Hurricane ...

Fear & Trepidation, Faith & Trust

We lived in university housing at College Common when Hurricane Gilbert came along. I was in high school at the time, and Gilbert, like Beryl, was a record-breaking hurricane at the time. We did the things to prepare: windows taped to prevent dangerous glass flying if winds broke them. Water was gathered in buckets and bathtub. Batteries. Flashlights. And then we waited.

Winds picked up with rain. Beginning by looking fairly harmless and then blowing so as to bend tree-limbs to the point of breaking. The tall, tall coconut tree in our backyard blew right over. At some point, I wondered how come our neighbour across the road had lights on in their living room, only to realize the entire roof had blown off! The light was daylight streaming in. The roof lay, like an innocent bystander, in the front lawn. The winds blew so hard I could feel the air pressure in my ears.

A waterfall began in the living room light fixture.

My father ran to close a window that blew open, while my mom, sister and I watched terrified that the glass would break and he would be eviscerated. But if the wind got in, it would blow the roof up and off. My father, slight as he was, would defend us with his life if needed.

Eventually we huddled in the hallway leading to the bedrooms - huddled there through the worst of it. That hallway provided a space where, even if glass blew in, we would be safe from the slicing. The winds howled. We could hear things smashing and breaking. It was terrifying.

Then.

The EYE.

Like an opening of hope in the midst of catastrophe. I remember our neighbour Mr Thompson calling us to the fence to get newspaper (they got the daily papers and we did not), so we would have paper to put down where things were getting wet. The stillness and blue sky was incredible. No amount of newspaper could absorb the rain that fell. But the thing wasn’t the newspaper. The thing was the friendship across the fence - the sharing of whatever was available to be shared.

We heard the wind coming in the opposite direction before it arrived. A howl.

Then it slammed into the house like a summons from hell. Water leaked down the walls of all but one bedroom. Water poured from most of the light fixtures. What a blessing it was that electricity had been turned off across the island.

A hurricane is a scary thing. But during the hurricane itself, and after, hope was visible in so many ways.

In the bright stars shining at night, unchallenged by city lights (we lost power for about 6 weeks).

In the rain barrel we bathed from, softest water. (we lost running water for 10 days)

In the meals we ate - thankful in a different way for food.

In the soldiers who came from all kinds of countries to help get services back and tidy up our yards of trees uprooted, roofs relocated, random sheets of zinc and plyboard and other debris that had blown about disregarding property lines, showing us that the power of Creation is not bound by human constructs. The best use of military resources.

Tonight I will try to sleep but I lay my head down with worry and with prayer. If electricity goes and cannot be readily restored. If telecoms go down and cannot be readily restored. When will I next hear from my family? Beryl, blow gently.

My mom was to arrive this week Thursday. Her flight now postponed. She insists on staying at her house, “to keep an eye on things.” I know there is no point arguing with her: we are the same, stubborn Bandara women. On the cusp of turning 80, my mother will keep an eye on things at her house, facing Beryl alone. The story of our lives: facing the storm alone.

But not alone. For prayers and community surround us. And hurricanes, record-breaking hurricanes, they teach us …

That life is not bound by constructs of order, but by love.

Security and Safety are not provided by insurance policies or masking tape on windows, but by the care to be found in small acts of kindness in the midst of the danger. Who is the neighbour who will share their newspapers across the fenceline?

That hope is not mitigated by wild winds and torrential rains. On the contrary, hope rises wilder than any force that tries to subdue it.

My hope is for the night, tomorrow night to pass. Pass along.

For Beryl to pass along.

My hope is she will pass, and God will bring us back together one more time.

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Photo by Zoltan Tasi on Unsplash