I spent only four days in Joplin, a place I had never even passed through before. I arrived with my son, during the third week since the monstrous tornado. No matter how horrifying the devastation appeared to us, we had to remember that we were looking at a sanitized version.
Some of the larger trees were now cut into manageable logs and stacked neatly beside the huge root balls that still jutted awkwardly out of the ground. On Rangeline, the Wal-Mart that had been crushed was now entirely invisible behind a fence; the foundation had been razed. However, the skeletal remains of Academy and Home Depot were basically untouched, their cheery trademark colors of blue and orange peering out at odd angles in contrast to the dull browns and grays of shredded buildings. In the heart of the city, all the power lines were off the roads, and many were restored or replaced. The hand-written warning of “Gas Leak” and the charred places were just reminders of the way the disaster had been compounded. The battered houses and partial walls that remained were each scrawled with a highly visible X, to indicate they had been searched, “K9” if dogs had been used, and occasionally, a number, to indicate that a deceased victim had been discovered. A few foundations were cleared, with the debris piled all around what had once been yards. The trees were leafless since they had no top branches and even little bark, but not all the grass was gone. No doubt some more had sprouted since torrential rains had continued for days after the twister was gone. No one was wandering around the apocalyptic landscape dazed and horrified as they had been nearly three weeks before. Except for occasional cats who could be seen nosing through the piles, and the cars that trickled by with onlookers, signs of life were scattered and few. On the two-foot remains of a wall, a resourceful resident had scrawled, “Burt has moved to….” The Joplin High School sign was still displaying its now famous duct-taped message, “HOPE High School,” since the missing letters of Joplin had been replaced with an “H” and an “E.” Another bit of wall carried the plea, “God bless the Joplin Victims.” Only in the hospital parking lot, converted to a tent city resembling a modern-day “MASH” unit, was there a semblance of normal business. The center tent was identified with the ironic sign, “Emergency,” and medical personnel in scrubs were performing their duties, seemingly oblivious to the extraordinary circumstances and the occasional gawkers (us).
One thing had not changed, at all, in three weeks, however. The view, the eerie war-torn landscape, was the same. We were staying with a wonderful couple who had ceased to be strangers the moment we met. They live on the undamaged fringe of a street that runs through the heart of town. Traveling from their house, we only needed to go a couple blocks before we began to see the fallen trees and dilapidated houses. We were already feeling a little sick when we came up a hill and the horizon was stretched before us, empty except for the broken hull of St. John’s hospital miles away. Between us and that lone building was a void grid-marked by streets, littered with debris and tiny vestiges of walls, and dotted by hundreds of stunted tree trunks. Most had only two branches jutting up a few feet from the trunk and ending in jagged shards. One had a very large piece of sheet metal laced like a ribbon through the branches. Another had a car neatly folded around the trunk. I found myself studying the trees because they were easier to look at than anything in between them. My main impression was just of rubble. Few recognizable, distinct objects stood out. Those I did notice jarred me: a baby stroller, a bathroom sink, a riding toy, a shoe. We kept traveling, slowly, along the path the tornado had taken. We were actually moving faster than it had! A pastor at one of the churches where we served would describe the work of the twister as a blender, moving so slowly that it had time to churn and shred everything in its path. The evidence was all around us, and even though each plot of land represented the unique life of a family, all the lines were now blurred into a monotony of desolation. Perhaps, I was a little numbed by the sameness because the vivid details I saw next unnerved me. We were getting nearer to the fringes at the other side. We had passed the hospital, and the wreckage was now taller, more representative of the solid construction it had once been. I glanced up at the remains of a house. The top half was gone, but some of the lower walls were nearly intact. I was looking straight into the kitchen at the counter. I caught my breath. A canister of utensils sat undisturbed. Beside it was another ceramic canister, probably for flour, with the lid firmly in place. Next to that container were some colorful dishes, the obvious preparations for a meal that never took place. Of course, later, when I told people about that sight, they would all say, correctly, that, yeah, that’s what tornadoes do: they destroy randomly, leaving some of the oddest things virtually untouched. What I had seen then was just the normal work of a tornado, but it seemed a starkly peculiar and disturbing addition to the work of this abnormal tornado!
(Later, I would learn of another such incident: our host told of a cabinet of heirloom dishes that survived in a home that was totally demolished.)
