I started trying to write this last night, but the words wouldn’t come.  Actually, that isn’t quite true; they came, but as incomplete thoughts from a brain that was basically numb . . . or overwhelmed . . . or perhaps both.

For me it began that morning as I stood at the kitchen sink, preparing to prepare my daily indulgence—oatmeal.  Real oatmeal with real butter and real sugar.  It’s breakfast every single day of the world and I look forward to it.  But as I stood at the sink, with HLN mindlessly playing in the background, I caught the words, “A tornado touched down in Nashville . . .” and my head snapped around as I moved toward the television.  With cup and spoon in hand, I stood and watched in horror as picture after picture revealed the devastation from a storm that stayed on the ground for an hour, devouring everything in its path.

As the day wore on, so did the news.  The death toll climbed with each update, as did the number still missing.  And people on Facebook were reminding everyone it wasn’t just Nashville.  Hermitage, Mt. Juliet, Cookeville—they all suffered in the wrath of the storm.  Then the pictures began appearing . . . smiling faces of happy families, holding their children close as they posed for the camera—never dreaming that picture would be the one that would accompany the announcement of their personal tragedies.

One family lost their precious four year old daughter, a beautiful child with sparkling eyes and an infectious smile.  Another family died together . . . but not really.  Although they perished at the hands of the same storm, they were not together when they were found, leading to momentary hope that at least someone had survived—a hope that was snatched away within a few eternally long hours.  Their son was only two.  In total, five children died that day, victims of Nature’s unpredictability.  For at least four of those, their parents will feel overwhelming guilt, wondering why they couldn’t save their child.  Why their child had to die while they lived.  For the fifth one, there is no one left to ask those questions.

There seems to have been little to no warning of the storm’s approach, so many were caught by surprise.  Even if they had known, when you look at the pictures of houses that were literally leveled, leaving no visible clue as to what they once were, you have to wonder how anyone could have survived.  If there is a silver lining, it’s that this happened when most everyone was at home, so churches and schools and places of business that were hardest hit did not also add to the loss of life.

When I went to bed last night, the number of missing in Putnam County was 77.  Today, at last check, it had dropped to 22 without a corresponding increase in deaths.  At the same time, the media outlets had swung their attention to Super Tuesday, a sad reminder that Life does not stop for Death; often it doesn’t even bother to slow down.  I’m pretty sure the people in the hardest hit areas could not have cared less about politics at that moment.  I’m pretty sure the people who lost family members and friends will be hard-pressed to passionately care about much for a long time to come.

Now they have to learn to sleep again.  Now they must learn to deal with the fear each time the wind blows or a thunderstorm strikes.  They must learn to live without the tangible memories that Nature destroyed . . . they must learn to live without the people she so violently ripped from their lives.

At this point, I’m going to speak personally because, at this point, I don’t know any other way to speak.  I will never understand.  I will never understand how, with all of the technology we have, people can still be unaware of such imminent danger.  I will never understand why innocent people must lose everything they own . . . or die . . . in such a horrific manner.  I will never understand why the most innocent of victims—the children—are forced to endure the all-consuming terror that must have been theirs in those last moments, or why their lives must be sacrificed to an unfeeling demon wrapped in a funnel cloud.  But those are the same kinds of questions I ask at every natural disaster, or mass shooting, or terrible, life-altering accident.  Just like so many who have been affected by this tragedy, whether directly or by extension, I am saddened . . . and angry . . . and helpless in the face of it all.

We’re called the Volunteer State for a reason, and we’ll be there for each other as we seek to recover and rebuild, because the people of Tennessee are strong in character and resilience—but that doesn’t mean we’re invincible.  For many it will be months if not years before life approaches some semblance of normal.  For others, it will never be the same.  The scars on the land will mirror the wounds so deeply carved into their minds and hearts.  And those are the kinds of wounds that never heal.

About the author:  Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926.  She has been employed at Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 40 years and currently serves as the manager there.  Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone, and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.

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