Kari Kampakis headline
When I was 15, a close friend of mine died in a car accident. We’d been together that night as a group, making the event more surreal.
For weeks after Rod’s death, the halls at school were quiet. Everyone mourned, even those who didn’t know him. When I got home, I stayed on the phone for hours, rehashing events with friends and trading stories about Rod. When we ran out of things to say, we sat in silence, phones pressed to our ears and crying.
My first brush with death forced me to realize that life has an expiration date. We can’t see our own, much less anyone else’s. We can be laughing with someone one minute, getting a phone call hours later that stops the world cold. We don’t believe how instantly things can change until a tragedy hits home.
My family and I spent Easter Sunday in Tuscaloosa. At the time, I had no idea that merely three days later a tornado would rip through. Looking back, I wish I’d soaked up the experience, noticed every tree and person in town. I wish I’d snapped photos of Taco Casa and Krispy Kreme, two of my favorite places growing up, and visited the soon-to-be-destroyed homes that I used to frequent.
Most of all, I wish I’d told Tuscaloosa how much I loved it. It gave me a wonderful childhood, one I took for granted. I assumed it’d always be my rock, the Giving Tree that welcomed me back no matter how long the absence.
But now my tree’s been uprooted, my relationship with Tuscaloosa reversed. It’s my turn to give, yet I’m not sure where to start. Aerial shots and wide-angle lenses can’t capture the depth of disaster. Half the town looks like a wasteland, and though I’m thankful my family and friends are okay, my heart breaks for those who weren’t so lucky. These are sad, overwhelming times.
The tornado of April 27 changed all of us somehow. Like Rod’s death, it’s all anyone around me can think or talk about. But this dark cloud looms larger than a high school. It has swallowed communities whole, swelled to epic proportions. The stories of death, missing people, and destruction are haunting, and while my focus has been Tuscaloosa, I’m aware of similar pain in places like Pleasant Grove, Cullman and Pratt City.
Yet with each devastating story I hear, a miracle crosses my radar. A church group from Birmingham found nine people alive in Tuscaloosa’s rubble four days post-storm. A seven-week-old baby in Pleasant Grove lived because her mother hovered over her, sacrificing her life. A Coaling family watched their son get sucked into the tornado— and later walk back to them. The boy told NPR he was tossed around before floating back to the ground. He found his family by following the beam of his father’s flashlight.
I also see a miracle in how the strong are helping the weak. While affected areas look like third world countries, completely disconnected from the world, capable neighbors are employing technology to the hilt. Those of us who watched the tornado on TV felt helpless and desperate to help. Before the twister even finished, relief efforts started springing to life on Facebook and Twitter. People jumped on board in droves, allowing instant mobilization of volunteers to meet immediate needs.
I’d never seen technology put to better use.
As I write this, death and destruction are on everyone’s mind. We are passionately moved to action, communicating ways to help. But over time, the newness will die. We’ll return to the lives we put on hold, remembering the tragedy in a back burner way. My plea is that we make a point to keep the fire burning, to remember these cities have a long road ahead. Years from now, they’ll still need help.
Life has an expiration date, and tragedies remind us that no one escapes mortality. Let us aspire to do better and be better, to hug those we love and voice kindness. Life holds no guarantees beyond this moment. Let us use it wisely.