Working in Joplin was both natural and surreal: natural because the systems for incorporating us were firmly in place. We found out later that we were supposed to have some formal orientation, which didn’t happen, but we hardly missed it. Being put to work immediately is training of a kind. My son was on a forklift ten minutes after we arrived, and I was the replacement “dock” leader for the rest of the day as soon as I was given the basic run-down of the procedure. The “dock” was simply the place where donations were dropped off, sorted by category to pallets, wrapped in plastic, and placed on the curb for the fork lift driver to haul away to the “stores,” the tents set up behind the church. One awkward duty on the dock was to have to turn down some of the well-meant, but unneeded, donations. Three weeks before, water had been a desperate need: by the time we arrived, the excess cases were being used as ballast to hold down tarps. Toothpaste and toothbrushes were other essentials that had become extraneous. Some donations were well-outside of the prescribed categories, but we took them anyway and found a place for them. A farmer from Iowa sent hot-house tomato plants. One retired teacher from Michigan drove for hours to deliver quality children and young adult books. She wanted to make sure that the kids got more that just the basics and had something worthwhile to do. Technically, the church didn’t take books, but we taped her handwritten note to one of the boxes and gladly accepted her gift. One surreal experience that would soon become commonplace was receiving donations from even the farthest corners of the country. In the short time we were there, people arrived from West Virginia, North Carolina, Michigan, California, New Mexico, and Illinois, as well as the closer surrounding states.
During our stay, we worked in several places. I split my time between two churches. At the smaller one, I worked in the “store,” sorting goods. My personal contact with the victims was limited, but memorable. The second day when I was organizing boys’ clothes, a woman in her twenties turned to me, and said with tears, “God bless all of you for helping. I just want to say thank you!” I assured her that we were glad we got to help a little. “No, you don’t understand,” she went on, “This isn’t my first tornado. We had one in 2008, and I lost my house then, too! That time, we didn’t get all this help, so I just want to say thank you.” She stopped and hugged me and then continued, telling me how grateful she was that her family was all safe. I hardly knew what to say other than to observe that she was very strong and to promise that I would pray that God would continue to strengthen her and help her family. Later, we would learn that some Katrina survivors had lost their homes in Joplin, as well.
After our first day’s work, we went to Denny’s for dinner. Both my son and I were impressed with our young waitress. We noted that she had such a genuine, happy manner – not at all like someone looking for a tip. After the meal, my son stopped to talk to her. He asked her if she was in town when the storm hit and discovered that she had lost her home and all her belongings and was living in the shelter at the university! Even as she told of her loss, she was able to smile. We won’t forget her. We also met, briefly, our host’s sister who had lost her home. We watched as she gratefully opened up an envelope full of gift cards that had been collected for her. I remember thinking that, with so many needs, prioritizing how to use those cards would probably require some tiring decisions.
The third day, I met a few more survivors when I became a “personal shopping assistant.” The concept behind this job is sensitive and sensible. Anyone who came for assistance was escorted through the “store” by a PSA, who would help them find the goods they needed and also visit, listen, and pray, if they wanted. I heard a few difficult stories, but was also surprised by the jokes and reminiscing. The faces that showed the most weariness and care were generally those of the young parents with two or more children in tow. They were simply exhausted. Their resilient children were just being children, skipping or bouncing, still energetic and playful, or whining and fussing. The kids had all their normal needs: the parents had few resources.
My son spent part of his time on a debris clean-up crew. He was part of a team that helped a woman sort through the rubble of her home to find anything she wanted to keep. What a tough experience that must have been for her! He was also present when a sixteen-year-old worker fell into a deep well after he backed up onto a rotten wooden board that gave way. The boy was too far down to be visible, but my son shone a flashlight down to him and talked to him until the rescue workers arrived. Amazingly, the young man only suffered a broken leg!
The thing that impressed me the most in Joplin, but the thing I am least qualified to comment on, was the faith and general spirit there. I know all the expected emotions are present. As an outsider, I barely caught glimpses of the true weariness, anger, and grief that are obviously there. Human nature is always alive and well, also. I witnessed a scam at one of the donation centers: a group of people taking items to return for cash at Wal-Mart. No matter. The spirit of the community still shone. I only had four days to take it all in. I have not gone through a similar tragedy, and I know that people tend to come together in any disaster, so I don’t know how exceptional the compassion, teamwork and resilience I observed really are. I simply know they were abundantly present. The community itself seemed organized and tenacious in its efforts. On the last night we were there, a young woman came into the church after hours. She was obviously distraught and asked for a grief counselor. The church staff was gone, so my son just asked around if anyone could help. One of the shoppers, a victim herself, said that she worked in another church, and she took the young lady aside and ministered to her. The churches, all the churches it seemed, were doing exactly what they are charged to do: loving and caring for the needy. And they were doing it well. We walked in and were infused as functioning parts of the Body – perhaps only tendons or capillaries due to our limited time and experience, but still part. Every day, some people had to leave, but others were grafted in.
The world has been hit by disasters in the last decade, many on a much larger scale than Joplin. Having seen what a four-mile wide, sixteen-mile long swath of devastation looks like, I somehow do not feel any more capable than before of imagining the extent of destruction to countries like Japan. It’s too much to take in. But I have a better idea of how to pray for them now: may they be surrounded by the sweet spirit of community and held by the strong arms of the Body.
