There is something about sitting under the heat of an Oklahoma sky in waist-high wheat that will rupture your heart. I've tried to come to terms with what God was saying to me, what he was whispering, shouting. At times He grabbed me by the shoulders and others He would gently tap my shoulder to look past the peripheral. I eventually came to the understanding that what I'd learn from the experience in Moore and El Reno would embed itself into my conscious much like the numerous boards and metal scraps that were found impaled and twisted upon the ground.
This journey began years ago when we my wife and I first delved into youth ministry. We had just became "new" Christians, and the urge to serve anywhere overshadowed what our hearts were trying to say to us. We knew something of our "spiritual gifts" but had no idea how to apply them. True also, I wanted something "safe." No way I was stepping into a prison ministry, or something that required actual face to face contact with anyone else. Sure, the Emmaus walk did rupture my heart the previous year, but after coming back down to earth, Satan comes in and makes you feel like you're insignificant. For the past 4 years there's been this battle for my soul. I always thought that the Devil was working just as hard as God was to win/lose your soul for whatever was your weakest sin. But what I realized was that God's love for us trumps any schemes meant to sway us towards a wider path.
We were both teachers, and helping at Sunday School would serve a two-fold purpose. It would get us to serve in a "safe" environment--mostly suburban kids whose parents had been Christ followers since they could ever remember--and it would get us on the map of those working in the church.
Fast forward to two weeks ago. There's nothing safe about seeing a neighborhood erased from their foundations. There's nothing safe when you see the crosses of 7 kids from an elementary school that only exists on google maps. There's nothing safe about being on your hands and knees praying you try to retrieve a jewelry box in a wheat field abandoned by shade and wind. But then again, when Jesus moves in, he doesn't just sit on the old furniture of your house. He's going to throw some things out, rearrange it, bring in some new interior decorations.
Sometimes it's more drastic changes. It's akin to the wheat field scenario we were in. Across the road sat one house whose frame was still standing after the tornado. Its contents had been flung across the wheat field as if a vacuum were taken to the house and sucked them all out. Among the debris and twisted metal were wedding pictures, garage tools and toys. Among those remnants were the remains of a barn built in the 40's, now completely obliterated. Farmer Don's wheat field was the lasting vestige of his 75 year old life. He didn't speak much when our group first met him. His tanned arms were darker than mine. We did come to learn he had lost his wife years ago, both his son and daughter lived in houses on the horizon, theirs too ripped open and battered. The house Farmer Don grew up in barely remained.
We also realized that without insurance and American pride, the wheat field of his would have sat unharvested. Many of the people in El Reno faced similar situations. Many without insurance, without much else beside a rolled over trailer home. Banner Elementary serviced the kids in that area and 41 students would perhaps find another school next year to call home. Literally, these are kids that fell not through cracks but through a rupture in the ground itself.
This was just a moment of many. Not having my computer with me, which was a good thing, reminded me that perhaps many of the stories will lie in wait until the precise moment. I've jotted notes down during my visits. Still, the images remain like a still standing fireplace among the rubble.
I do miss my time there. The stench of a van full of teenagers and man-sweat. The wind swaying the wheat field just beneath the reach of my fingers--I did think I was Russel Crowe in "Gladiator" more than once--and the church family which served as our host. On the only Sunday we shared there, we filled a section of the church for service. We were greeted by many, and at one moment two youth groups stood among one another as one.
Then the mournful tunes of a fiddle broke through the music. In one instant, my heart swelled for the west, for the wreckage we would witness later in the day. It reminded me of the countless movies I'd seen with my dad, country music when I was a teenager in love with nothing but myself. You can sing the same song, but the arrangement can transport you to places you didn't know existed. It was the theme song of my week.
