“Is that a tornado?” I asked, half to myself and half to my mom on the other end of the phone.

“What?” she replied. Just ten minutes prior she had asked how the weather was.

“It’s hot and sticky,” I said, as my foot put light but steady pressure on the brake. “Kind of cloudy, kind of sunny. Looks like I’m about to drive through some rain.”

“It’s hot here in Rochester too.” she said back. Her words reached me as I pulled away from the stop sign just outside of Underwood. A town of roughly 350 people seated in rural West Central Minnesota. Lakes Country.

It was July 8, 2020, four months into the Covid-19 pandemic. Since March, time had meandered its way into a haze. Reality mirrored insanity, and our “new normal” was nothing short of a malfunctioning carnival ride. The world was doing all it could to navigate through an invisible virus, a political storm of unforeseen proportions, and racial tensions so high that whole neighborhoods were burning.

Speaking one’s true feelings about the virus or politics, especially on social media, could result in a whirlwind of anger and rage from loved ones and perfect strangers. So began the masking of not just our faces, but of our questions and doubts. A perfect storm, seemingly out of nowhere.

It wasn’t long before I was pressing on the brake once again. Dalton, a town smaller than the previous, was coming into view. The light rain shower had ended and I could see the sun shining up ahead through the trees. My friend’s house, which sat near the edge of town, came into view just as her husband crossed the porch with a beach towel over his head. Their teenage daughter followed. It had been months since I had seen them, thanks to lockdowns and social distancing, but I drove on ready to be home after a good day’s work.

In a blink, I was through town. The trees opened to the horizon, and with them, my attention.

That’s when I saw the shape. The long funnel reaching down from the clouds. Thick, white, swirling.

“What did you say?” my mom asked again.

Silent, I halted my glance and stared in total bewilderment. What’s going on? Is this really happening? There’s sun. And puffy white clouds. 

But the cloud in front of me was a shape I had never seen in person. It was unbelievable, yet unmistakable. I felt removed, out of place, out of reality itself. There had been no warning for me. No sirens. No known threat of any kind. Yet, there it was looming before me.

Giant, spiraling, deadly.

“There’s a tornado in front of me.” I said. Disbelief still clinging to my words. As the sentence escaped my lips, I saw the white funnel lift up halfway and for a fraction of a second I thought it was going to be done. Gone. Over. OK. But it stretched itself back down, seeming more defined now.

Faster. Bigger. Deadlier.

 

And that’s when the fear quickly pushed aside the calm confusion.

“It’s a few miles away,” I reassured my mom realizing she couldn’t see what was going on, “but I have to let you go. I’ll give you a call when I get home. I love you. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

But I wasn’t sure that was the truth. The car was still moving, though I had taken my foot off the gas and had slowed to an almost stop, much like time did in that moment. Thoughts of taking a picture flashed in my mind. A piece of consciousness was in awe and I wanted to remember this incredible scene before me. I glanced at my purse on the passenger seat and rummaged for my phone. Where is it? I just had it in my hands!

Terror pushed back in and I hastily abandoned the idea of a picture. I didn’t have a second to lose. My mind raced and stumbled through a maze of scenarios.

What way is it moving? What way do I go? How do I get away from this! Should I turn around and seek shelter in town? But where, the gas station? I had completely forgotten about my friend’s house I had passed just minutes ago.

Only seconds had passed but the car had now coasted far enough to see around the bend, and the road home was sunny. The conflict of blue sky versus tornado made it more confusing. The tornado was on the edge of the storm.

But what edge? And how long do I have? I looked up and tried to decipher which way it was moving. But the stark white clouds billowed up and out in every direction against the contrasting blue sky making it impossible to tell.

My eyes darted between the road to my right and the tornado straight ahead. How fast is it moving! Which way do I go?

To get home I had to skirt the tornado to the south-west. If it was moving west, I may not make it. But for some reason nowhere else seemed safe. So, I floored it.

My kids! The thought tore into my consciousness, ripping through the erratic and into clarity. They were at my neighbor’s house. Are they safe?

I fumbled again for my phone. This time finding it. Another fleeting thought of getting a picture came to me. It would only take a second. Instead, I frantically dialed my neighbor who lived a mile from us and had been watching my kids for the day.

As it began to ring, I started to doubt my decision. Recalling the phrase “you should never try to out-run a tornado.” But I continued racing down the dividing line of storm and sun. I looked to my left at the thick, picture-perfect funnel reaching high into the sky. Sunlight dappled the cottony clouds above, and filled the swirling cone. I passed two cars that had pulled off to the side of the road.

What are they doing? Why have they stopped? Am I going the wrong way?

“Where are you?” my friend blurted out as she answered the phone.

“There’s a giant tornado by Dalton!” I yelled out. She said she knew and reassured me it was moving north-east, toward Ashby, away from me. Part of me was instantly relieved, and once more the thought of getting a picture tugged at me from somewhere on the surface. But rooted deep, I wanted only to get to my kids and get home. Just three miles had passed, with three left to go.

I crossed the interstate bridge only to get behind a truck pulling a trailer. Slowing down I weaved over the center line waving and yelling at him to get out my way. I had heard of tornados whipping around, and I didn’t trust anything at the moment. Finally, he turned onto an adjacent road and stopped. Pushing hard on the gas I sped past him. Rocks flew as I turned onto our gravel road.

