The Taking of Land

Tears silently creep down my face as I hold my baby boy. The realization that he saved my life from this monster is too real to embrace. My prayers are chaotic, full of pleas and thanks. With each second of the attack, the urge to hold my son tighter increases. I seek, somehow, to be one with him. As if being in my womb again would keep him safe. I tremble from the rush of emotions toppling one on top of another. 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 the shelter. Undoubtedly, I would have lost my life because of the arrogance of invincibility I felt toward nature.

To think I had the diaper bag ready to leave less than thirty minutes earlier. We'd spent a wonderful evening celebrating my sister’s 13th birthday. The weather warnings had beeped on the television in the background throughout the evening, but after a lifetime in Oklahoma your senses become dulled to such alerts. You're aware of the danger and possible destruction, but false alarms strengthen the belief of ‘it can never happen to us'.

Surprisingly, it was my mother who first mentioned staying and waiting out the tornado warnings. She did so with trepidation, because we'd just discussed letting me make my own “mother” decisions. Thank God, she ignored me.

My father, never one to interfere, simply said, “What would it hurt? Thirty more minutes at a party?”

It didn’t take coaxing, just a glimpse of my sleeping boy. I'd never do anything to endanger him. I sat down for a game of dominoes with my sisters while my mother rocked my son, and dad watched the storm outside.

We were in the safest possible place. My parents built an underground home on our 165 acre farm two years prior. Built into the side of a hill, only the front is open. This provides protection from tornadoes the same way a cellar would. Fear of twisters wasn’t the reason my father created it though; he loved his land and desired to be as close to it as he could, plus the added feature that the good earth provides both warmth in the wintertime and coolness in the summertime.

The screen door flew open, and my father yelled for us to get against the back wall. My father normally doesn’t raise his voice. No one uttered a word as we scrambled to obey. I grabbed my sleeping six-month-old, helped my mother up, and rushed to huddle with my sisters. Strangely, I remember thinking, 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 was passing on our roof. The house shakes. It feels like one of those old jerky roller coaster rides that you know doesn’t live up to safety standards. My sister is squeezing my arm, digging her nails into me. I kiss her forehead. Guttural screams of the tornado echo in our ears, and yet my son sleeps. Silent tears drip onto his perfect face as my body trembles in fear from nature’s fury. I look to my father for reassurance; he's always been my rock. His eyes don’t meet mine. His head is bowed, no doubt in silent prayer for his family and the land that is his home. My mother clings to my other sister; all eyes squeezed shut as if to block out the living nightmare.


And it is done. As quickly as it came, it was gone. The silence is eerie as we unwind ourselves from each other. For a moment I wonder if I am temporarily deaf. I hear nothing; no sound from the television, no radio blaring, and then my baby stirs. It's just electricity we are without, not our hearing. Unbelieving eyes look around at a house that's the same as it was just three minutes ago. Leftover cake, presents, a diaper bag by the door, dominoes awaiting the next play. Was it just three minutes?

My father is putting on his boots; the fear in his eyes tells me the nightmare is just beginning. My heart aches knowing the pain he'll face at any destruction done to the farm. It's not about income. It's about passion and respect for God’s earth. I kiss my son, handing him to my sister. Without words, I join my dad.

My eyes are stunned as we open the door. 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 finally dare to look at my father. He is crying; this is something I have only seen him do when he watches “Where the Red Fern Grows.” I, shamefully, am at a loss of how to comfort him.

“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,” he quietly says.

Before I am able to respond, we hear a desperate cry. We begin a careful walk through debris. Suddenly, I notice something ahead of us I have never seen on our farm – a horse. We have many head of cattle, but my father would never let us have horses. His belief was if you wouldn’t eat it to survive, we weren’t feeding it. This horse is alive and looking at us.

Dad looks at me with that shit-eating grin of his and mutters, “Must be from the Davis’s farm. Guess you finally got your horse.” I hug him close for I know his attempt at humor is just to try to keep me from worrying.

We continue stepping over pieces of houses and barns on our trek toward the cries. It's getting dark now, making each step more perilous. It feels like we're in another world. As many times as I explored this farm as a child, nothing seems remotely familiar to me now. Lost in my thoughts I don't realize my father has stopped until he grabs me roughly and pulls me back.

“We can’t go any further.” It's a fact. Not open for discussion.

“But, Dad, the man. . .he needs help.” I'm confused for my father has never turned his back on anyone in need.

“See those power lines on the ground in front of you? Who knows if they're live? They'll be down all over this farm. It's dark, and we can’t see. We can’t risk it. Our family need us. He'll get help from others closer.”

Returning to the house, we're met with eerie candlelight and sleeping children in the living room. Somehow having them in the same room with us this night seems right. I try calling my husband, but cell phone towers are down. We attempt to describe the damage to my mother, but it truly is a case of seeing is believing.

When nature has taken you on a roller coaster ride of emotions and destruction, sleep does not come easily. We begin to tell stories from 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. At first I find this cruel. Why should a beautiful day illuminate such destruction? We leave my teenage sister in charge of the kids as we venture out again.

Reaching the top of the hill, it already seems different from last night. We are met by voices, trucks, and life everywhere. People have come to help, some we don’t even 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.

The land will never be the same. We'll never find all our belongings from in 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.


wc - 1487