Tornado

I wrote this post about a year ago and decided not to publish it. Some recent events got me thinking about this one again. I'm deciding to publish it now.

I am the victim of a natural disaster. This was no flood that affected all the homes in my neighborhood, it wasn’t an earthquake that everyone felt or that my house could have been retrofitted to withstand. The storm wasn’t a hurricane that could be predicted; I had no chance to board the windows, to stockpile supplies, or flee in advance of the storm.

I was hit by a tornado. It was of the micro-burst family. The kind that comes quickly, before one realizes storm clouds are gathering, strikes firmly and destructively in a concentrated area, and disappears before most people knew it was ever there. It was the kind that demolishes a home and leaves the neighbors on either side unscathed.

My house was lovely and well-loved. This house was at the core of everything I thought I was. My house of faith was indestructible and built to last, or so I thought. The foundation was strong, it was built of the best materials: sincere effort, honest sacrifice, true devotion.

I did all the things right, just like they told me. I went to church every week–I was never inactive. I graduated seminary–I did all the readings, memorized the scripture masteries, won the conference bowl. I went to weekly activities, firesides, girls camp, youth conferences, EFY. I went to BYU. I served a mission, and a good one–other missionaries may have thought me obnoxious I was so dedicated and obedient. I taught at the MTC. I never turned down a calling. I went to the temple every week for years. I never tried anything illegal; I never drank alcohol, or tea, or coffee, just like they told me. I paid tithing. I got married in the temple. I got as much education as I could, just like they told me. I didn’t think I had any reason to fear a storm. My house would last through the eternities. I was set.

As a missionary, I remember wondering why some got defensive and upset by criticisms or questions about certain topics. ‘The Church is True,’ I thought, ‘the Truth will stand on it’s own. It speaks for itself.’ While I didn’t seek them out, I didn’t see there was any harm in listening to alternate views or criticisms. I had nothing to be afraid of. I didn’t live shuttered inside my house, away from the world, but let the windows open and the breeze blow through. There was no storm my house couldn’t weather.

From my current vantage point, I can look back and see moments of doubt, unanswered questions, things I chose to ignore. At the time, these things were unimportant, easily moved from my consciousness. The older I got, the more my life deviated from how it was ‘supposed’ to go. I was bothered by this occasionally, but I was doing all the right things. So I carried on. I learned things in graduate school that felt as true and right as anything I had ever learned in church. And yet, they were at odds with church doctrine and culture. I dug deeper, unafraid and certain The Truth would prevail. And that’s when it hit. My house was destroyed.

I won’t tell you here and now the particular elements that made up the storm. They would be a distraction to the story I am telling. More importantly, surviving this tornado has been the single most difficult thing of my adult life. It has been gut-wrenching, disorienting, lonely, and painful in a way I don’t have adequate words to describe. I don’t wish that experience on anyone. I don’t want to invite that storm to your house.

One of the more difficult aspects of this experience is that no one seems to see that I’m traumatized. I’m raw. I’m in shock. A tornado just hit my house, and it’s gone. It was everything I had, and it’s gone.

People start to notice that something has changed, that I’m different, that my house isn’t what it was. I’ve been told by several to stop protesting, stop being in their faces. I’ve been told I’m being childish. I’ve been told I should be quiet about it. But my house is decimated! I did not want this; I never intended for it to happen. I hung on as long as I could, but the storm ripped my house away. I picture myself stumbling out of the rubble, mumbling and confused. Faces I hope would provide refuge and comfort tell me to go away. They’re angry. They’re disappointed. They just can’t be around me right now. If I only understood [fill in the blank], I wouldn’t be in this mess.

I’m not mad at them. I understand perfectly where they are coming from and why they say what they do. I used to be just like them. Some try to remind me how beautiful my house was; they tell me how much they admired it. I know they mean well, but the problem isn’t that I don’t remember; the problem is that that house is gone. Something else may rebuild in it’s place, but it will never be the same. It can’t be.

I wander about trying to find my bearings. There is debris everywhere. Sorting through it all is impossible, but I try. Sometimes I come across bits of debris in unexpected places–the wind has scattered the pieces of my house such that I don’t know where they all are–and it’s like the storm hits all over again. Now more than a year later, it still makes me cry. Sometimes the tears are angry and hot but mostly they are the kind that come with whole-body sobs. It’s lonely.

I am fortunate to have stumbled upon a few other refugees. We cry together about all that has been lost without blame for having invited the storm or the suggestion that we willfully tore down our own homes. We joke and we smile about the things that we love[d] without the expectation that our houses are back and everything’s fine now. These friendships have carried me. They have been the silver lining on those terrible storm clouds.

So what’s my purpose in sharing all this, I ask myself. First, I have an aching need to tell my story, to be understood–this soothes the ache. Second, I want the people I care about and who care about me to know I’m not scary, I’m not dangerous, I’m just sad, I just lost my house. I still love you. I’m still me. I may keep some distance because the pain of seeing your disappointment or facing the possibility of your rejection and criticism on top of the pain I already experience seems too much to bear. Third, I hope no one else has to go through what I’ve been through (and I’ve had it pretty easy, compared to other refugees I’ve encountered). We, as a people, the Mormon people, ought to do better here than we have been doing. I know some will chafe at the idea that, given my current state, I use ‘we’ when speaking of the Mormons, and that hurts too. Mormonism will always be a part of me. So yes, we can do better to provide refuge for people like me, to let them know they are still welcome in the neighborhood after their houses have been destroyed, if they choose not to rebuild, or if the new house looks nothing like the old one. Religion or no, this is the heart and soul, the guts of humanity: to care what happens to each other, to be moved to compassion by suffering, to witness pain, to help.