Surviving the storm

     The small boy of about eight years sat in the rubble of what once was his bedroom. He remembered his mom tucking him in and reading a bedtime story, his favorite one, The Wizard of Oz. Then a noise like a train coming close and a terrible shaking as the walls of his room seemed to all come together with him sitting in between all of it. He cried out for his mom, but the noise was now so horribly loud his cries went unheard. All around him his toys and games all flying racing past him in a blur of colors and shapes. His dresser had somewhat pinned him into a corner which he later learned probably saved his life.

     The terribly loud noises became an eerie silence with the passing of the storm. He could hear his mom calling his name, and he managed to cry out allowing her to find him alive but shaken. Her forehead was bleeding, and her arm appeared to be broken as she tried with one good arm to free him from the weight of the dresser. Once free, the reality of what happened crushed down upon them as they sat holding each other with tears of dismay flowing down their faces. The sounds of people outside calling out the names of family and friends was the only noise at all.

     No child should ever have to endure such a thing, but when a called-out voice responded, everyone including himself and others raced to help those in need. The first responders arrived quickly, and with organized precision, many people who were feared lost were found and reunited with their loved ones. His mom was put into an ambulance and taken to the hospital, but he stayed behind to help as best as an eight-year-old could do. He grew up that day when the sky fell onto him and fear replaced with bravery.

     If he lives to be one hundred the images of that day will stay with him. Trucks in trees houses completely gone leaving only a cement pad. A twisted pile of metal that once was a swing set. His tree house gone with the tree and scraps of peoples lives strewn about lost forever. The one thing he remembers the most is the cross that adorned the church steeple about a mile from his house was standing upright in the cornfield as if it had always been there. They ended up leaving that cross right there, making a kind of memorial spot for people to visit and give thanks for somehow being spared.

     Life went on, but slowly. Houses were rebuilt and trees planted. Loved ones lost were remembered in prayer and in celebration of their lives. Years passed and that small boy of eight years went on to live a good life in the same town that almost took him away with the winds.

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