Go back a couple of days before the tornado. In fact, go back further than that. Go back a little over seven months. In late September, 1998, hurricane Georges hit the Caribbean, causing hundreds of deaths and billions of dollars worth of damage. Ten countries were adversely affected—more than any hurricane in over thirty years. For example, in the Dominican Republic, dozens of churches were destroyed along with the homes of hundreds of people. It was a mission to help them rebuild that small country that caused me to miss all of the excitement in Tulsa on that eventful evening in May of ’99.
Although I was the assistant pastor of my home church, I was just one of the guys on a work trip to help the Dominicans. Fourteen of us left that weekend—days before the tornado—to spend a week helping to reconstruct churches destroyed by hurricane Georges. It is ironic that while on that mission our own church’s building would be destroyed by an Oklahoma tornado. God or Mother Nature or Fate or somebody with a capital letter name has a rather odd sense of humor.
We put in one whole day of work on that Monday. Having split into different crews, some of us were mixing concrete, some were laying block walls, some were setting rebar to strengthen the walls against future storms, and some of us were simply gofers. I tried my hand at a little bit of everything. Every job was important and every one of them was really hard work. And it was hot. By the time the first day of work ended, we were all exhausted and ready for bed.
When I woke up the next morning, every muscle in my body was aching. I have worked many jobs over the years that required hard, physical labor. I just hadn’t done much lately. My lily-white hands were grateful for the cheap cotton gloves I had worn the day before. No doubt, they saved me from some ugly blisters. Despite the pain, I was ready for our second day. Little did I know what had happened back home in the middle of the night.
At midday on Tuesday, May 4th, I was on a water break talking to our mission leader Ric Shields when his phone rang. (Did I mention it was hot?) Thinking it was the probably the local missionary calling, I turned to go back to work. Seconds later, Ric called me back over. The call was from home, and he proceeded to tell me what had happened the night before to my family, to our home, and to our church building.
He informed me that the church had been badly damaged and that our home—a church-owned parsonage—had been damaged badly enough to displace my family. I would be heading home the next day; the arrangements had already been made. The rest of the team would stay behind to complete the mission. But, my family and the church needed me back in Tulsa. And although I finished the day, I was anxious—anxious about leaving everyone else behind, about the trip home, and about what I might find when I got there.
Although I was the assistant pastor of my home church, I was just one of the guys on a work trip to help the Dominicans. Fourteen of us left that weekend—days before the tornado—to spend a week helping to reconstruct churches destroyed by hurricane Georges. It is ironic that while on that mission our own church’s building would be destroyed by an Oklahoma tornado. God or Mother Nature or Fate or somebody with a capital letter name has a rather odd sense of humor.
We put in one whole day of work on that Monday. Having split into different crews, some of us were mixing concrete, some were laying block walls, some were setting rebar to strengthen the walls against future storms, and some of us were simply gofers. I tried my hand at a little bit of everything. Every job was important and every one of them was really hard work. And it was hot. By the time the first day of work ended, we were all exhausted and ready for bed.
When I woke up the next morning, every muscle in my body was aching. I have worked many jobs over the years that required hard, physical labor. I just hadn’t done much lately. My lily-white hands were grateful for the cheap cotton gloves I had worn the day before. No doubt, they saved me from some ugly blisters. Despite the pain, I was ready for our second day. Little did I know what had happened back home in the middle of the night.
At midday on Tuesday, May 4th, I was on a water break talking to our mission leader Ric Shields when his phone rang. (Did I mention it was hot?) Thinking it was the probably the local missionary calling, I turned to go back to work. Seconds later, Ric called me back over. The call was from home, and he proceeded to tell me what had happened the night before to my family, to our home, and to our church building.
He informed me that the church had been badly damaged and that our home—a church-owned parsonage—had been damaged badly enough to displace my family. I would be heading home the next day; the arrangements had already been made. The rest of the team would stay behind to complete the mission. But, my family and the church needed me back in Tulsa. And although I finished the day, I was anxious—anxious about leaving everyone else behind, about the trip home, and about what I might find when I got there.
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More, please!
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