Joplin, MO

How can I possibly sum up my visit to Joplin, Missouri? When one witnesses such devastation it is very hard to sum it up in mere words. In fact, I thought many times about a book I read recently by Kurt Vonnegut entitled, “Slaughterhouse-Five”, especially when speaking to Carol—a newly homeless lady at the Red Cross shelter, who interrupted her own sentence to say, “Oh look, the birds have come back.” Vonnegut wrote about the bombing of Dresden, Germany and had a very hard time putting words to such an atrocity, but after 23 years he finally did: “Everything is supposed to be very quiet after a massacre, and it always is, except for the birds. And what do the birds say? All there is to say about a massacre, things like “Poo-tee-weet?”


A lifeless part of me feels like saying what Vonnegut and the birds say about the whole thing…their noise simply declares that there is nothing intelligent to say about an EF5 tornado shredding 12 miles of a city, trapping some in basements, sucking others out their sunroof, and leaving nothing recognizable in its wake. But, there is. In a world with a God, there are things to be thought, said, and a whole pile of things to be done. Let me explain.

I feel for people. I don’t know if you are like me and my husband, but when something catastrophic happens, we are glued to our computers, watching images and videos, reading articles of survival stories and others that only end in devastation. I can identify with those people on my screen because I realize they were probably much like me. It pains me to hear their stories and leaves me with an unsettled feeling. When I go through these phases that are brought on by either a tragedy on a large scale, or the death of someone close to me or my husband, I can’t quite return to life normally. Something in me changes.

Such was the feeling when I woke up Monday morning with an e-mail from World Vision asking for donations for disaster relief in Joplin, Missouri. My stomach turned as I realized there had been yet another deadly tornado. I didn’t want to see the images, and didn’t want to think of the harrowing night thousands of people in Joplin had. Like the young wife whose husband threw his body over hers in the bathtub and received a fatal puncture in his back as a result; or a man we met, whom 12 hours after the storm was found in his basement only to emerge from the rubble to see a decapitated body in his yard; or Will who left his High School graduation and moments later was sucked out the sunroof of the Hummer he was driving and was found in a pond filled with debris 4 days later. The thought of their horror was juxtaposed with my memory of what I was doing the previous night at the same time. I had had my son’s 4th birthday party. I was so happy and content and pleased with the evening, and felt extraordinarily blessed to have the friends and family I had, and was so thankful at the day’s end. What was I supposed to think now?

So I ended up going there, with a group of 4 other women from my church, The Bridge.  Being in Joplin was very interesting. The destruction was stomach-turning, and I imagine that if it were my own home, or even if I had seen those very same houses before they were demolished, my stomach would turn even further. In some places walls were gone and just a bathroom was left standing; cars were crushed almost in half and lit on fire in others; or there was a pile of wood, or slab foundation that was left in lieu of a home. I can only image what these people went through when the monster tornado laid waste to their homes. Actually, thanks to our amazing technology today, you can listen to these people who piled into the cooler of a convenient store: http://youtu.be/cQnvxJZucds

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For some, moments like these were final. The child crying is heart wrenching, and to think of some children left without parents is unbearable. In this moment, it seems like some of the people in the video became very real, perhaps very alive for the first time in a long time. In a matter of seconds, a man birthed the words “I love everyone” as another cried “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.” Listening to their words is like hearing a heart in its moment of existence. Why does it take such great suffering to bring about our true selves? Why would we be content, every other day of our lives, to live half-awake, half-alive? What is it that numbs us?

What I was MOST surprised with when we visited Joplin only one week after the tornado hit, was the unbelievable amount of love, kindness and appreciation that was displayed through every single worker, volunteer, or afflicted person. It was truly unbelievable and I could have done better at accepting their more than kind gestures. I was taken aback by it and not sure how to respond. As we walked the streets surveying the damage and looking for people to give our gift cards and cash to, cars drove through the streets offering cold water, Gatorade and sandwiches again and again. Too often I declined their generosity, feeling as though I wasn’t doing enough to deserve such a kind gesture from a stranger—but my thinking was flawed. At one of the many parking lots set up as what looked like a mini bazaar, there was food being made all day for volunteers, clothing for tornado survivors to comb through, and counseling and prayer services offered. We were coerced by some firemen to get a plate and sit down to eat. They all seemed to be thankful we were there, without any further questions. The firemen we sat with wore shirts that said, “Firefighters for Christ” we learned that the 6 men only met each other upon arrival in Joplin. Lindsay, the head volunteer for the parking lot set-up, welcomed us and then confessed that Satan was getting to her and she could feel the spiritual battle taking place. She was sweaty and busy, pouring her life out for others. I feel that we could have prayed for her then. Thank goodness I still can pray for her. Luke was also a firefighter who was on duty during the tornado. He was sent home after it came through, to check on his house—about half of it was left. As he came down his street in his uniform, people ran to him for help. He could hear their cries and moaning. He eventually had to take off all of his gear so he could help the people in his neighborhood.

Steven wasn’t quite inside during the storm, and he was lifted up off of the ground but managed to grab onto a part of the garage door as his feet sailed parallel to his head. His son heard his feet knocking against the window and was able to pull him inside. Then there was Lorna who had a nasty bruise down the right side of her face, and she didn’t know what had hit her. Her husband hugged us all and teared up over losing the home he had spent years working on. There was Debra, whose Section 8 housing has now become unlivable; she won’t be getting an insurance check or relatives to pick her up. Debra’s friend was watching her two children plus two others during the tornado. She piled them all in the bathtub and closed the door tight and they were all kept safe. Debra and her friend threw a party for her 6 year old son in the shelter on May 28. They don’t know where they will go after they leave the shelter.

