By Michelle (Graceful, Faith in the Everyday)
The storm sweeps in suddenly, swaths of torrential rain reeling across the neighbor’s roof as the wind shudders fierce. Into the basement we flee, the boys all a tizzy.
“Do we get cheese? Do we get cheese?” Rowan squeals, and I am puzzled until I remember that the last time the tornado sirens blared, Brad had doled out mozzarella sticks as we piled into the closet beneath the stairs.
But then, as quickly as it gusted in, the storm fizzles to a smattering of raindrops and bolts jagged across dramatic sky, leaving a trail of tree limbs, severed branches and dangling wires in its wake.
The next morning front doors open, and neighbors stand on wet cement in bare feet, arms crossed over chest. We survey the honey locust split in two and marvel that it’s only brushed Martha and Charlie’s place, tearing the gutter from its hinges but leaving the house intact. Todd (the kids refer to him as “that muscley guy”) fires up his chainsaw, and sawdust sprays into the humid morning as Gary drags branches to the curb. We introduce ourselves to neighbors we’ve never even seen before and shake hands awkwardly. Everyone is outdoors – it’s too hot to stay inside without air conditioning.
Sunday wears on, and by evening those of us on the north side of the street are still without power.
“Having no electricity sure makes you appreciate electricity,” says Noah, and I nod yes, though much less cheerfully.
The house is dim and stuffy. The thermostat on the main floor reads 88 degrees. I don’t even want to think about the temperature in the bedrooms upstairs.
Rowan can’t believe his bad luck – to have the television and the Wii and the computer all out at the same time is simply too much to bear. I feel his pain. Without power, I can’t blog or catch up on emails. No Twitter or Facebook either. I can’t even write because my laptop battery is dead.
Rowan convinces Brad and me to play a game of backyard badminton. I shrug in agreement, and my hand slips slick on the racket handle as we volley the birdie over the inflatable pool.
Later, sweaty and spent, we catch up with Marge and Gary for a good long while on their front steps.
Then we chat with Maggie and Rita the whippet next door, and take another stroll around the neighborhood to see how clean-up is progressing.
When dusk settles heavy, I sit on the couch and press my face toward the open window. The neighbor’s air conditioner clicks on across the street – they’re away on vacation, unaware that half a locust tree sprawls across their front lawn. I note the irony: the people on vacation have power and the steady hum of air conditioning and we, just across the street, do not.
I’m still sprawled on the couch with my hair fanned out over the armrest when Brad returns from a late-night Walgreen’s run. “They were completely out of flashlights,” he notes, and I feel a twinge of contentment that others in town are still without power, too. “So I bought more snacks,” he adds, pulling chips and chocolates out of the plastic bag.
I unwrap a chocolate and let it melt in my mouth. A faint breeze stirs, and I lean my head back, watching shadows flutter like moths on the ceiling.
Michelle is a Christian wife and mother of two originally from Massachusetts now living in Nebraska. She is a part-time writer, editor and fundraiser for Nebraska PBS/NPR. Michelle loves to write about how her family illuminates God's presence in her everyday life, and on finding (and keeping) faith in the everyday. Michelle enjoys reading, running and writing. Be sure to go visit her blog, Graceful, Faith in the Everyday.