The Batman bandage finally came off, revealing the wound that was inflicted Monday at a free tetanus clinic on a Walgreens parking lot in Joplin.
The sticky strip revealed the remnants of the wound, a perfect circle of blood. The symbolism of the bandage's removal struck me Tuesday, about a week and a half after the terrible storm struck the town that I'd called home for more than 25 years.
As I looked at that bandage, I could see how the healing had begun. As I thought about the shot and the cleanup work I had done the previous days at close friends' houses, I realized how those same friends have begun healing from the tornado that struck two weeks ago today.
Jud's story
I've known Jud for nearly 20 years. Our kids have grown up together; we've shared the hopes, fears and laughter that only best friends could share. They've included the joys and challenges of life, from the struggles of raising a family, the loss of family members and jobs to the joys of seeing our children succeed.
The words and jokes and jabs between us just flow effortlessly, as two brothers who love one another nearly beyond measure.
But on that Monday after the tornado hit Joplin, there was only a hug.
In his oversized shirt and blue jeans bought hastily at a Walmart the night before, he had no words to offer. Nor did I. All we had was an embrace of relief to know that the other was safe.
When the words did come, he recounted how he and his family were caught on the road when the tornado struck Sunday. His son had just graduated from high school, and the family was on the way back to the house. But as the storm dropped down on Joplin, the traffic snarled, and Jud and his family were stopped at a stoplight.
Once they got through the stoplight, they snaked their way through their neighborhood. The white minivan was forced over curbs, into yards, over limbs and debris. Flying debris battered the van with his family in it. A loose electrical line flapped in the air, striking and shattering the window where their son rode.
The road ahead suddenly became impassable and the storm too fierce. Thankfully, they reached a neighbor's home, where they found refuge until the storm passed.
When they emerged, they could see that their home was gone. Their family's cars were either crushed by trees or tossed about in the yard. When I caught up with them that next day, the cleanup had already begun. When Jud's wife, Cindy, and I visited the site Monday afternoon, she hopefully looked for pieces of her past, picking up a camp T-shirt of her son's, a napkin ring. As she looked back of what was left of her house, I could hear her say to me and to herself, "It's really just stuff. We're OK, the rest is just stuff." As cleanup continued throughout the week, the family discovered layers in the debris, concealing photos, souvenirs from past vacations, memories from the past. They were lovingly collected and cleaned and categorized. The rebuilding was beginning. The foundation of the family was there; they would rebuild.
Barry's story
During those frantic, tense hours after the storm Sunday, it was a return text or call from Barry, my church's youth minister, that had me hanging on pins and needles. Barry, his wife and toddler daughter's home was right in the path of the storm as it demolished the huge nearby Walmart.
Text upon text upon text were sent to Barry. It was so unlike him to not respond promptly. The frustration continued to mount as texts went unreturned.
Late Sunday night, my phone registered a call from Barry. His house was damaged, but they were all safe. He was taking the girls to safety, so he could return to help his parents and others whose houses were not as fortunate.
Throughout the ensuing days, words of encouragement and instruction from Barry flowed into his Facebook network. Catching up with him Friday, he told me of the stories of those he had encountered in need, including his parents.
When asked what he needed, he shrugged off offers of help, saying they were all fine and that there were others in more need.
When pressed, he finally acknowledged he could use some help at his parents. A crew of helpers descended on the parents' house that Saturday morning to move their treasured items to safe areas that still had a roof over them and pulling up the wet, smelly carpet throughout the house.
As we prepared to leave, he pulled me aside to thank me for pressing him. He acknowledged the task was bigger than he thought it would be. A day later, I could catch glimpses of this great friend and enthusiastic youth leader with his eyes filled with tears as he looked off into the distance. The pain and loss he had seen in others and the pain he had buried seemed so evident, so heavy on this young man.
But then, that pained look seemingly turned to resolve, as he reached out to others who had lost everything and offered to assemble teams to help with their cleanup. After all, there's a rebuilding to get started. A healing needs to begin.
My story
Sometimes, the decisions we make, or don't make, can really turn into life or death. I saw that two weeks ago in Joplin.
It was a lazy Sunday afternoon. My 13-yearold son and I headed off to the local sporting goods store to buy a new bat for his baseball season. Our plan was to stay out late enough so that we could drive on down Range Line to watch a movie with my wife and daughter.
As we left Academy sporting goods, I asked my son if we should go on home to pick up the girls or kill some time on Range Line. He implored me to stay and grab some frozen yogurt across the street. But we agreed that the prudent thing was to go home instead.
When we arrived at home, the tornado warnings began to fly. The storm about 30 miles north of us was on a track to hit our neighborhood. We decided to delay our decision to go to the theater and headed to the basement, thinking the storm would pass as it always does.
But as we watched the radar on one of the local TV stations, we saw it was going to hit much farther south in the heart of the city. Watching a live shot on the TV station, you could see the storm form before your eyes.
As the TV crew saw the massive cloud forming, they thought the signal had been lost, but viewers could hear their panicked cries to go for cover. The screen went snowy.
As we waited for word on how bad it was, the minutes turned into hours as panicked calls and texts were sent to friends and family.
The news reports started coming in about the scope of the tornado's path. We were left just sitting numb in the shadows, not sure what to think or do.
Hours later, I remember realizing that Academy was virtually destroyed and how a decision to linger for a little longer could have had a devastating result for my son and me.
In the next day's paper, I saw a friend who's a policeman carrying one of the Academy workers out of the rubble. My heart just sank with a heaviness.
My heart was filled with so many emotions, knowing how fortunate we had been, but feeling so heartbroken for those who had lost loved ones or their homes. In the weeks since the tornado, that's the feeling that's plagued me the most ... a sense of helplessness.
When I've been walking in the devastation area or driving from site to site, it's easy for my mind to wander, to wrench with pain, to become overwhelmed. The devastation just goes on for miles. And that feeling of helplessness surges to the front again.
But I've found that when I've been working in the remains of Barry's parents' house or in what was left of Jud's basement, that my mind is keenly focused on the task at hand, salvaging remnants of a past life. It's a sort of healing when you find those pictures and treasured items and can recall why they were and still are special parts of your life.
We all have this desire to know why something has happened, and then how to fix it. And, as such, we have this desire to rush in and fix it. But sometimes, you can't just rush in to fix it. It takes time for healing, whether it's a wound under a Batman bandage or a town that's been savaged by a natural disaster.
Take heart, the healing has begun.