In our backyard

Sunday night, a tornado hit Joplin, Missouri. Joplin is several hours south of us and honestly I've been near/through it only a few times in my life. I don't know anyone who lives there. But it's in proverbial our backyard.

I feel desperate for my fellow Missourians. I feel devastated for the utter destruction they have seen come from the sky and the many, many hard days ahead of them to get back to a new normal.

Monday and today have brought new counts, statistics, and facts. Deadliest tornado in America in 6 decades. 116 dead. 17 found alive yesterday. 1,700 missing person calls to authorities. 3/4 mile wide twister. 6 mile tornado path. F4 category storm. 2 Search and Rescue responders struck by lightning. More storms on the way today. The President will visit this weekend to see the damage.

I am racked with grief and filled with gratitude as I see people respond. One of my first comforting thoughts was, "Our church will respond. I have a place to help through." I knew that because the pastors talk frequently about showing our city that we are not here to take, we are here to give, to help. I know they mean it.

For several months now the church has been working toward becoming certified to be a Red Cross shelter. I was out in the welcome center on Sunday and passed the board with information and sign-ups. I distinctly remember the words "It's closer than you think." The tornado hit that very night.

The Red Cross has now set up a collection center in the parking lot of the church. If you are local and can help, here is the list of what donations they are seeking.

Honestly, I am in turn humbled and embarrassed at my feelings toward this disaster. I cleaned my closets with a fury last night looking for clothes to give. Kids closet today. I clean my closets seasonally and took a dozen bags to a thrift store last week, but suddenly I looked at all my worldly belongings with new eyes yesterday. If the clothes haven't been worn, are too big, too small, or still waiting for something to come along to match it, it is time to let it go. I found myself standing in front of the mirror wavering and thought to myself, "There is a woman in Joplin who has nothing and these will fit her. These really don't fit me. She has nothing. And these will fit her." Why is it so hard to part with things until I am confronted with utter destruction and devastation?

Not on the list but on my heart to give were purses, wallets, and toiletry bags. Can you imagine having nothing and then as you get documents, information, and identification again, you have nowhere to keep it? Or keeping all your worldly possessions in a plastic sack?

My heart tells me to pray for the survivors to be brave, to have courage. I know there are families with young children just like us. If they all survived, they feel incredibly blessed. The stuff can be replaced. But it will take time. Life will be tedious, uncertain, and difficult for some time. They will have to walk their children through fear, confusion, chaos, and grief. They will wonder where they will live, how to get back to jobs, and rebuild their lives. But I don't want them to worry about where their next meal is coming from, thirst for a drink of clean water, reach in vain for a clean diaper, or break down crying that they can't get rid of the tornado feeling because they don't have clothes to change into.

If you can't quite wrap your mind around what to do, walk out your front door with nothing but the people you love in hand or in your arms. Imagine not being able to turn back and walk back into your life as you know it. Almost anything would be helpful to you at that point, right?

If you were in need, you'd hope people would help. What can you do? Give blood? Donate supplies? Give money? Please do. Please do.