Weekly Column: Delicate Honesty in the Midst of Horror

We took shelter in the closet, but only at my husband’s insistence.  If I’d have been left to my own devices, I would have been pacing the windows or the porch to watch the beauty of the storm despite the siren’s wail. 

To be honest, I’ve heard the sirens hundreds of times in my life – all of which has been spent in this Southwest Missouri town – and never seen an actual tornado in my vicinity.  Damaging winds, sure.  Heavy hail, yes.  Deadly tornadoes, never.  It’s not that I didn’t take the sirens seriously, but that I didn’t think we, personally, had much to fret about.  Somewhere half a county away, perhaps; those people should take cover.

But since I have more to worry about now than my own safety, I corralled the kids into the closet with our flashlights and cell phones, and we waited.  We talked about why we were there, and how it was just a precaution.  We made shadow shapes on the wall as the hail peppered our roof.  We raised our eyebrows as the rafters groaned above us. 

And then we came out to a whole, safe house.  I rolled my eyes at my husband’s paranoia, but allowed that his ‘you never know’ had some merit. 

We sat down to finish our dinner by candlelight.  We had no idea what had happened half a mile north of our home. 

Now, it’s several hours of radio coverage and news stories later; it’s several trips across town to check on relatives; it’s several sleepless nights of worrying about lost homes and lost friends, and we know the truth of the tornado.  Our kids know.  Their schools, their routines, their worlds are different, and it’s unable to be glossed over. 

Still, I hate to present our little ones –they of such tender hearts – with stark reality in its purest form.  We tell the truth so far as we are able, and carefully: your school is no longer there.  We can’t go get groceries as usual because the building is gone.  We won’t be going to church because it’s been torn away. 

We answer their questions with delicacy and attention – now is not the time to blow off their curiosity, if ever there was such a time. 

What we don’t say – what we haven’t said because it hurts too badly – is that people have been torn away, too.  We talk about the pain of the tornado in terms of houses and places, but it’s too hard to let the children know right away about the deadly aspect.  At least, it’s too hard for me. 

And the fortunate part is that they don’t have to know just yet because nobody they know has been lost.  I will continue to hope that remains true over the coming days of search and rescue, but not just in the way that it will shield my children from horror – I will hope for the other, obvious reasons: so that our dear city won’t be this tornado’s burial ground for any more lives. 

So my daughters paint pictures in the meantime.  They sing and play around our worry.  They see the news coverage, and question it.  They demand more attention, more hugs, more love.

And they get it.  Because the act of giving it calmly keeps me from falling apart at the seams.

[Online version here.]