My family lives in Southeast Missouri, a part of the United States that’s familiar with tornado-producing storms. On April 2nd, a tornado tore through our area. It’s the closest I’ve been to a twister. Our local meteorologist gave play-by-plays of the tornado’s path, which was headed straight for our house.
We live in a split-level home. One wall in the lower level backs up to dirt and, we think, is the safest place to ride out devastating storms. Even in our safe place, I was getting nervous. One of our daughters was clearly concerned. I was trying to keep it together for her and the rest of the family. Tornado warnings don’t typically scare me. In the spring months, they’re as common as breakfast. But this particular storm and the weatherman’s emotional plea that everyone “take shelter now!” had me, my wife, and our daughters panicked.
When the confirmed tornado was believed to be 5 to 10 minutes from our home and headed straight for us, we decided to call our neighbors who have a proper basement and ask them if we could come over for shelter. Thankfully, they said yes. “The front door is unlocked. Come on in.”
Our neighbors are retired, slightly opinionated, particularly when it comes to politics, and not what you’d call “the religious type.” When we arrived at their home to take shelter, they immediately escorted us to the basement. We were below ground and surrounded by concrete walls. Thank you, Jesus!
Dave (that’s not actually his name), who seems to own every kind of trinket and tool and thrift store item you could possibly need, arrived downstairs with a smile and some wine in a cup that said, “Jesus touched my water.” We weren’t offered wine. But we were offered a safe place to ride out the storm. Dave also had a plethora of flashlights to illuminate the dungeon when the power went out.
Fear was withdrawn in the presence of our neighbors. Maybe we were feeling tough or simply trying to hide our fear. But I think, more likely, we were experiencing a power that occurs when people share scary moments with others. In some mysterious way, God was present in that basement. We were comforted by the presence of our neighbors. And even though they aren’t Christians (at least not yet), we were recipients of God’s grace through them.
Call it common grace. Call it simple kindness. But whatever it’s called, I’m grateful for our neighbors.
Daniel Seabaugh 
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