In the land of the living.
The tornado warning began Sunday night throughout the Midwest and they didn't stop until the morning of March 15th.
The EF3 tornado bounced through the flat of Middle America, in between the farms and the wind turbines. I could not have imagined a swirling wind bouncing between houses; choosing some, sparing others. Until I had seen it.
It was my first time deploying as the on site photographer and videographer with Mercy Chefs and my first time seeing a tornado's wake. Living by various coastlines throughout my life had spared me from the threat of such storms. Similarly, working in corporate America (prior to taking a job with the disaster relief non-profit) had kept me away from any sort of disaster zone.
When the tornado alarms sounded in Ohio and Indiana I was in Dallas. I spent the better part of the weekend in a moderate heel and high neckline– conservative business chic for the annual Vision Weekend. The whole team of chefs, system managers, and prospective partners came together to work, eat, and play. A weekend together with a non-profit that specializes in hot, chef-prepared meals in disaster zones, means that the food is good and the stories oscillate from the improbable to the insane.
Collectively, we celebrated being together under normal circumstances in Texas’s mid 70s and mid length skirts, but the weekend was cut short when the tornado touched down. The team was given the word, and half of us were notified that we would be flying out Wednesday morning of the 17th.
Rachel, the latest hire to the marketing team, and I were instructed to go to Walmart and get what we needed–it would be cold, 20 degrees with a wind chill of 12 degrees kind of cold. The box truck and mobile kitchen had already left to make the 14 hour 30 min drive.
We handed off our gowns and donned our Walmart long underwear as we made our way to the Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport at 4 AM. The chefs met us at the gate–it's uncommon to get to travel together, they told us. From Dallas, to Atlanta, to Indianapolis, to the back of the Wagoneer, we made it to Compass Church in Winchester, Indiana by 3 PM to have First Meal packed and out by 5:30 PM.
As the car drove through the field of wind turbines, Rachel and I began to go over what we need to shoot when we arrive: “first meal, cooking, destruction, update– wait, hold on update, they filmed something earlier.” List after list to make sure we don't miss anything. I’m glad as we laugh at the turbines; I'm not alone having to remember it all. In between long stares out the window and our jotting of notes, Miss Lisa turns down the music. Miss Lisa, the topaz wearing, pink haired, Head of Culinary for Deployment, tells us to call her Momma. Momma says, “Now, this is your first time out girls, the chefs have the chefs, the volunteers have the other volunteers and well, you two have each other. You gotta have each other's backs too out there, two young pretty girls–protect each other, watch out for each other, and know you’re under these wings of mine as well. If you need anything, you don't hesitate to let your deployment Momma know. Now give me your phone numbers.”
As the Wagoneer pulled into town the team pointed out the beginning signs of the storm. “It’s not like a hurricane, you know, it doesn’t take out a whole town. One house can be fine and the other gone. Even in some houses, one wall is gone, and the other has all the photos still up.”
I braced myself as we drove through the streets and wondered, how much can a photo prepare you to see real life destruction?
“Have you seen a storm like this before?” One of the chefs called out.
And before I respond– a gasp, as we pass Walmart and what is left of the Goodwill. Twisted beams, blown-out windows, cars belly-up, roofs strewn, and debris all over the road.
I don't have to say it for them to know, the answer is no. I’ve never seen anything like this.
–
The next few days are spent cooking, shooting, and serving.
Each day slips by in a flurry of meals, distribution, volunteers and conversations. I did not know what to prepare for. When I first took the job I went with my Mom and Dad to REI–quick dry towels, duffel bags, and lots of socks and underwear. I studied up on photojournalists in my free time and tested out packets of travel coffee when I saw them.
All of those things now sat in my apartment, hundreds of miles away from me in Richmond, Virginia. I didn't miss them. Come to find out I didn’t need them.
It was the conversations that I was least prepared for, and most impacted by.
On our first day in, as the chefs raced to make the first meal, Rachel and I hopped in the Mercy Chefs tagged Expedition with some local friends we had met at the church, and we all made our way to the neighborhoods most affected by the storm. It was a house behind the Walmart. Miss Diane’s home.
For over 30 years Miss Diane and her family had lived in the home. The spaghetti she had made for dinner had been left untouched by the storm and sat on her stove, but the wall, the roof and the windows were gone. In a matter of moments everything had been taken, shaken, and changed. Miss Diane and her family ran to the basement for refuge in the midst of the storm. When they emerged everything was different.
She told us that as she was cleaning up, she tacked up a note that had been sent flying in the midst of the storm. It was the only thing worth putting back up, she said. Psalms 27:13, “I remain confident of this: I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.” Neighbors and various aid workers shifted around the house, they collected what they could and threw the rest out into piles in the yard.
As we left that day we told her about the hot meals our team was cooking up the road. A few days later we called her up again, she said that the pasta was delicious and that she was still waiting on the insurance to go through for a rental car. But in the land of the living, even the hassle of waiting on the line for insurance was a blessing.
–
Indian Lake, Ohio, a small working class town, had also been tremendously affected by the tornado. An entire lakefront neighborhood had been decimated. Mercy Chefs transported hundreds of meals, nearly 2 hours by car one way, to serve for lunch and dinner.
The meals were being served mostly to search and rescue in the area that were now clearing debris and restoring electricity. As they worked in the cold, a hot meal was the least we could provide.
So, Rachel and I would travel with rolls that didn’t fit in the other car to the local church where dozens of women met in the back room to fill boxes for their neighbors. It is in Ohio where I met Anita.
Anita came in after we were scooping chicken pot pie. As she came up to me, she pointed to her ear, then her mouth. “Deaf. Can read lips. Can I hop in here?”
I blinked then focused on forming each word in my mouth as perfectly as I could. “Absolutely, yes,” I nodded my head as I began to recall what little sign language I had learned as a kid, which sadly was just the alphabet.
“I’m Anita.” she said facing me. Then proceeded to take out her phone and pull up her own contact card, which read Anita.
“I’m Olivia” I say slowly and clearly, then with a blue gloved hand spelled out O-L-I-V-I-A.
“Very good!” She said, followed with, “has anyone ever given you your sign name?”
I shook my head.
I’ve always been fond of nicknames. Whether it was my parents calling me Wivy or my college boyfriend calling me Liv. There is something I like about someone making my name their own. To me, in their head I was not only Olivia, but my name had taken on a language of their own. Like they were inviting me to be a part of their own world in their own words.
That day in Ohio, Anita did the same. As she stopped the packing of the boxes and food, and asked me what I like to do, she gave me my sign name. She went on to sign my name, then said only someone who signs can give it to you, it's a special thing, almost like a secret, she went on to explain.
In that moment, as the women of Ohio packed rolls and scooped pot pie, I felt as though I had been inducted into something much larger than myself. It was not about the photos or how much underwear I had packed. It wasn’t about me at all. I had been afraid to mess up, to do something wrong, but it was the ladies like Anita that showed me something greater. They had gathered each with their own story of the storm: a fiancee that had lost his roof, a teacher that had lost her schools, and a coordinator from the next town over looking for any way to help. It was about showing up and helping in the face of complete destruction.
I left Ohio with my new name and a new appreciation for my work. I wasn’t raised in Ohio, the only thing I knew about Indiana prior to my arrival was its extensive cornfields, but in a matter of a few short days the world got smaller and my love got a whole lot bigger. The deployment was not about the destruction, it was about hope. It was not about the damage, but the people who stood, still loving, in spite of it.
I became confident of this: seeing the goodness in the land of the living.
[This entry is a personal recounting and reflection--it is not in conjunction with, nor the official stance of any organization or party.]