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6:20 a. m. Buzzzzz! The alarm clock at our bedside jarred me half-awake. I reached over and hit the snooze control. Ah! Thirty more minutes before I have to start my day. In the distance I detected a faint roll of thunder. Last night's weather forecast for the Gainsville, Georgia, area had issued no severe storm warnings, so I drifted back to sleep. Beside me, my husband, Danny, never stirred.

Five months earlier we had moved into the house we had built ourselves. For the first time, our sons, Chase, 10, and Tyler, 12, had their own rooms and were feeling quite grown-up.

Life was good. Curled up under the blankets on March 20, 1998, I was oblivious to what was happening outside.

6:34 a. m. "Mom … Dad … " I became aware of Chase standing in our bedroom door. "I think you need to wake up," he said.

I propped up on one elbow. I could see my youngest son was visibly shaken. "What's wrong, Chase? You're never up this early."

"Something's not right, Mom. And the lights just went out."

Something's not right, I realized with a start. The air feels strange. Just then I heard not a freight-train sound, but a monsterous thunder boom that wasn't letting up. It was getting closer and closer. There was no doubt. Tornado! I shook my husband awake. "Danny! Danny! Hurry!"

"Get to the basement, quick!" Danny shouted as he yanked on a pair of pants. I grabbed a robe and raced behind Chase toward the basement stairs. Passing through the kitchen, I couldn't believe my eyes—the walls and doors bulged outward. Through the windows, a gray mass swirled wildly, a mass so thick I could not see the porch railings.

At the same moment, our fire alarm shrilled its warning. "Fire! Leave house immediately!" The outside horn blasted, trying to compete with the twister's roar.

Then an eerie silence settled over everything. Except for the intermittent signal from the smoke alarm, it was quiet. Dear God in heaven, help us!

"Go on down, Chase!" I instructed him to run down the basement stairs. I flew into Tyler's room. His bed was empty. At the top of the basement stairs, I yelled, "Tyler, are you down there?" I heard a frightened, "Yes."

"Are both of you down there?"

"Yes."

"Hurry, Danny, hurry!" I hollered toward the other end of the house. We were about to take a direct hit from the tornado. "Danny!"

The house moaned. Starting down the steps, I hesitated. Where is Danny? What should I do? I need to be with the children. But I can't leave him up here!

Seconds later, the choice was made for me.

6:35 a. m. Unleashed fury struck full force at 200 miles an hour, an F4 tornado. Terrified, I gripped the handrail as I shouted for Danny. Suddenly the house began exploding around me. Glass shattered and wood splintered. I watched as shingles ripped off the roof and rafters began falling down. The stone fireplace crashed. Unidentified objects became wild missiles. Sheetrock dust filled the air as walls and ceilings pulverized. The shrieking wind was deafening.

A wall beside me tore away. I was pulled first one way, then another. Shards of glass and bits of concrete block, mixed with red mud, bombarded me from all sides. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a huge black thing flying through the air just before it hit me in the head. The force sent me careening down the stairs. Everything went black for a few seconds. Yet my subconscious kept repeating, The children. You've got to stay alert for the children.

It was over as quickly as it began. The roar was silenced.

I forced my eyes open. Chase and Tyler, soaking wet, stood in front of me. All the water had been sucked out of the downstairs commode and they were drenched. "Are you both okay?"

"Yes," they answered shakily. "But where is Daddy?"

Danny! O Lord, is he dead?

"You boys stay here," I said.

The stairs were blocked with debris. I pushed aside boards with protruding nails, and lifted what appeared to be part of a door. Finally, with great effort, I made it to the top.

I could not believe my eyes. In a matter of 15 seconds, our new home had been completely destroyed. Only one wall remained standing—the back wall of our breakfast/sunroom. Even the three windows were unbroken. In the laundry area, Danny's blue and white Ford pickup and our black Jimmy had been blown in from the garage. Both vehicles were totalled.

I called out tentatively, "Danny?"

"Brenda?"

"Danny! Danny, where are you? Are you hurt?"

Just then I saw him crawling out over the truck. I started picking my way toward him.

"No, Brenda, don't come this way! Too much glass. And live wires. Are the boys safe?"

"Yes, downstairs."

"Go back to them and come out the basement door."

A few minutes later, we met in the front yard, ecstatic to be alive and together. Standing there shivering in our bare feet, we were too much in shock to comprehend what we were seeing. Everything we had was gone. But what mattered is that we had each other. Thank you, God. Thank you.

"Where were you, Danny? Why weren't you right behind us?"

He was almost too embarrassed to explain. "I stopped to muffle the smoke alarm. I was afraid it would disturb the neighbors."

"Danny, you could have gotten us both killed!"

"Don't I know it. I guess I was still half asleep and not thinking clearly. But when the back door flew off beside me, I knew I had waited too long. I just fell down, right where I was. A piece of sheetrock fell on top of me, protecting me. And now that I see where my truck ended up, I know it protected me as well." It was true. Danny's truck served as a barrier on his left side; the only standing wall in the sunroom was on his right.

Danny suffered only minor cuts and bruises. My scalp was embedded with concrete-block chips and glass shards, and my hair—encrusted with red mud—stuck straight out. My parents' house wasn't in the path of the tornado, so when my dad learned that we had gotten hit, he drove around fallen power lines and got me to the hospital.

In the emergency room, I had x-rays taken that ruled out a concussion or broken toe. When I got back, Danny was standing outside the ruins holding a crumpled birdcage. "Oh, no. Chipper!" Our bright yellow parakeet's cage had been by the fireplace in the living room. We abandoned hope of ever seeing him again.

Two days later, Danny and Tyler were cleaning up the rubble when they heard a faint chirp. They looked at each other. Carefully, they began moving a pile of fireplace rocks. Buried under one rock lay a cold and frightened Chipper—unharmed.

The boys' beds were never found, but part of ours landed on top of my sister's house a half mile away. Our camper, which had been parked on the right side of the house, ended up on the other side. That is, the metal frame did—the rest of the camper had been stripped bare.

In our basement we discovered the large object that had hit me on the head—the drum of our neighbor's dryer.

Days later, Chase and I were alone together. I felt compelled to ask. "Honey, what woke you that morning? Whatever it was saved our lives."

Chase hesitated. "I didn't know how to tell you," he started. "I can't say for sure what woke me the first time, but I got up and looked out the window, then went back to bed.

"That's when it happened. Something—or someone—moved a hand across the back of my hair. I knew I was supposed to wake you."

He gave me a look which said, You're not going to believe this. "Mom, it was my guardian angel. I didn't see her but I know it was."

"Oh yes, Chase, I believe you," as I grabbed him in a bear hug, recalling that within moments of his leaving his room, that room was obliterated along with Tyler's room and ours!

Without warning? It appears that we got an advance warning after all.

Some people might say static electricity caused Chase's hair to stand on end. I don't worry about that. What I do know with certainty is that God brought us through that tornado. When future storms rage about me, of whatever kind, I can rely on his care.

A Christian Reader original article.

Copyright © 2002 by the author or Christianity Today International/Today's Christian magazine (formerly Christian Reader).
Click here for reprint information.

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