Easter Evacuations.

Evacuate is an ugly word. One that forces this weird union between hysteria and disciplined action. Both are required, I think, if you plan to get any of your stuff out. 

As luck would have it, I 've had this experience, now twice, in the last ten days: Once for oncoming wildfire and once for oncoming tornado. I would have hit the trifecta if the predicted softball-sized hail had, in fact, occurred. Happily, it didn't. It was only quarter-sized. 


I'm going to spare you the details of conditions in Central Texas right now because you can just go to CNN and find out. 
In short, two weeks ago, Texas, which is suffering the worst drought since the 30's, started burning and it hasn't stopped. Then last night it started raining, which should be terrific news, and it was, until it turned into hail, massive lightning strikes and then tornadoes.


When a wildfire is burning in someone else's backyard, like in California, it usually prompts sympathy but not much else because well, what can you do? When a wildfire, which is swallowing oak and mesquite trees so fast it makes them explode and disintegrate, barrels toward your life galvanized by 60 mph winds, things get real. Fast. 


Horses. Dogs. Cats. Truck. Trailer. Hard Drive. Guitar. Guns. Saddles. Change of clothes. Water. Wedding Album and the rug my sister gave us from Azerbaijan. And each other. That's it. 


Had the fire managed to jump a highway or two and burn my precious home, which has been defying natural disasters since 1917, that's what we would have had left. 


A mere eight days later, as we raced to our neighbor's storm cellar and I alternated between praying for and cursing this crazy-ass Texas weather,  I had my iphone, my hard drive, a hard copy of my book and Sam. Everything else was on its own.


It's hard not to be schizophrenic about all this. 


The number one feeling is gratitude because thanks to our volunteer firefighters, we never had to pull down our driveway to escape the advancing fire and the tornado turned Northeast and petered out.


So we had a nice underground visit with Durwood and Aletha and her 92 year old mother, my yoga student, Aline. They are all more experienced with hail, fire and tornado than I and therefore seemed to enjoy a lesser degree of panic.


That's the good news.


But the bad news is a fireman lost his life fighting the Gorman fire and 167 families have lost their homes in a nearby community. Thousands of others are homeless from these tornadoes. We are in this weird middle place. We aren't cleaning up wreckage but we are deeply paranoid about the possibility.


Maybe things seem more radical than they actually are because we are new here, but how do you tell?


It's unsettling to be so distrustful of the natural world; to sense that it is hostile to your presence. I'm an earthquake girl myself. At least with earthquakes - the initial one anyway - you don't know they're coming. You just get out from under your desk (hopefully) and start surveying the damage. But this stuff has been going on for weeks. I'm exhausted by red radar screens with purple tornado dots and weathermen saying things like "baseball-sized hail hitting Gorman in eight minutes."


In addition, looking at the weather almanac last week, I discovered that the normal average high temperature for April 20th in this area is 77 degrees. It was 102 that day just south of us in Comanche.
I think that is what's bothering me. I'll bet people in Missouri and North Carolina and even Japan and Haiti - places that have gone wild on their human inhabitants lately - feel the same way. Maybe I'm overreacting, but this stuff is making me pause and reflect.


There's not much we can do about earthquakes and tsunamis. Maybe there is nothing we can do about droughts, floods, hurricanes and tornadoes either. However, I believe 98% of the scientific community, when they say there is.


Scientists repeatedly say, when the number of carbon molecules in the atmosphere increases, the earth's temperature increases. This has a huge impact on ice, oceans and weather patterns.


 In 400,000 years of atmospheric history, as recorded in ice cores, there has never been this much carbon in our atmosphere. 


Never.


It's easier to blow off this data when you are not demolishing historic weather averages and enduring 80-year droughts. Watch PBS correspondent Martin Smith's thoughtful and interesting documentary called Heat  here. 


Even as I write, I can hear the tv in the next room. The newscasters have taken over the golf tournament Sam was watching to tell us about a whole new set of tornadoes. These are working not far from the area that, tonight, is still on fire. The tornado west of us is heading our way and we are hoping it veers south.Or better yet, dies completely and just settles into a good soaking rainstorm for oh, I don't know, a month. 


At the end of the day, I still believe in a sovereign God, who knows exactly what is going on and will work it out for the good of those who love Him. He doesn't however, promise the ride won't be bumpy.

On the way to church this morning to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus - we drove past black fields and scorched trees. The roads are torn up with firebreaks and everything smells of smoke. Yet somehow, even with zero moisture last week, green shoots have sprung up through the charred ground. All over, there are swaths of black death covered by the fuzz of bright green promise. 


How's that for an Easter message. April 24, 2011