Today wasn’t a normal day. I woke up early as usual, preparing for back-to-back doctor’s appointments. Both were delayed, and the day started off feeling out of rhythm. Still, I pushed through and got back to work once I was home.
Then a violent storm hit. Sirens blared. I ran outside—soaked within seconds—to move my car into the garage and helped the cleaning crew do the same. Within ten minutes, it passed.
We kept our plans to see Sinners at 4 p.m. But when we returned, we heard a voicemail from my mother-in-law—her voice full of panic. She described homes being toppled in North St. Louis. I thought she might be exaggerating.
She wasn’t.
We drove up, rerouted several times because of downed power lines, fallen trees, and roads littered with debris. When we arrived, the wreckage was overwhelming. Her house stood, though windows were blown out and bricks scattered. Her neighbors weren’t so lucky—entire homes reduced to rubble.
This is one of the poorest parts of St. Louis. I saw people standing in the streets, stunned and devastated. I stood among them—grateful.
Grateful that my family was safe. Grateful for the ability to show up and help. Grateful for the grace that kept her protected. And grateful for perspective—because all the small inconveniences I started the day with seemed insignificant in the face of real loss.