wiggled out unhurt from some debris. Pumpkin Face was safe under the crushed car. And to my utter astonishment the glass aquarium was still intact, filled with flecks of debris, to be sure, but all the fish were alive.
When this freakish, capricious tornado struck, I was clad in a sheer white shorty nightgown. As I was helped from the wreckage, a neighbor ran to get me her husband’s terrycloth robe, which became my chief garment for the next two days. All Brenda had on was a pair of white panties, size four. In twenty seconds, the tornado had demolished possessions that had taken us ten years to accumulate.
When John arrived with the sightseers, repair crews, newspaper reporters and television cameras, we viewed the scene with awe. Plastered against one intact wall was a box of Jello sucked from the kitchen cabinet. The Bible was unruffled on the top of the coffee table, one of the few pieces of furniture that remained. The next morning a friend called to say he found our family portraits two and a half miles away in a field. After retrieving them, we returned to our cluttered yard where a reporter from The Grit pointed with a smile to an object at the side of our shattered home. There lying in plain view, cover and title up, was a copy of Gone with the Wind .
A few individuals pilfered some of our personal belongings, but most people offered help. Our church had a linen shower for us; neighbors loaned us clothing; the insurance company replaced nearly everything, including Brenda’s toys; and we were able to rebuild our home within six months.
For days I went around praising Jesus. The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord (Job 1:21). He really is a Savior, I thought to myself. What surprised me more than anything else was my calm at the destruction of prized personal possessions. Things did not matter to me so much since my experience in the hospital. The following verse from a hymn truly described my feelings:
A tent or a cottage, why should I care?
They’re building a palace for me over there;
Though exiled from home, yet, still I may sing;
All glory to God, I’m a child of the King! [2]
Some months after we had rebuilt our home, John began negotiations to buy a group of gasoline stations throughout the country. I remember the sinking feeling in my stomach when he admitted for the first time that the long hours of physical work were too much for him. Operating a chain of stations, he felt, would be less demanding.
When in 1963 John suggested that the time had come to move to Florida, I quickly agreed but for different reasons than I had back in 1959. Florida just might be the place for more relaxed living. So we moved to Clearwater Beach on the west coast of Florida, not too many miles from the Gulf Vista Retreat Center, the scene of my “tummy ache.”
John did slow down in Florida, but not through choice. His energy level suddenly dropped again. This time he did go to the hospital for tests. The results were sobering. X-rays of John’s heart showed that the aorta valve was shrinking and the heart enlarging. Doctors suggested a valve replacement operation to correct the situation. They warned him it was something he should not postpone. Reluctantly he gave up his idea of setting up a chain of gas stations.
In March of 1963 John and I both went to Gainesville, Florida, so that he could have additional tests at the J. Hillis Miller Heart Center there. We decided to make this a special “get away time” for just the two of us.
We checked into Arrowhead Lodge, which overlooked the campus of the University of Florida Medical School. Our room was on the second floor. I recall thinking that sixteen dollars a day was pretty steep, but that we were not to concern ourselves with economy. As serious as the occasion was, we were to be “joyful unto the Lord.”
To this day I remember the room with its blue motif, the seascapes on the wall, the rustic brown balcony outside
When this freakish, capricious tornado struck, I was clad in a sheer white shorty nightgown. As I was helped from the wreckage, a neighbor ran to get me her husband’s terrycloth robe, which became my chief garment for the next two days. All Brenda had on was a pair of white panties, size four. In twenty seconds, the tornado had demolished possessions that had taken us ten years to accumulate.
When John arrived with the sightseers, repair crews, newspaper reporters and television cameras, we viewed the scene with awe. Plastered against one intact wall was a box of Jello sucked from the kitchen cabinet. The Bible was unruffled on the top of the coffee table, one of the few pieces of furniture that remained. The next morning a friend called to say he found our family portraits two and a half miles away in a field. After retrieving them, we returned to our cluttered yard where a reporter from The Grit pointed with a smile to an object at the side of our shattered home. There lying in plain view, cover and title up, was a copy of Gone with the Wind .
A few individuals pilfered some of our personal belongings, but most people offered help. Our church had a linen shower for us; neighbors loaned us clothing; the insurance company replaced nearly everything, including Brenda’s toys; and we were able to rebuild our home within six months.
For days I went around praising Jesus. The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord (Job 1:21). He really is a Savior, I thought to myself. What surprised me more than anything else was my calm at the destruction of prized personal possessions. Things did not matter to me so much since my experience in the hospital. The following verse from a hymn truly described my feelings:
A tent or a cottage, why should I care?
They’re building a palace for me over there;
Though exiled from home, yet, still I may sing;
All glory to God, I’m a child of the King! [2]
Some months after we had rebuilt our home, John began negotiations to buy a group of gasoline stations throughout the country. I remember the sinking feeling in my stomach when he admitted for the first time that the long hours of physical work were too much for him. Operating a chain of stations, he felt, would be less demanding.
When in 1963 John suggested that the time had come to move to Florida, I quickly agreed but for different reasons than I had back in 1959. Florida just might be the place for more relaxed living. So we moved to Clearwater Beach on the west coast of Florida, not too many miles from the Gulf Vista Retreat Center, the scene of my “tummy ache.”
John did slow down in Florida, but not through choice. His energy level suddenly dropped again. This time he did go to the hospital for tests. The results were sobering. X-rays of John’s heart showed that the aorta valve was shrinking and the heart enlarging. Doctors suggested a valve replacement operation to correct the situation. They warned him it was something he should not postpone. Reluctantly he gave up his idea of setting up a chain of gas stations.
In March of 1963 John and I both went to Gainesville, Florida, so that he could have additional tests at the J. Hillis Miller Heart Center there. We decided to make this a special “get away time” for just the two of us.
We checked into Arrowhead Lodge, which overlooked the campus of the University of Florida Medical School. Our room was on the second floor. I recall thinking that sixteen dollars a day was pretty steep, but that we were not to concern ourselves with economy. As serious as the occasion was, we were to be “joyful unto the Lord.”
To this day I remember the room with its blue motif, the seascapes on the wall, the rustic brown balcony outside
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