The Theater of Bad Things

Last night a tornado decided to take a stroll down Park Lane in Madison, Georgia which happens to be where my son lives. Jeremy and my brilliant daughter-in-law Marie have this killer house on a beautiful street in a drop dead gorgeous area in one of the country’s most picturesque southern towns.

As much of a beach bum as I am their place is one of the only non-ocean retreats that I like. Every view is a postcard view. We enjoy one another anyway and our senses of humor complement one another’s so we laugh a lot. We can also have prolonged serious conversations about most anything. But when you get to do it in a setting as charming as where they live … it is this quaint bonus.

Coming home from Pittsburgh yesterday I kept hearing about storms coming. They were supposed to sit the Steel City around 4:00 and I was hoping that I could get out early. Because of pre-planning we finished a meeting scheduled for six hours in three. I was back at the airport booking myself on an earlier flight.

That flight was delayed.

So I chatted on the phone for an hour with my friend about dancing, the state of homeless work in Savannah, angels, assholes and which church we would like to attend. The hour passed quickly and then my plane was delayed for another hour … because of storms. I finally made it to Atlanta which was of course a cluster. There were long lines at every gate.

As soon as I got off the plane I looked at the monitors for the first flight to Savannah though the one I was booked for was now leaving well after midnight. Luckily it was on the same concourse so I ran down, showed them my ticket, got a seat, ordered a glass of wine and came home.

When I got home from the Breakfast Club this morning, Age my sister … her real name is Angi but I’ve always called her Age … was texting me asking me if I’d talked to Jeremy.

“Why?” I texted back.

Before she could respond a voice mail message popped up from Jeremy. The quaint massive oak tree in their front yard is now in their living room. Jeremy, Marie, Smoo and Beans (their cats) made it into the basement with about three minutes to spare.

“Damn storms,” I muttered.

But my kids are safe. None of that other stuff matters. It’s just stuff. Stuff can be replaced. Kids cannot.

My brilliant daughter-in-law Marie calls and describes what had happened. After she finished she said, “One day we have to have a long talk about all of this.”

I understood her meaning.

Why do bad things happen to good people?

Throughout my career I’ve had a front row seat at the theater of bad things. Homelessness ... AIDS ... The worst access to the best health care in the world … The hell that is behavioral health ... The Georgia State Capitol ... Congress ... Mega-churches … Tybee Parking Services. I’ve had first-hand experience with it all of it.

After I hung up with Marie the first thing I did was to say the most holy and simplest of prayers.

“Thank God.”

Then I told my friend what had happened. Then I talked to Janice and Kristen … and Chelsea and Sam just need to keep having a good old time being engaged in Europe right now with no worries.

So Goddess and I wandered out to the beloved back deck and took our places. The tree in my backyard is growing its own mushroom. Who knew that trees do mushrooms like we did in college (not you Dedra, Mark and Mitch … oh … by the way … that’s where I was all of those Baptist Student Union nights that I didn’t show up to)?

But my kids are alright.

Saltwater fills my eyes and the prayer becomes even holier.

“Thank God.”

I hate the theater of bad things.

Then I keep praying.

“Hey God. Just why in the hell did you make it?”