Still holding my phone, I called my husband. I had to hear his voice and tell him what had just happened. Minutes later I arrived at my friend’s house. Still drifting somewhere out of reality, and trying so hard to concentrate, it was all I could do to pick up the kids and get them home.

Home. Safe.

Searching the sky for any signs of danger, I closed my eyes and let the warm sun kiss my face. Listening to the sound of laughter as my kids played in the yard, I fought the urge to scream at them to run for the basement. Was it really over? Did it even happen?

How could I go from running for my life to standing in the sun in a matter of minutes?

 

The next day the kids and I went for a drive to see exactly where the tornado had gone, the damage it had caused, and how close to it I actually was.

Two miles. Just two miles away from what had now been classified as an EF4 tornado with wind speeds of 170 miles per hour. It had been moving 20 miles per hour and was 650 yards at its widest. Two miles may sound far away, but when something is standing a thousand feet tall, two miles is nothing.

Over the next few days, I couldn’t quite shake the tornado. I continually watched the sky, flinched at clouds, and checked radar constantly. I obsessively relived the moments, talked things through with my husband, poured over pictures submitted by other eyewitnesses to the local news channel’s social media page. Disappointed to find none had seen it from my angle. None of those pictures looked like my tornado. None from my point of view. And it drove me crazy.

Why couldn’t I let it go? Why did this bother me so bad? Why was I beating myself up over not getting a picture? And then it hit me. I had spent the last few years doing in-depth self-development. Learning about emotions, myself, faith, and God. Sharing on social media my journey of faith over fear. Telling women, especially mothers, they could do anything they put their minds to. That they are unlimited and with faith they can be brave, strong, and fearless.

But in that moment, I wasn’t fearless. I ran like a dog with its tail between its legs. There was no faith. There was no being brave. There was just fear and panic and limits and running away. And the missing picture was proof. I had freaked out. Just like in March when the pandemic hit. It was too much, too big, too fast.

Lock down came only days after a breast MRI to get a better look at something Dr.’s thought they saw on my mammogram, and losing our beloved dog of fourteen years. That alone felt like a tsunami crashing over me. Then with no time to come up for air, the virus thrust us immediately into a new reality with no known outlook. I began to spiral from the pressure of keeping my young kids fairly oblivious while we clawed our way through distance learning and I waded through a mounting tide of news reports and restrictions.

All I wanted was a moment to just be with my family and grasp the situation. But it never came. It was one thing after another. It went from screaming at my children to sit down and do their schoolwork, followed closely with an aging parent four hours away in the hospital with heart failure and the other with limited mobility unable to care for themselves. Trying to help from hours away in the middle of lockdown when most services weren’t taking new clients. Wondering if I would ever see my parents again. Culminating with two friends ending their lives.

Unable to hang on to everything spinning around me, I retreated within myself. Cutting off the outside world, I went silent in my women’s group and allowed judgment and shame to walk through the door. I was a fraud. A failure. An imposter. As I sat consumed by my thoughts, I noticed something unexpected. The door was open and I could see the condemnation for what it was.

A lie. A twisted lie!

So, I pulled myself up and started over. I let go of what I couldn’t control and focused on what I could. I read my Bible. I listened to coaching’s. I reached for those who would cheer me on. And that’s when the clouds began to clear.

Some storms feel like they will last forever. But that’s what storms do. They cloud our perception and remove us from reality. They make us feel lost and stuck, make us question our every move. They rage against us, attacking us, relentlessly, hopelessly, over and over, leveling us to our very foundation. Until we just want to quit, give up, run away.

But no storm lasts forever. And neither will whatever it is you’re facing personally right now. Because whatever it is, I’m sure it’s a lot. And it probably feels a thousand feet tall. But it will pass. I may not understand the storm you’re walking through. And you may not understand mine. But whatever it is, don’t walk it alone. Reach out. Talk with someone. Be vulnerable. Because chances are, they are struggling too. And the more we share with others, the more we realize we are not alone. And helping someone carry their burden somehow makes ours feel lighter.

Before the storm I hadn’t written in a very long time. I couldn’t seem to find my voice. But through it I found my voice, and because of it, I had to write my story. And when I did, I realized I may have run from that tornado, but I ran to my kids, my family, my home. Even when I didn’t know if I was running toward the tornado or not, I chose them. I had faith that I would make it. And that choice was powerful and fierce, and raw.

And so are the choices you are making. Because being brave means doing things scared, like asking for help. Being limitless means knowing when to stop, restructure and choose differently. Having faith means walking even when we can’t see the path before us. Being strong means knowing when to rest, and when to say no. And being fearless means choosing life, and forgiveness.

So, let go of should have, could have, didn’t. Let go of not good enough, can’t do anything right, wish I would have. Let go of judgment, especially against yourself. Because it’s not too late. You’re not too old. You didn’t blow it. You can navigate a new course. Blaze a new trail. Start over. Again. As many times as necessary.

As I drove my kids home after the tornado, we could see a piece of the funnel in the distance with a rainbow spread out in front of it. My nine-year-old son spoke up from the back seat, “See mom, that’s God saying it will be OK.”