I put my feet up on the living room couch and switched on the TV. It felt nice to relax—if only for a moment. Good Friday. A day off from my college classes. The kids—James, 14, and Leslee, 10—didn’t have school either. It seemed like forever since I didn’t have something pressing to worry about, the kids’ school events, helping them with their homework, writing my own term paper, housework, errands. I’m a single mom and sometimes it was all I could do to hold everything together.
In the back of the house I heard boys laughing and shouting. I smiled at the racket. The house hadn’t felt this alive since we’d moved to Murfreesboro a little over a year ago. I’d been thrilled when James had asked if five boys could spend the night. I was already planning to watch my seven-year-old niece, Adrian. Leslee was spending the weekend at a friend’s house. It was great to see the kids adjusting so well. That was one thing I hadn’t had to worry about.
The TV went dark. Then it flashed to a team of news anchors. “We interrupt our regularly scheduled programming so we can bring you coverage of tornado activity in the Nashville area,” one said. Tornado? Outside, rain was falling, but it wasn’t a storm. Must be someplace on the other side of the city. Still, was there something I should do? I listened for more information but didn’t get any.
That was the hardest part these days, feeling like so much depended on me. I longed to meet more people, to feel like I was part of a community. I’d gone to church, wanting to put my trust in God, to have that comfort that no matter what things would be okay. But in the end, everything still seemed to fall on me.
“This just in,” the TV anchor again broke in. “The National Weather Service is reporting that a tornado has been spotted over Interstate 24 near Murfreesboro.” Interstate 24? That was only 20 minutes away! I looked outside. It was hailing. “Cool!” shouted one of the boys. “Let’s go outside.”
“No, you’re not,” I said. “There’s a tornado.” I needed a plan. Fast. Some way to protect a houseful of kids. We needed to get away from windows. But where could we go? We didn’t have a basement. An interior room, then. Someplace safe from falling objects. The bathroom was the most central room in the house. And it had a closet. But for eight people? There was no other choice.
“Listen,” I said to the boys and Adrian. “If it gets worse, get in the bathroom.”
The boys ran excitedly between the front and back doors, opening them to watch the hail. Then I heard one call to me, “Miss Kim, I think you better come look at this.” I ran to the back door. A massive black cloud with flashes of blue light filled the sky. Omigosh! I thought. It’s coming right at us!
“Run!” I screamed. We scrambled to the bathroom closet. Then stopped. “Is this where you meant?” one of the boys asked. I knew what he was thinking. It was maybe five feet long and two feet deep. Too small. But already we could feel the air pressure pushing against us. There wasn’t time to go anywhere else. James went in first. Then the other boys piled in, lying on top of each other. I lifted Adrian and handed her to James.
“We’ll be okay,” I said, trying to hold back my rising fear. “James, whatever happens, don’t let go of Adrian.” I squeezed in last, my body bent like a pretzel, crouching over the kids’ bodies. Somehow we managed to shut the doors. It seemed like there wasn’t enough oxygen. We could hear rumbling outside getting louder, the air pressure literally squeezing us, as if the walls of the closet would crumble at any minute. Someone—more than one person—was crying. I could feel myself panicking. This closet was so rickety. I needed to do something. But what?
“Mom?” I heard James say in the darkness.
“Yes, dear,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
“I think we should pray.”
“Everyone pray as loud as you can,” I said. “God needs to hear us over the tornado.” The tornado roared. The closet shook. But I could still hear the sound of voices praying, mine joining in.
“Dear God, please protect us. Save us! Help me keep these children safe!” It felt like we prayed for hours.
“Miss Kim, something’s hitting me.” The top of the closet was falling in. The light fixture came loose and hit a boy in the head. Gray sky appeared above. We had to get out. The door wouldn’t open. The boys pounded on the sides of the closet, punching out a hole. I peered through the opening in the closet wall.
It was hard to get my bearings. It looked like a war zone. Could the tornado have carried us into someone else’s yard? I crawled through the hole and stepped over the inside wall of a house, then scrambled across a huge slab of siding. Part of a roof lay nearby. Where was my house? I took a few steps backward. Then it hit me. I was standing where my living room used to be. My house was gone! The bathroom closet was the only thing left standing. A flood of panic rushed over me. The kids! I started counting. Five…six…seven. They were all there! Safe! I threw my arms around them. We held each other in a massive bear hug. I didn’t want to let go of them.
I looked around the neighborhood. A house diagonal to mine was gone. Next door the roof was missing. Only half of my other neighbor’s house was standing. Then I knew once and for all, as certainly as I knew anything amidst this massive devastation, God had been there with us. That he was still with us. He must have had his arms wrapped tight around that closet! I led everyone to the house across the street. The neighbors weren’t home, but the tornado had torn the door off the garage. We went in to collect ourselves, glad to be somewhere with a roof.
The boys tried calling their parents on their cell phones, trying repeatedly before an occasional signal got through. The same scene played out over and over. “Mom, I’m telling the truth,” they’d say. “We were in a closet. Yes, a closet. It’s still there. But everything else is gone. Yes, Mom. I’m fine.”
Cars couldn’t get in our neighborhood. We walked to the closest boy’s house. Everywhere there was destruction, but I had this sense of wonder. We were alive and safe. All of us. Like a shield had been around us. The boy’s mom held him. Then she and I hugged. “You saved his life,” she kept saying.
“Not me,” I said. “God.”
With each reunion we hugged, cried, recounted every detail from the storm. “We have some clothes and furniture you can have,” one couple said. “You need to come over for dinner,” another said.
I spent the night at my sister’s. James stayed with one of the boys. Leslee stayed with her friend. The next day all of the boys’ families gathered at the ruins of my house. Anything that had ever mattered to me was gone. It was heartbreaking. But it was a pain I wasn’t facing alone. Nearly 20 people sorted through the rubble with me, doing whatever they could.
In the weeks that followed, my newfound friends welcomed me into their lives. Through them I met even more people. I lost everything I owned, yet I’d gained something none of life’s storms could take away: a community of friends and the absolute assurance that even in our darkest hour we’re never alone.
