My concerned weather-watchers and I hop in the car and drive over to the city building complex, where a surprisingly long line of cars has formed down the the shoulder of the highway. Having an appointment in 30 minutes, I almost drive away. But willing to give it a try and not wanting to be chastised, we queue up. The line moves with unexpected efficiency. We never even have to get out of the car, rolling forward to show our address, rolling forward to get the mark on the windshield, rolling forward to receive our sandbag allotment, rolling forward to thank the workers. We are back on the road with 10 minutes to spare. Once home, we strategically place our six bags of sand. Six doesn't seem like much. Will six sacks of sand stop a flood? Surely our house wouldn't flood...?
I err and turn on talk radio. Never underestimate the power of disaster semi-hysteria. It will make you question everything that you think you know to be enough. We go to our usual spot to fill our water jugs and they are out of water. We make a second successful stop, and then calculate how much water that would give each of us. I start to doubt its sufficiency. I look at the gas gauge on each car with a leery eye. I think Sam's Club to be just the destination, our one-stop fill up and pantry reinforcement location. But the line for gas extends around the perimeter of the parking lot. And the bottled water is sold out. I ask my daughter if we need more bread, and decide our stock is fine. But then I turn the corner and the bread racks are empty and I start to doubt. Maybe I do need more bread?! And now I can't get it?! Surely I need more pita chips? And don't we need a box of canned tomatoes, a flat of Cup O' Noodles? I don't even like Cup O' Noodles. Wait! Cup O' Noodles needs water! I buy a case of Topo Chico, our favorite carbonated mineral water, and package of 16 hamburger buns to compensate. And another bottle of wine. Just in case.
We learn that our university bound daughter can't move in, her school straight in the projected path of the storm. We learn that the school campus is closed indefinitely. We learn that our daughter and son-in-law living north of us have to evacuate and are coming south. We learn that our friend's condo on South Padre Island needs to be checked. We do what we can do and we wonder if it is enough. Everywhere we go, the talk is of the storm. How big will it be? How long will it last? Where will it go? We check the radar again. We make chocolate chip cookie bars. We wait.
We arrive at the island and stop and breathe in the calm before the storm. The water has begun to churn, and even so, a few still linger on the beach. The sky and the water take on dark jewel tones, and the clouds hover ominously, and still, I am tempted, almost mesmerized, to stay, to sit from a 5th floor vantage point and watch the coming torrent move forward. We shake off the irrational allure and head back west across the causeway, noticing boards going up on store windows, noticing emergency workers starting to strategically stage their vehicles.
The night passes peacefully. At the daybreak the sky shows itself cloudy, but barely a sprinkle of rain splashes on the windshield. Hardly a stiff breeze blows in a place where strong winds are commonplace. And yet, on the radar Harvey looms ominous, ever creeping slowly slowly to the coast.
Be merciful to me, O God, be merciful to me,
for in you my soul takes refuge;
in the shadow of your wings I will take refuge,
till the storms of destruction pass by.
Psalm 57:1
(update: Harvey decided not to visit the Rio Grande Valley, not a bit. Now we have a lot of water and a some like new sandbags to show for it. The difference of 150 miles seems incredulous as we watch the storm reports from places north and look at the sun outside our windows. We pray for friends in dangerous places. My girls are still waiting. We will forever take refuge in our God, in the shadow of his wings.)
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