As I sat miles away in another Alabama basement, eyes fixed on an iPad screen where meteorologists frantically traced twisting terrors on their maps, a dark funnel of fury carved a capricious path through Tallapoosa County. The storm — one of many in Alabama that night — roared into the countryside like an uninvited and unhinged guest, tearing trees from the trembling soil and scattering them in pieces along the countryside.
The warnings were made. The signatures on the radar unmistakable. There was little to do but wait, watch and whisper desperate prayers as the tempest tightened its grip. Somewhere in that sprawling mass of malevolence, a particular whirlwind set its sights on the northeast part of our county. It chewed through the pines, pulverized structures and sent debris spiraling skyward in a swirling sacrament of destruction.
And then — just as suddenly, just as inexplicably — it fled.
Fifty yards of grace. That’s all. The storm, with all its blind brutality, seemed to hesitate. Pause for just a moment and lift back into the sky. The rafters of the place we have spent decades of Christmases did not rip away. The walls of my great-grandparent’s earthly dwelling did not buckle. The people seeking refuge there did not perish.
Then, just as quickly, the tornado slammed back to earth, turning a brand-new pole barn into a pile of kindling. The lumber not even greyed from the weather. Now it never will.
If you’ve lived in Alabama long enough, you know this script. Old-timers spit tobacco at country stores, shake their heads and mutter about the mysteries of the Almighty’s hand. The young people post drone footage of the wreckage to social media, aghast at the awesome arithmetic of destruction. Skeptics call it chance; believers call it grace. But everyone agrees nature, in all her fury and fickleness, makes no apologies.
Before the morning sun had risen over our homes, work had already begun. The sound of chainsaws and diesel engines hummed like a makeshift hymn to survival. Men and women, covered in sawdust and sweat, turned their eyes not to the sky in fear, but to their neighbors in determination.
In moments like these, one is reminded that despite all our technology — our radar, our warning systems, our meteorological oracles — there remains an irreducible element of faith in the face of nature’s wrath. The same faith that sends men to their knees when the sirens wail also sends them to the streets with chainsaws and water coolers when the winds subside.
And while the storm may be gone, its scars will linger. They always do. The twisted metal and shattered homes, yes — but also the lingering weight of that helpless night. The memories of waiting in a basement, clutching at a phone or iPad, tracking the red and yellow blobs on the screen, listening to the experts — who themselves can do nothing to stop it. The knowledge that at that very moment, somewhere out in the dark, people you love may be in the path, may be taking cover, may be praying just as fervently as you are. And you will not know, not for sure, until the storm has spent itself.
This storm will not be the last. Like so many places before, we will pull ourselves back together. The lumber will age. The trees will sprout new leaves. The sky will grow dark again.
For now, the work continues. Neighbors help each other. The prayers of the spared rise alongside the grief of the stricken. And above it all, the unseen hand that held back the worst of the wind still moves, still shapes, still speaks in the whisper between the thunder.
Talmadge L. East is the Tallapoosa County probate judge.
