The Things That Really Matter

On Friday, May 16, a tornado ripped through St. Louis.

At 2:42 p.m., it struck my house. A direct hit.

It tore off half our roof and left the other half buckled.

It destroyed every tree in our backyard and one in our front.

It pummeled our backyard kitchen.

It tore hundreds of bricks from the wall.

It turned a chimney to rubble.

It sent debris crashing through multiple windows.

It littered several rooms with slate, glass, and branches.

My daughter Maddie, son Jake, and I huddled in the basement with Jake’s dog Cooper while the storm rolled over us.

Our crazy-doodle moose bolted upstairs when we tried to grab him. He rode out the storm alone — terrified, I’m sure — on an upper floor.

We all survived, unhurt.

Melissa was two miles away, in a basement at Washington University, which suffered a less severe hit

When it tore through my yard, it was an EF3 tornado with winds around 150 mph.

After it passed, I called Melissa. She was OK, and she would come home soon.

I called my brother to tell him I wouldn’t be able to attend the rehearsal dinner for his son, Tucker.

I called my mom.

And then I walked around my yard in shock.

If you’ve ever been through something like this, you probably know the feeling.

The adrenalin rush. The heart pounding. The eyes darting. The mind racing.

You want to start doing something. And you don’t know what to do.

You feel energized and numb. Alert and dazed. All at the same time.

That feeling lasted and lasted and lasted.

When she told me she’d be home “soon,” Melissa and I didn’t realize the roads between Washington University and our house would be covered with trees. Barely passable.

The trip usually takes 5 minutes.

This day, it took two hours for her to get to a place where she could park her car and walk the last half-mile.

Through this all, cell service had gone dark. Too many people calling loved ones. Too many emergency calls.

Maddie, Jake, and I worried. “Where’s mom?” But we could not reach her.

Meanwhile, I wandered the yard, still in shock.

I was walking from the backyard to the front when Melissa arrived home.

I heard her voice before I saw her.

Then, as I turned the corner from the side of the house to the front, there she was.

I froze.

All of that weird buzz, the racing mind, the numb, the daze — it all washed away.

A feeling of great calm poured over me…

…relief…

…LOVE.

I stood there, frozen, staring at Melissa for what seemed like minutes.

Then, I looked over my shoulder at my house, and thought…

“None of this matters.”

The next thing I thought:

“F*ck this. I’m going to that rehearsal dinner. I’m going to tell his story and celebrate my nephew’s marriage-to-be.”

Turns out the place that was suppoeed to host the dinner was hit by the tornado, too.

My brother had to relocate the dinner on two hour’s notice, and — with communications down — I didn’t get the news.

So I didn’t toast them that night. But the next day, at their wedding, I shared the story with my nephew Tucker and his new bride, Taylor.

And I told them this…

When Melissa and I got married, our first dance song was “Love is Here to Stay” by George and Ira Gershwin.

…Oh, my dear

Our love is here to stay

Together we’re going a long, long way

In time the Rockies may crumble

Gibraltar may tumble

They’re only made of clay

But our love is here to stay

Here’s to the things that really matter.

Forever love. Family.

Everything else is replaceable.

And here’s to Tucker and Taylor.