting for me outside of my closet door: if the rest of my apartment was still there or if I was going to emerge into Oz.

            When I did get out of my closet, I walked through my apartment and out into the parking lot. I wasn’t the only one with this idea: from every building, residents emerged wide-eyed and mouths agape. Speechless, we surveyed the damage. Siding and shingles were scattered all over the parking lot, but beyond our gate the damage was unspeakable. Less than a half-mile away, the horizon was leveled. Where apartment buildings and decades old homes once stood are now piles of broken plywood and shattered cinder blocks. It looked bad then, but I had no idea until I went out to volunteer on Friday.

            So that’s what happened to me. Truthfully, nothing really happened to me at all. I was shaken and afraid, but so many people’s fears were realized. My neighbors weren’t just emotionally shaken, but forcefully shaken right out of their homes… homes that are no longer standing. In the days since then, I have been overwhelmed with love and support. My family and friends have prayed for me and regularly checked in on me, and people that I haven’t talked to in years have offered to bring me anything I needed or help in any way they could. It’s such an enormously humbling experience… it’s hard to describe really. My prayer now is to be used in any way possible in this community—this community that for so long I wanted no part of, this community that has rallied together and inspired me so—and that even in such an enormous disaster, the Lord will be glorified.