Don is 89 years old and rode the storm out by holding onto some oak cabinets he knew were made well. He recounted how he was not concerned about the sirens since he had been in five tornadoes in his lifetime. But then the sirens rang, the rain came, then the hail, then his neighborhood was left to piles of wood. Somehow his bench was still on his porch, and he sat there looking out at what surrounded him, never having seen anything like it in his life. He signed my book and wrote “Bless”.

We listened to local Christian radio in the car. There was a song dedicated to the storm survivors about hope. I heard a lot about hope and rebuilding. Things were said like, “We are down but not out”; “We are all strong and we will get through this”, “Thank God we are alive” and “Thank God we have each other”. I will have to say, that if God was anywhere, He was in Joplin. I have never been in a more kind and caring environment. It was like everywhere you looked, even the police and National Guard had this sort of understanding about them. People were unbelievably kind and thankful and it seemed like Kingdom workers, God’s church, was there and many people spoke of Him. But on the way home, I pondered some of those sayings and the Christian song we had heard.

Thank God we are alive.

What about the dead people?

Rebuild.

What if their house gets torn down again?

I had scrolled through many pictures of Joplin’s destruction online before our trip. There were quite a few pictures of messages people had spray painted on their homes. One read, “God Saved Us”. The comments below that picture and others like it questioned God, blamed God, fired God, and even cursed God. In our effort as humans to be painfully honest, to look at the world for what it is and not what we want it to be, I can somewhat relate to these mixed emotions about God. Death should sicken us and mass destruction should make us ill; it should make us question everything. It has for me. But the answer in which I have arrived does not make me curse or fire God, nor does it make me want to plant an American flag in a pile of rubble and rebuild my kingdom on this earth just like it was before. The people of Joplin were just so grateful to have each other, to have their lives. Their earthly possessions were gone, but it was as though—in light of their lives—it didn’t matter. The people in the convenient store shouting out to God and verbally expressing their love for others weren’t concerned about what others thought at that moment; those who spoke didn’t numb the moment with an old habit or rationalization. I think God wants us to have these real moments, these moments of awakening that rarely take place without some sort of suffering. Perhaps it is our suffering that finally allows us to block out all of the noise and become alive. This earth, no doubt, is falling away and one day, this place will crumble just like our Bible tells us.

I wonder what perspective God does want us to have on the reality of death and an obviously decaying world. Most of us feel that nothing is more important than our lives—and maybe God feels the same way, but not about our lives on this earth. His one and only concern is the place in which our eternal souls will rest. Maybe things like Joplin are supposed to send a message from heaven that says, “This earth is not your home!” Maybe God doesn’t want us to feel cozy and secure here after all. Maybe God’s top priority is securing our eternal state with Him, no matter what we may have to go through on this earth. Maybe God is like a caring father, who has carefully made a secure life insurance plan for his children and all we have to do is ask for it. Maybe we feel like God doesn’t care about the atrocities that happen on this earth, but maybe He does care…forever. I think forever is all He is concerned about. And if we don’t like that, and we want to live for this earth and this life instead, nothing will make sense. It will all be cruel and harsh and God will not make sense.

The people of Joplin must rebuild, or relocate—as will anyone who has been knocked down to nothing by an incredible force. But when we rise from the rubble, will we only put things back just the way they were before? Maybe some will attempt to seek safety on this earth, steering clear of “tornado alley” or fault lines or coasts where tsunamis could occur. Maybe in our fear and desire to live this earthly life we will surround our lives with seeming security. A good neighborhood, low crime, nice house, reliable car, maybe even low risk of natural disasters. But is that the response we should have or is that simply what we do because we don’t understand God and we can’t trust Him? What if God wants us to rebuild in an entirely different way? What if we truly lived our lives here on this earth knowing it won’t last, knowing it will crumble away and we will die, and asking our Father in heaven to give us what we need to live this life until we get to the next? I am beginning to feel like, for myself, the only security there is on this earth are the things that God gives me—not the things I fight and claw and manipulate to have.

People who are in the mission field or who are relief workers say, without out a doubt, we are experiencing birthing pains. Once labor starts, the contractions will only get harder and closer together. I have stopped holding my breath and waiting for a brighter day where I could finally claim peace and security on this earth. There is none. There is only security in knowing I have a Father in heaven who loves me, who has sought me out and challenged me more than I thought I could handle, and who has a plan for the days I live on earth. My security is found there—I accept that I live in a fallen and crumbling world, but yet I submit the days I do have to the one who knows when my last day will be. I realize I cannot find the peace and security I thought I could on this earth. It doesn’t exist and God is continually reminding us not to try and put down eternal roots on sinking sand. His eternity is secure and His plan for us as we live our days on this earth is secure—and that’s about it. It has taken a tremendous leap of faith to arrive here, but nothing makes sense to me without looking at it this way. However, having this seed planted within me allows me to worry much less and propels me to put all my eggs in God’s basket and to do the work He has for me to do while I am here. Up until about a year ago I was definitely putting my eggs in a basket with a hole in the bottom of it. When I am weak I repeat the words of my husband’s song, Sand into the Sea: “Lord not my will but yours be done. I’m throwing down this crown cause this is not my Kingdom. These plans fall through every time. These hands are yours but I’m always acting like their mine.”
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