Words fail. But we must try. (Because words may be the only way to healing and hope.)
Last Friday afternoon, March 6th, a storm blew through. Tom and I were both at home, working on our laptops. We heard some thunder, followed by a generous downpour. And then the sun came out. A typical early spring rain.
Or so we thought.
The evening news clued us in to the fact that a tornado had hit the village of Edwardsburg, as well as Three Rivers and Union City, Michigan. Until then, we had been oblivious to what had happened in these nearby communities.
“Tom, come watch this. Apparently, a tornado hit Edwardsburg again!” (Last year, also in early March, a twister blew through a mile or so east of our home, downing trees and power lines.) We watched in disbelief, and wondered how extensive the damage was.
Then, on Saturday morning, we awoke to the full weight of the devastation.
An F3 tornado, the first this early in Michigan’s history, had pounded Union City, damaging or reducing to rubble some seventy homes, killing three people, and injuring twelve others.
Three Rivers, Michigan endured an F2 that demolished much of a Menards store, as well as many other structures.
And then, the most heartbreaking news we heard, was that a 12-year-old boy named Silas—a sixth grader at Edwardsburg Middle School—was killed by the F1 tornado that struck seemingly out of nowhere and destroyed much of his home. When I saw photos of the house online, I knew immediately where it was—just three miles from us. We’ve biked past the place many times.
Ever since last Saturday morning, I’ve been preoccupied—as have many in Southwest Michigan and its surrounding areas—with the photos, drone footage, scenes, and descriptions I can’t shake. With thoughts of Silas’s parents—both physicians—finding him in in the rubble in their garage and administering first aid before saying their final goodbyes at a nearby hospital.
It’s crushing to imagine. And I didn’t even know the family. How are those who did know them getting through this? How are the teachers and staff I used to work with, and Silas’s classmates managing the crisis? How will his parents and two siblings survive this unthinkable tragedy?
And what can I do to help?
On Monday, with sunshine, blue skies, and mild temperatures, I went for a walk around the campus of Notre Dame. Every time I do this, I am pulled toward the grotto. It’s in a peaceful corner of the campus, where, under the stone, cave-like structure there are rows of candles and a nearby kneeling bench. I chose my candle, lit it, and prayed.
I should say, I tried to pray. Not many words came to mind. Just pictures of a grieving family—of several grieving families. Of houses torn from their foundations and strewn like toothpicks across the landscape. Of death and destruction, right here at home. And due to an “act of God.”
But why would a loving God “act” in this way? Why this young boy with so much life ahead of him? Why those three victims in Union City who were in the prime of midlife?
My God, my God, why have you forsaken them?
These are questions without answers. And platitudes like “everything happens for a reason” or “there are four more angels in heaven” will not satisfy our need to understand.
Sometimes, bad things happen for no reason. And perhaps there is nothing more random than where a tornado strikes.
As I left the grotto, I turned on my Lent Through the Little Things Spotify playlist, and the song “From Dust You Are and Shall Return” by the Brilliance began to play. It’s best if you can listen to the music along with the words, but if you can’t do that, here are the lyrics (minus several repeated lines):
From dust we've come
And dust we are
And shall return
Be still my soul
And let it go
Just let it go
Glory to God
In the highest
Naked we came
And shall return
Into the grave
Be still my soul
And let it go
Just let it go
Glory to God
In the highest
Be still my soul
Lord, make me whole
Be still my soul
Lord, make me whole
Lord, make me whole
Glory to God
Glory to God
As I continued my walk, two thoughts emerged. There were no answers to the many hard questions. But just a reminder and a comfort. It isn’t much in the face of such heartbreak, but it’s all I’ve got.
The reminder: Take nothing for granted. It could have been our home and possessions blown to the sky. It could have been my husband’s or my life taken by that random tornado touchdown. Yet we and our children, grandchildren, friends, and family woke up on Saturday morning to the gift of another day.
So, be grateful for it. Never forget to thank God for it. Tell your loved ones you love them. And use the gift of another day to spread truth, beauty, goodness, and love whenever and wherever you can.
The comfort: During this season of Lent, we are reminded that Jesus became human. He was just like us. And yet, he wasn’t. He was God, made flesh.
Jesus has known our pain. He’s experienced deep sadness. Jesus wept. (John 11:35) He was also forsaken, beaten, and crucified. He suffered, died, and was buried.
When we are faced with sadness beyond our understanding, we can bring our hurts to him—our only comfort in life and in death. Laying our unanswered questions, our fears, and our tears at his feet, his loving arms will hold us.
Be still my soul.
If you would like to donate or volunteer your services for disaster relief in Cass, St. Joseph, and Branch County, Michigan, here are two reputable organizations who can help you help others: Southwest Michigan Cares & World Renew.
Additional Note: After I wrote the above story, on Tuesday, March 10, just four days after the tornado hit our region, another “super cell” plowed through parts of Illinois and Northwest Indiana. It hopped over my hometown (where several family members still live), but left two people dead and hundreds of homes damaged or destroyed in the surrounding areas, including Kankakee (IL), Lake Village, Wheatfield, and Knox (IN).
If you’re a praying person, please pray for comfort, hope, and peace for all those impacted by these storms. Thank you. 🖤
Well written & a reminder to count our blessings each & every day!
Linda - powerful words. Thank you!