Two tornadoes within two weeks tore through our leafy little village.
The first split trees, broke branches, and caused flooding – a glancing blow. The second was a direct hit. Designated by the National Weather Service as an EF-1, it up-rooted trees, downed power lines, ripped-off roofs, and changed the landscape of our community.
Flossmoor was founded in 1924. A thirty-minute commute from Chicago, a straight shot south, it was the end of the trainline. Initially a weekend retreat for the well-heeled, five golf courses embroidered beautiful homes and treelined streets. Today Flossmoor is a thoroughly integrated, mixed income, walkable, affordable, quaint neighborhood. Home to the Hidden Gem Half-Marathon, Flossmoor residents feel as if we live in a hidden gem.
The second tornado was terrifying. At 11:15 on a Tuesday morning, creation convulsed and a dark angry twister snapped off trees like twigs. Within minutes the passing storm left most streets impassable, but also within minutes residents stood shoulder to shoulder, as neighbors checked on neighbors, tears were shared, and prayers were offered.
Trees toppled and tangled together crisscrossing my street and blocking access in both directions. A junior high shop teacher with a chainsaw barked instructions at a college professor, a retired golf pro, an account manager, and a gentleman with cancer to start clearing a route. Our wives and children joined in.
Black and White, young and old, politically, culturally, and religiously diverse, we did together what we couldn’t do alone. All afternoon we cleared the street and then we turned to address the damage to our houses, fences, cars, and yards. Residents who’ve lived a lifetime in Flossmoor helped those who’d just moved in and vice-versa. Introductions were made over the whine of chainsaws and generators.
I’m convinced a common grace emerges when we’re faced with difficulty. You read about it after hurricanes, fires, floods, and unspeakable terror and trauma. We rightly celebrate the ways in which we come together. # Flossmoor Strong.
While this particular experience is set in middle America, I don’t think it’s a unique expression of patriotism. Human empathy and action are universal human realities. However, the stories of communal compassion easily get lost in the 24-hour-rage-industry. And when we dismiss deplorables or belittle lib-tards we heap layers of destructive nonsense atop the image of God that we all share. Sometimes a tornado tears down to what is essential.
Humans do horrific things to other humans. There are substantial political and cultural differences. And I’m not suggesting that we sing Kumbaya without addressing issues of inequality and indifference. Racism, climate change, and public corruption bear down upon us all. I know that pretty quickly we’ll put on our tribal armor, but in the face of destruction, I can bear witness to grace. I caught a glimpse of shalom. Historically the Reformed tradition confidently asserts human depravity and our inability to do any saving good, but this seems a human kindness worth celebrating.
The local brewery and the deli across the street fired-up a grill and handed out burgers and beers. Community churches organized meals and provided shelter. Government officials led, public works crews worked tirelessly, neighboring communities sent resources, and together we’ll get through this.
The look of Flossmoor will be changed. 100 year old homes and 100 year old trees are no match for 100 mile per hour winds. We lost thousands of trees. It will take months and months to clean up and clear out. It will take decades to recover the grandeur of this hidden gem.
While we were sawing up branches, and coordinating efforts to haul hefty tree trunks a few feet, neighbors joked that this community moment should at least get them mentioned in a sermon. And they wondered if while I was talking to God could I speak to Mother Nature. Two tornados in two weeks seemed particularly cruel. We laughed, sweated, served one another, and all bore the image of God. Thanks be to God.
