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We had an earthquake this morning around 4:36am. The epicenter was apparently in West Salem, IL, but we got the effects, and also experienced some aftershocks around 10:14am. Initially they gave it a 5.4, but it was downgraded to a 5.2 later in the day.

I don't know that I would have woken up had it not been for Andy repeatedly saying, "It's an earthquake..." with increasing intensity. It felt to me like the sleeper car I rode between Italy and France during my post-graduation Europe trip in 1995 with my friend, Betsy. Calming, peaceful... I was happily rocking more deeply into sleep having been awokened several times already by a restless Ariana.

Apparently, we did not do what FEMA recommends for such a disaster. We did not stay in the bed, we did not lie down on the floor and cover ourselves. We did not hold on to anything. Thinking back into the haze of my half-wakefulness, I imagine we were somewhat panicky as we tried to assess how severe it was while checking on Ariana and trying to decide if we should wake her or not... meanwhile scrambling through our rusty and tired brains for some scrap of remembered information about what to do during an earthquake.

(It is not to stand in a doorway on the 2nd floor looking at your daughter in her crib, as I did, nor to go down to the 1st floor to watch the news and then to the basement to check on the already-cracked structural beam with a temporary fix fashioned with MacGyver-like brilliance and utility, as Andy did. Just FYI.)

What does 5.2 on the Richter scale feel like? I thought it felt like a train... my friend Dean thought it felt like dogs jumping around on his bed; my friend Becky Chambers thought it felt like a tornado (shaking and very strong train sound); Andy thought it felt like me jiggling my foot really vigorously under the covers. When you are standing up, and not in bed, it feels reminiscent of a very large truck lumbering down the road, making the whole house bounce around a bit (which is exactly how my sister-in-law, Nikki, described her own experience).

Luckily, as of nearly 12 hours later, there are still no injuries or deaths. Some damage and a lot of surprised and slightly rattled Midwesterners, but it could have been much, much worse. I am very grateful it is more of an anedote than a tragedy, and I hope the predictions of impending disaster from future quakes in this area are all for naught.

Twisters and tumbleweeds

I read a story today about a little boy who survived a tornado after being ripped from his mother's arms by the storm and thrown approximately 500 feet. His mother did not survive, and he was found, face-down, in the mud by a police officer searching the area.

Living in an area that - according to City-Data.com - has an historical tornado activity average 105% higher than the U.S. national average, this story stood out to me quite a bit. We just had a storm recently wherein the tornado sirens went off just as I was putting our daughter, Ariana to bed. Here's what you know when you hear those sirens blaring and a tornado warning has been in effect: A tornado has touched down in your area and you have approximately five minutes (or less) to get to safety.

So... I ran down two flights of stairs with my daughter in tow as Andy tried to convince the dog to join us in the basement, and we frantically tried to get the weather channel tuned in on our hand-cranked radio while avoiding multiple pools and streams of water running across the floor.

I grew up in Illinois, which meant tornado drills every year all through elementary school. Single file line marching out the classroom and down the hallway to crouch, head-facing-lockers, upon the floor... our arms thrown over our heads to protect us from hypothetical debris. It reminded me of the atom bomb drills done during the 50s with my parents' generation. A knowingly lacking exercise that would fall short of actual readiness and adequacy should a disaster indeed occur.

The little boy is going to be raised by his grandparents. He was less than a year old when he lost his mother... so he will not remember her... will not remember how she shielded him from the storm in the bathtub, hiding and praying underneath a mattress. The storm was too strong. The roof, the mattress, and the people within the house were all blown apart and tossed into the wind. One landed safely, one did not.

Perhaps we fight against feeling powerless. Perhaps we fight to feel prepared in the midst of true chaos - the kind only nature can conjure up. Unpredictable, unforgiving, and often unfair. True disasters, and their aftermaths, can simultaneously convince us of the absence and the existence of God.

I wonder which side of the argument this little boy will fall on when he can finally understand the full extent of what happened in that storm.