Tornado siren!
After deciding whether to grab pillows and blankets or shoes and cellphones, we tromped down the basement stairs. The confusion over how we would all fit in the old coal room was cut short as the siren shut off after only 15 minutes. We all decided we'd rather mess around on Facebook and craigslist than talk in the basement. I think it was a bonding experience.
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I grew up in southeast Nebraska, where tornado season starts the beginning of May and ends in late July. My parents still live in one of the most active parts of the region. A few summers ago, a tornado sat itself down on my sister and brother-in-law's house and then jumped the road to the family farm. We lost a lot of buildings and machinery, and nearly all our trees, but amazingly, no one was hurt.
The Plains are notorious for tornadoes, but if you were to sit down with the people living there, most would tell you that tornadoes aren't something they worry about. My family's experience changed that for me. I used to watch storms in the distance from our backyard as they tore through fields and small communities-- always with a feeling of immunity to the haphazard destruction I could clearly see in someone else's life. But not anymore.
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Sometimes we watch each other from a distance. Ominous green clouds of silence are ignored. A humid space of ignorance hangs between us. In a whirlwind of frustration and sadness, words bond together to form rage. They plow indiscriminately through families, tearing permanent gashes in people that love us-- that we love. It leaves everything and everyone touched. Some are mute from shock. Some harness the rage of the words and cannot let it go. Some have no remnant of their former self. And some carry only the depression of what is lost.
Words are always chosen over weapons when the intent is to hurt deeply. So, choose your words with compassion and try not to be afraid of honesty. Love can survive rage, but it may falter if we are false to one another.
-Laura
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