Images of Grief and Grace

Once again, the headlines speak of an unfathomable tragedy in our country, only this time the culprit has no face, no pressure cooker bomb, and no accidental spark. Unlike the predicted, albeit unwelcome appearances of Katrina and Sandy, the tornado that tore through an Oklahoma City suburb left no name on its calling card. Yet call she did, and we once again are watching the all-too-familiar scenes of loss and devastation. Just as the images of grief and grace were present in Boston, Massachusetts, Newtown, Connecticut and West, Texas, so too are there images of the horrendous and the miraculous coming from Moore, Oklahoma.

The horrendous is everywhere in the photos flooding the news websites and network television news. Scary scenes from Plaza Towers and Briarwood Elementary Schools show injured children, courageous teachers, and heart-wrenching reunions. The aerial photos bear witness to the strength of this EF4 tornado that cut a swath of destruction through a community just like ours - lined with homes, schools, and a hospital. Some of the scenes look as though King Kong wandered into Oklahoma, tossing automobiles around with abandon, as though they were Matchbox cars.

One photo juxtaposes the red, white and blue of an American flag with a concrete angel kneeling in prayer on the hood of a damaged auto. Perhaps the photo was staged, but it serves as a reminder of the strength of our country, flaws and all, and of the power of faith in the face of tragedy, a thread that reaches upward and encircles  the grieving.

Because of my many years of ministry in the Salvation Army, I was especially moved by a picture posted on Facebook by Wendy Morris, a Salvation Army major who shares the leadership responsibility for Oklahoma and Arkansas with her husband Steve. The photo shows a battered pair of black dress shoes, scuffed and muddied as Steve surveyed the damages and worked to organize a response team from staff and volunteers. Wendy wrote: "Steve was able to get an hour's sleep last night between assessment meetings and interviews and he left again early this morning. As I was getting ready today, I was stunned to find his uniform shoes and realize all the places his feet had been in the last 24 hours."

When we tie our shoelaces each morning, we may anticipate a typical day, but, as our Oklahoma brothers and sisters discovered, not all days are typical. I think especially of teachers, heading into the home stretch in these end-of-school days, and of our safety forces, with the spit and polish shine to their shoes that comes from discipline and bravery. The shoes of those who extend a healing touch often move silently in the quiet ebb and flow of life, yet rush to respond when trauma strikes. Oh, if only our shoes could talk.

I thought, too, of the friend of a friend, who grabbed her barefoot children, piled them into the mini-van, and managed to outrun the twister. They spent a restless night with friends, not knowing what might remain of their home directly in the path of the tornado. Will they even be able to find a single shoe in the rubble? When confronted with so much damage, where do survivors even start?

Perhaps they too can begin with these same images, looking to the American flag, tattered yet still standing, proclaiming the support of Americans from sea to shining sea, who will do what they can to shore up the recovery process for those whose lives were blown to pieces in a matter of minutes. They can look for the praying angels, symbolic of the gifts of faith and hope that remain, even in the midst of the darkest night. And they can seek out the shoes of the helpers, those combing through the debris, walking the demolished neighborhoods with cups of cold water, setting up cots in the shelters, and coming alongside in the physical rebuilding and the emotional and spiritual restoration so desperately needed. A flag, an angel, and a pair of shoes -it's all there - grace in the midst of grief.

 

The Dawn Comes

While there’ve been many hurricanes in my lifetime, Providentially, I’ve only had to be on a first-name basis with a few of them. Just last year, I had an up close and personal encounter with Lee, the sneaky little brother who crept into my husband’s hometown on the coattails of his big sister Irene. Irene was predicted to hit New York City, but she failed to live up to her potential of destruction last fall. However, it was the effects of Lee that overflowed the usually placid Susquehanna River in New York and Pennsylvania. Called in to survey the damage as a part of the Salvation Army’s response team, I witnessed mile after mile of flooded homes and businesses, only blocks from my university and a stone’s throw from Mama Lena’s, the site of our first date.

We all remember Katrina, who took on New Orleans and her neighbors with a vengeance and forced them to their knees. Can it really be seven years since her unwelcome visit? For months, Larry was responsible to staff Salvation Army response teams in Louisiana and Mississippi, so even though miles away, Katrina’s path of devastation intersected with our path.

Fortunately for residents of Ohio, our state is generally not hit hard by hurricanes or earthquakes - we’re more prone to blizzards and flooding. We’ve also had killer tornados and a derecho or two. Yes, I had to look it up, and found that a derecho is a widespread, long-lived windstorm with a fast-moving band of severe thunderstorms.  The best known was the Ohio Fireworks Derecho, hitting hard on July 4, 1969 and  capsizing over 100 boats on Lake Erie as they waited for the fireworks to begin.

Yet now we Ohioans have gotten to know Hurricane Sandy, nicknamed Frankenstorm, who slowly made our acquaintance over the past few days. As the ancient maple in our backyard creaked and groaned, I tossed and turned through the night of October 29, 2012, my husband’s 62^nd birthday. I kept thinking, if only the dawn would come. If only we could get through the night. If only the sun would rise so we could determine the extent of the damage Hurricane Sandy brought to our homes and our families, and to the lives of those in the face of the storm.  Charles Wesley’s hymn echoed: “And are we yet alive, and see each other’s face?”

That’s the kind of night it was, with the swaying trees and the tenacious winds that disrupted sleep and threatened power failure even here in Ohio, hundreds of miles from the epicenter of the storm. A couple of days early for All Hallow’s Eve, the night was spooky enough for me, but it was nothing like the tempest our friends to the east were facing.

 Life lessons are many in the scenario of disaster, but two particularly clamor for my attention. The first is the absolute helplessness that’s found in the center of the storm. One newscast interviewed a small enclave of New Yorkers on the afternoon of the 29^th, who with much bravado and misplaced courage, chose to disregard evacuation orders and remained in their homes. By midnight, as the waters rose outside their windows, they were desperate for rescue, unable to battle Sandy any longer. It was time to retreat.

Yet along with the helplessness experienced at the moment of disaster, the dawn still comes. Clouded or brightly shining, the sun rises again. What is terrorizing in the dark of night can be faced in the light of daybreak.  Even the wreckage from the storm.

I appreciate what Shauna Niequist tells us in Bittersweet: Thoughts on Change, Grace, and Learning the Hard Way: “We sometimes choose the most locked up, dark versions of the story, but what a good friend does is turn on the lights, open the window, and remind us that there are a whole lot of ways to tell the same story.” When the story of disaster is told, here’s praying that the utter helplessness faced by her prey will be coupled with tales of unexpected light, the hand of a friend, and the dawn of a new day.