ANGELS IN THE EYE OF THE STORM

I opened my eyes to darkness. Then it hit me: I’m buried!

There was no hint of what was to come that fateful day of April 3, 1974, known as one of the worst tornado outbreaks in history. Even now, twenty-five years later, I still marvel at our narrow escape from serious injury or death. Some call us lucky, if you believe in that sort of thing. I have since come to a different conclusion. Quite simply, I believe we were borne up in the hands of angels.

That Wednesday started out much like any other. My nine-year-old twin sister and I were playing with a neighbor girl when her dad called to warn us that a tornado was coming. We didn’t really know what all the fuss was about. After all, we had never had any tornadoes touch down in this little Ohio town. Sure, we had had plenty of tornado watches before but nothing had ever come of it.

Yet, the look on my parents’ faces as they stared out the screen door sent fear coursing down my spine. I squeezed up next to them, catching a glimpse of a queer greenish sky I will never forget. The air was electric was tension, but nothing moved. “Where are the birds?” Mom murmured nervously.

The next thing I remember, Dad was herding us all into our garage so that we would be away from plate glass windows and the possibility of flying glass. There we sat on the cold floor and held hands, squeezing tighter and tighter as the wind howled like a wild animal. With a false note of cheer, Mom suggested we sing songs. The noise outside was like a freight train now. Wood groaned as nails were ripped out by the shearing force of the wind.

“Yes, Jesus loves me, Yes, Jesus loves me, Yes Jesus loves me, the Bible tells me so!” We never got any further than that before the “finger of God,” as meteorologists so aptly call it, touched down. The next thing I knew I was flung into the air like a rag doll while my body was beat mercilessly with rocks, dirt, and wood. “Please help me, God,” I prayed.

The blast was so intense my eyes were squeezed shut. Something hit me on the head and I began to lose consciousness. So, this is what it’s like to die, I thought. I didn’t want to die. Then, suddenly, the fear was gone and in its place a soothing sense of peace. Incredibly, I realized I was still holding hands with my sister! She gave a reassuring squeeze and I squeezed back.

I opened my eyes to darkness. I was relieved I had survived, but then realized I was having trouble breathing. My mouth was filled with dirt and I couldn’t move my arms or legs. Then it hit me: I’m buried! “Help!” I shouted over and over. I felt something familiar and sticky trickle down my face.

“Where are you? Where are you?” Somebody was trying to find me! Well, if they couldn’t hear me, they would have to see me somehow. I managed to wrench my foot from under a pile of debris and wiggle it a little. Every inch of my body screamed in pain. Just when I began to lose hope I could feel frantic hands unburying first my toe, then the rest of me.

The strong arms of my Dad and a neighbor lifted me out. My lungs gulped air as I stumbled backwards. “She’s okay, cut up a little bit, but okay.” I sat down shakily and looked around, in shock. I couldn’t believe my eyes! Our entire house had been demolished around us down to the very foundation! Nothing remained but a pile of rocks, broken wood and glass.

Bomb-like devastation stretched as far as the eye could see with telephone poles bent or sheared completely off and live wires dancing eerily in the streets. “Stay away from those wires!” Mom warned, as we were ushered into a field next to our house. “You’ll be safe here.” A dismal rain had begun to fall, a poignant counterpoint to the muffled sounds of sobbing.

Somehow we made it to the hospital with the help of a kind stranger. It was a rough ride through a cornfield, as the main roads were blocked. When we finally made it to the hospital they bandaged my sister and me. Bruised and badly shaken, we were otherwise alright. Dad did not fare so well, having suffered a broken back.

Mom tried to hide her tears but we could tell how upset she was--especially about Dad. It was several days before we got word that he would be okay. We spent a lot of time camping out in the hospital, along with many of our neighbors and friends, some of whom had not been so “lucky.”

Yet, was it “luck” that we received a phone call in the nick of time, enabling us to seek the safest place in our home? Was it luck that our station wagon was picked up by the funnel and deposited away from us, instead of on top of us? Was it luck that I was able to move my toe so that someone could find me and dig me out in time? Was it luck that we escaped while 32 other people died?

When we held hands and prayed that day in simple childlike faith, I believe the unseen forces of heaven were put into motion. We weren’t alone that day in the eye of the storm, but were surrounded by an angelic army whose duty it is to keep us from “dashing our foot against a stone.” I have no doubt that those same angels are on perpetual “stand-by” should I ever need them again.

My faith in our unseen protectors was confirmed years later, when I asked my sister if she remembered holding hands when we were under the rubble. She looked confused. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was with Dad, looking for you.”

Author's note:

April 3, 1974 remains a meteorological case study of the worst tornado outbreak in history. Within twenty-four hours, 315 people would lose their lives in a 13-state tornado blitz. All together, 147 tornadoes would be recorded. “The Super Outbreak,” as it has come to be called, left 5,500 injured and 27,000 homeless, with the small southwestern Ohio town of Xenia taking the brunt of the punishment.

On Wednesday, April 3, at 4:40 p.m., three twisters registering an F-5 would touch down in Xenia leaving 32 people dead. The city was devastated with 159 business destroyed and half of the schools damaged beyond repair. Seasoned journalists remarked at the chilling similarity between aerial photographs of the city and photographs of WW II bombsites.